#194 In My Bed


#194 In My Bed

It’s always the same on Saturday night. I rush home from work, shower, shave, and do everything I can to look and smell good because this is the one night of the week I get a chance to bring a beauty home with me.

When I’m ready, I stroll down to the club where the beer is only two bucks and the music is free. It’s not that I’m cheap – it’s just the fact I only earn $7 an hour working at 7-11 and even two bucks is almost too much for me. I drink enough to get a buzz so the girls will look better than they really do.

The women that come to this club are usually as poor as me and live a tough life. On this Saturday night, the one I see and want at first sight can’t be classified like that. She wears fine clothes and shoes that cost more than I make in a week. Her long hair is professionally fixed and her tan couldn’t have come out of a bottle.

I do my best macho walk, stride to her side, and try my fetching words, “Say, babe. How’s it going?”

“Better now that I have a man willing to dance.”

“Sorry babe, I don’t dance.”

Her eyes travel over me and I feel her calculating

how much my outfit cost. I think she’s a hopeless cause, but to my surprise, she takes me by the hand and says, “Dance, dance, dance. Music dictates how you move. Watch me and learn.”

I watch and her body flows like a raging river smashing over rapids, undulating around curves; her hands move in the air as if they’re water gracefully flying over unmovable rocks.

I try to boogie, but my feet move like a wheelbarrow with a flat tire. My legs won’t roll. My body jerks. It’s incapable of maintaining rhythm or beat. My waving arms look like limp spaghetti. I try to emulate her and shake my hips but I look like a waddling duck.

“Great,” she says, “I knew you could dance.”

I’m melting from shame and seeping through the cracks in the dance floor. I hope no one I know ever sees me pretending I can dance.

The things I’m willing to do for a little love are beyond my comprehension. Why do I let her make a fool of me?

I’m obsessed by desire and eager to do dreadful stuff to pilfer this rhythmic woman’s heart and see her graceful dancing in my bed. I drink more beer and dance some more. She comes home with me. Sunday morning, I roll over to see a sight that brings a shudder and a gasp. Something terrible must have happened to that beautiful girl.

My eyes go up and down her naked body and see her breasts and belly are wrinkled like a roadmap, stretched so bad that her skin will never be smooth again.

Her eyes blink open and she smiles at me until she sees the look on my face. Then she follows my eyes up and down her skin.

“Were you in a fire and needed skin grafts?”

A grimace replaces her smile. “Five accidents.”

“What happened?”

“I had five kids.”

“I’ve got a bottle of Jim Beam under the bed. Let’s drink and forget all those things.”

Before long, all those wrinkles are erased and she becomes the beauty I first saw last night. I thank God for alcohol, because without it, I’d have to see what life is really all about.