Dancing Girl

You walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht.
(Name withheld because it’s pitiful to quote _arly _imon.)

I walked up the stairs and into the club for the first time, trailing two girls from the Mercury who really just wanted an escort through Chinatown to fend off the panhandlers and chicken hawks. My first impression was that it’s just like every other place I ever liked- half-finished, well worn, dark, with decent music and a decent crowd of people having a good time.
Even so, there’s always that apprehension entering new territory for the first time, and the old habits kick in as I stay on the periphery and keep an eye out for trouble. Pleasantly enough, none materialized. You must know that feeling of walking into a strange place for the first time where everyone seems to know each other but you. I’ve always been a solitary guy in some respects, and the isolation is a little bit comforting, my mind wandering from the fact of my surroundings to a fiction in my mind as I imagine myself some kind of a mystery character from something well worn and familiar that was only released in black and white.
The girls break off and disappear into the crowd with some friends and I ditch the guy that was with me as he orders a Guinness and works diligently to get the number of the cute, friendly young girl behind the bar. I’ve seen this diorama a million times, and it never really was my cup of tea. Sometimes I think I’m too old for this shit, but a little human contact is sometimes comforting and I love the music, the interaction, the physical touch, some intellectual stimulation.
The young bartender hands gives me a smirk with my pint glass of ice water and the thought crosses my mind that they just can’t fathom how lucky they are that I’ve shelved my bad old ways. Back in the day I would have been drinking whiskey and Guinness and I would have been a pain in the ass, fighting or getting arrested, probably never even leaving the Mercury until they threw me out. Tonight I’m a day or two older and a little bit wiser, the hard lessons are still fresh in my memory. I’m happy just hanging in the shadows, nursing my water and leaning back against a column at the edge of the dance floor with my eyes closed, my body keeping a vague cadence with the music, my mind completely immersed in it.

A great flame follows a small spark. (Dante)

Hanging there in the shadows I find it comforting that in this new environment I feel somewhat at home, the familiar melodies of the Cure and Siouxie here and there hammering their cadence back into my soul, surrounding and enveloping me and taking me home to a place and time that no longer exist. I’m at peace there in the dark, thinking about nothing, floating around inside my head, operating on psychic cruise control.
I open my eyes and there she is in front of me, an apparition, alone and beautiful, so obviously and completely content to be dancing she captivates my attention immediately, dancing as if dancing alone is her sole means of life support. She is beautiful and lithe there in the half-light at the edge of the stage, eyes closed, more a part of the music than of the crowd or the room around her, more a product of the melody than the motion.
There was a certain irresistible quality to her presence, so visibly happy and content, making more sense there in the middle of the music than anything ever has. I watch her for a long time, afraid that to talk to her would break the spell and somehow ruin it. Watching someone so happy in what they’re doing is something like looking at the absolute best piece of art that ever existed, and it’s impossible to deny the yearning hope that if you get close to her maybe some of it will rub off and you too can immerse yourself in the warm, even glow that comes when one is part of the music and the music becomes part of you. It’s really easy to fall in love a little with that particular sweetness, especially when someone wears it so well.
It’s always a little disappointing that the night eventually has to end, all the mice and pumpkins returning to their secret lives away from the dance floor, the glass slipper lost down a storm drain somewhere- but that’s just the way the script is written. Like the life of a butterfly the beauty is fleeting, brief- and it’s only a matter of a chance passing that we witness it at all. To try and pin it down, to somehow capture and hold it would be to remove its natural beauty and leave just an empty façade.
Walking along down the empty streets of Chinatown I still see her dancing in my head, and I think to myself how lucky we are to get these little flashes of brilliance every now and then that make life worth living. I’d be lying if I said she didn’t cross my mind a few times well after the sun came up.


In this world there are only two tragedies: One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.

Oscar Wilde