The Dancer

When I leave my apartment with a flask full of whatever, I’m usually anticipating a good night. I’ve started to think it's the best part of going out. That warm, burning liquor that slips down my throat tells me lies. It tells me I’m going to have a good time, get laid, meet some people who will change my life, and someone will buy me drinks so I don’t have to keep dipping into my savings. As soon as I hear the thump of leather boots and I feel their rhythmless rumbling that rings through the floor, I know none of that will happen. Instead I’ll likely get enough of a buzz on to convince myself I can afford a night out, and that I deserve one. After that, once the medicine overtakes control of my own actions, I’ll find myself clumsily stumbling through the dance floor, trying to put my movements together in an extravagant way to show off and pull a mate. Maybe I just ought to take it easy. Avoid the break dancing and the fast feet, I’m rightly not good at it. For some reason it just spills out of me. In those 45 seconds that I’m clunking my dumb feet on the wood floors and swinging my spaghetti limbs around, I feel a sense of relief. It's in those moments and when I’m spinning like a turtle on its back where I feel like I know why I’m there. My time is usually up pretty quick, it doesn’t take long for some big strong cowboy to lift me up and either punch me or throw me out. The bouncers are always telling me, ‘No break dancing, you’re gonna get your ass beat’, but I spend my money like a fool so they let me in whether I keep dancing or not.

It's Halloween night, and I’m dressed as Larry Bird. I can hear the goofy country pop playing inside as I stand outside smoking a cigarette. My thin white legs, exposed in their short little basketball shorts are shivering in the cold of night. The long blonde leg hairs standing erect in the street lights. That foggy feeling that comes over me as I enter through the saloon doors is no different from past evenings. Moving towards the bar I see the usual sight, the dance floor filled with big burly fellows in plaid swinging around little ladies with naked legs and blonde swinging hair. Each and everyone of them look like clones of each other. Repeating the same movements, dressing the same, talking the same and drinking the same drinks. Men drink beer or whiskey. Women drink coolers or seltzers. One day I’ll get away from this bar and this city.

I see a few familiar faces at the bar. A few that take kindly to me, likely cause they like to watch me express myself and then get beat up for it. Then there are a few who don’t take too kindly to me and I see in their menacing glares that they don’t have the patience for my dancing this evening. I move over to the bar seating where an acquainted fella named Gary is sitting, drinking Jameson Ginger Ale.

‘How are we tonight ol’ Gary?’ I ask with a goofy smile.

‘Another day in paradise my friend. Fancy finding you here again, Charlie.’ He responds, with a quick glance.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Somehow my drunkenness is once again telling me I’m a rich friendly man who people love to watch dance.

‘I wouldn’t say no’, says Gary.

The bartender is doing a little dance, swinging the bottles around in his hands and pouring shots from high above the glass. His face is animated as he puts on a show for the tips. I try to flag him down but he’s busy tending to the heaps of blonde women in short shorts that are piling into a group to the right of Gary. Only one of them looks a little different from the others. She has a birthday pin tagged to her chest and a pink, glittery cowboy hat. The bulky mouth breathing boys that accompany the birthday party start piling in. They give Gary and I a few side glances. They are dumb, confident and always looking to fight. Gary and I avert our eyes.

After waiting for the screaming girls and mumbling young men to get through their shots, we order two beers and a shot of Jameson each. The bartender pours our drinks with a much more modest performance, knowing we’ll tip the same if he says nothing or if he gets on his knees and begs. I can feel my own anxious feet uncontrollably tapping the floor to the beat of the music. The pounding rhythms of music that I don’t love but don’t particularly hate either ring through my body. I slam my beer. Gary watches calmly, his aged expression barely changing. As the last few sips slide out of the glass, he pouts his lips and lifts his eyebrows, nodding in agreement with my chugging. I slam the glass to the bar a little harder than intended and catch glances from the tender as well as the rest of the folks seated at the bar. Beer drips down my wet lips and chin before a belch summons itself up from the depth of my gut. I can feel my eyes drifting in different directions.

Gary waves his hand in front of his face to shoo away the scent of the belch. ‘Jesus christ my man, cover your burps’.

I give him two crooked thumbs up to show that I understand and then find my feet dragging me towards the crowded dance floor. A line dance song called ‘Cadillac Ranch’ plays loudly and the young folks dance in lines. In Alberta public school they used to force us to learn this dance so that when we became adults we could all line up and dance with the synchronicity of soldiers marching. I feel a dull desire to find a woman to take home. It isn't exactly a sexual urge, just an aching desire to do something that feels a little special. I pick out the one celebrating her birthday in the pink hat. I strut towards her with drunken prowess, ready to express my desires through the movement of my skinny little limbs and tall awkward torso. I step towards her with the confidence of a new song, failing to notice that I am breathing through my open mouth. The beginning of the song vibrates up from the floors and penetrates its rhythm into my bones. Once I catch her attention, and the attention of all the others on the dance floor, I begin. I swing my arms with the fluidity of helicopter wings, I strike my feet against the floor with the power of an elephant, I scrunch my face into an expression that could only imply I was doing something no one else had ever done. Before I know it, I am on the ground, doing the worm. As I stand up to look at the young woman in the pink hat, my face feels flushed and sweaty. I'm impressed with myself, and I think it inevitable that she steps towards me and jumps into my arms and I take her back to my apartment. Her eyes widen in shock and she nods with an expression of confusion. She lets a small chuckle burst out and waves me goodbye with a tickle of the fingers. I watch those long, naked legs move into the crowd, followed by more that look just like them. As the last of the girls exit the boundaries of the dance floor, a large fist plunges into my ribcage ensued by a knee to my stomach and then a few more kicks from sharp leather cowboy boots. Their pointy, hard toes jabbing into my gut. Spit splatters onto my face and I feel my boots being pulled off my feet. I was too winded to do anything.

After moaning on the now empty dance floor for a number of minutes, I push myself up and moved towards the bar, shoeless and cut up.

Gary looks at me and says ‘Next time’.

I have 6 more drinks with Gary at the bar, barely saying a word to each other. Afterwards I stumble up the stairs outside to my apartment and fall asleep to the bar's reverberations beneath me.

The sun blasts through my windows much earlier than I would have liked it to. It’s shine makes its presence known with the speed of a light switch. I lay there with my eyes closed, feeling the sharp brightness penetrate through my eyelids. I cover my face in a pillow only to discover that I am too awake now to return to sleep. Lifting the covers I see the dark purple bruises on my ribs. The anxiety of a hangover begins to take shape and its weight fills my stomach with moths. I get out of bed and walk to the kitchen sink. I splash water against my face, hoping it sober's me up. I look around my dirtied apartment. Clothes and pizza boxes with the crusts still in them are littered about the floor and coffee table. Emptied bottles like hollowed vessels that once contained life's secrets scatter on the dining table. Outside a layer of frost covers the balcony railings and a pot of flowers that died months ago rests on the small cracked plastic table. As my senses begin to recover, the scent of puke begins to permeate my nostrils. I feel the nervousness of nausea and turn back to the sink. My body jerks from the waist up, like a sick cat. Somehow I manage to hold the mess in. I open my phone which is displaying reminders of life outside the booze bag and my anxiety grows much worse. Stacks of emails piling up about bank statements, slews of texts from concerned family members and a video of me dancing sent from Gary with emojis that cry tears of laughter at my expense.

I’ve checked my bank statement three times this morning. Each time I try to avert my eyes from the credit card balance that keeps piling up at the bottom of the screen. I’m waiting for that government rebate to come in. My balance is at $12.63. That could at least be enough to get me a mickey or a cheap bottle of wine. What would I do afterwards? I think I’ve got to get out of this apartment. Take a walk maybe. Its fucking filthy in here, somebody ought to clean it up. I step out onto the balcony where the sun that seemed to blast so dramatically into my face that morning has been curtained by the clouds. The cars in the parking lot are still covered in frost and one of my neighbours is using a debit card to scrape it off. Now would be a good time for a cigarette. I pat my chest and feel the shape of one loose in my coat pocket, next to a single match and a nail file that was left here by a woman I’d managed to get up to my apartment. Holding the rough file in my hands stroking its sandpaper like sides I thought about her sweet scent. After she left, my apartment smelt like her for days before returning to the usual smell of pizza and liquor. I spark the match on the file and light the cigarette. My anxiety subsides for the first few puffs but as I watch the smoking stick shrink I can feel it replenishing. What the hell would I do after this? I guess I could check my bank statement again. If nothing has come in I could try and track down a bottle. There has to be something in this mess of an apartment. Something that has slipped to the back of a cupboard or burrowed itself in the mess underneath my bed. The cigarette is burning through the filter at this point, so I flick it. I move back inside and pick up my phone to check my account balance. The $12.63 looks back at me mockingly, telling me I’m a dumb shmuck who can’t dance. I throw the phone on the couch in a moment of anger that only lasts a few seconds before the anxiety resettles.

The apartment is dry. No drinks to be found. It's time I head out on a search. 5 blocks east, along Main St. is a liquor store run by an old friend from middle school. I haven’t been in a while because the last time I went he started asking about my family. I didn’t have the heart to talk about my brothers suicide and I certainly didn’t have the heart to talk about my mother’s loneliness. So I shied away from that store, passing up on the occasional free drink to avoid the awkwardness. Right now I’d talk about almost anything to chase away this feeling in my gut. I’ll even pretend to cry if it means I get a drink.

The walk is long and cold. The wind blows the top layers of snow into a razor sharp mist that bites into my exposed skin. My hands are numb. I have them tucked into my jeans and it makes my walk feel awkward. I focus on the cracks in the cold hard sidewalk to take my mind off of them. When I arrive at the store they are just opening up. A homeless man wrapped in blankets is sitting next to the window, begging for change.

‘Can you spare any sir?’ He pleads with me.

‘Get your own money, asshole. get a fucking job.’ I bark back.

Inside the heat is on and I can feel the aching pain in my fingers numbing with the change in temperature. Brady lifts his eyes to look at me. He’s a kind man, one that would certainly never judge me for drinking.

‘Well well well. Would you look at what the storm dragged in? `` he says with a goofy smile forming on his face. ‘I thought you were boycotting my damn store. I ain't seen you in so long’.

A fake laugh so convincing I almost believe it slips out from my chest. ‘I been taking a little break from drinking Brady. Had to get my shit together a little ya know?’

‘Well I suppose I can’t fault you for that. What brings you in today then? Buying someone a gift are ya?’

I hadn’t thought of this as an excuse but I jumped on it. ‘Well yes that's exactly what I’m doing. Where’d you learn to read minds?’

He laughs at this and I laugh back, feeling my bruised ribs as my body shakes.

‘Well I’m sure we can set you up with something nice. What's your budget?’ he asks.

‘Well, it's for my uncle who is on his deathbed. What liquor have you got that promotes a warm death?’

His face grows a little uncomfortable and he seems unsure what to do with his own hands. He keeps wiping them on the counter. ‘I guess scotch would work for that, but gee I sure am sorry Charlie.’ He says with a look of false sincerity.

‘Oh that's alright’ I say with a wave of the hand that implies I’d rather not speak on it. We stand face to face, with an awkward force between us like two magnets pointing the same poles at each other. I can feel the silence working in my favour as Brady continues to wipe his hands slowly on the counter. I thought about the call I’d gotten from my mother when my brother died. The way her wailing cries thundered through the phone’s speaker. The haunting feeling of those cries hiding in my dreams. A gathering of tears drops from my eyes.

Brady watched my eyes flood and immediately his uncomfortable pity grows even greater as he tilts his head to the side and tries to console me with religion. ‘Sometimes it feels like God is tearing us down, Charlie. Sometimes it feels like he’s doing nothing but causing those around us to die. God's path will always have a greater meaning at the end. No matter how hard it may be in the present.’

I nod to his words with a look of admiration in my eyes like a foolish cult follower. I sniffle and bring my sobbing to a halt.

Brady goes back to the scotch section to fetch a bottle. When he returns, he hands it to me and says, ‘I think you better just take this Charlie. Give it to your uncle and tell him you love him. Have a drink with the man and try to end things on as sweet of a note as you can.’

‘Brady I can’t be taking free bottles. Let me pay.’ I said, still sniffling.

‘I insist.’ He said.

When I get back to my apartment I open up the bottle and promptly pour myself a generous serving into a stained white coffee mug. The feeling of the liquor slipping down my throat warms my stomach and relieves the lump of anxiety that was dragging me down all morning. When I check my phone again, the government rebate has been deposited into my account. I’m looking at the $168.57 like a man who just won the lottery, licking my lips at the thought of what I’d do with it. First I’d have a celebratory drink. Then I’d pay off a few of the debts I owe to family members. Then I’d take the rest and buy a load of healthy groceries. I could see a life where I got out of this skimpy little apartment.

The one drink I had at the bar turned into much more than that and before I know it I'm back on that dance floor. It was still early and the crowds of young people have not yet arrived. Gary and a dozen other faces I’d seen before but can't remember the names of fill the dark bar. I have the dance floor to myself for a while and I glide around it excitedly. Jerking my hips and swinging myself in circles, I'm on a roll. Air humping, fist bumping and loud jumping, the people at the bar are just eating it up. They love it so much that I actually thought they’d boo when the bouncer comes over and tells me to take it easy. I look at him mockingly and do an impersonation of what he said in the voice of a robot.

I find myself on the cold dark street in a flash. My left eye hurts and my head feels woozy. I see the mocking faces of the young folks as they step over me to get into the bar. I stand up, cursing them, unknowing of what I'm saying or where I'm going. I stumble up to my apartment where I start a one man party.

I spend about two full days drinking in my apartment. When I look in the mirror I see three of myself all with a black eye, moving back and forth, swaying in the reflection. The whole string of days repeat in an endless cycle of filling the toilet with puke, passing out on the floor and then getting up for another drink.

The morning of November 3rd is a chilly one. I left the door to my balcony open and the air that was below zero lurked into my apartment and filled every crack and crevice with its chilling presence. I lay sleeping on the floor when I heard pounding on the door. I open my eyes to see my destroyed apartment, filled with the remains of a man who once knew what he was. I stumble over to the door that is shaking from the loud knocks. ‘One sec’ I croak, holding on as well as I can to the liquor in my stomach.

I unlatch the door to see the enraged face of a man much shorter than I. He begins screaming at me about money. God knows why. I sure don't have any.

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree buddy. I don’t have any money for your charity’.

‘I’m your landlord you drunk bastard. Give me my fucking money or you’re evicted!’ He yells.

I shake my head at him, feeling some of his anger pass on to me through the power in his voice. He hands me the eviction notice and tells me I have a day to get my stuff together. I feel a dark rage come over me and I suddenly begin to recognize the small little man in front of me. I take the notice in my hands and throw it into the wind. The landlord turns his head to watch the slip of paper wisp away into the white morning. When he turns back around I grab hold of the little man’s neck and start ringing on it like a wet cloth. He looks at me, wide eyed and scared. I can feel his chubby little fists bouncing off my bruised and battered ribs. In a moment that feels as blurred as the rest of them, I throw him down the steps. He goes rolling clunkily down the steps and when he meets the concrete at the bottom I hear the crack of his skull reverberate through the air. That sound played in my head loudly, like a screeching microphone. I watch a puddle of blood form underneath his head. It is already beginning to freeze. I move back inside and pour another drink.

I hear a lot of screaming from outside for the next 20 minutes. I sniff out another cigarette that is stuck between the oven and the kitchen counter. I use the heat of the stove to light it. I take my phone and place it in a plastic cup. I play some country music from the measly phone speaker and dance along to the music in my apartment. I knock over lamps, pizza boxes and bottles with my wild swinging legs. My feet move fast. Their loud, quick thumps shake the apartment. I spin around, punch the air, kick the fridge. The groove is within me better than it ever had been. I'm doing a handstand when I hear the trudging feet of policemen climbing the steps to my apartment. I swing myself back to my feet as I hear their pounding at the door. Their voices threaten to knock down the door but the music that plays softly from the cup keeps me moving.

By the time they break down the door a stream of sweat is pouring off of my face and a look of pure delight spreads across my cheeks. I smile at the policemen as they come storming through the door with guns drawn. I begin punching the air to cap off the performance of my life. My swift punches swing in rhythm with my huffing breath. I have my right arm lifted in the air and I hear the sound of gunfire. I feel a pinch in my armpit. My arm freezes in that awkward position above my head and I feel my breath shorten. I begin to stumble backwards towards the bed. I try to fight it, try to reach for the bottle of scotch that had that last sip left. The one I was savouring for when my dancing was done. I look at the cops who stopped my dance short. They have no idea what they’ve done. I was gonna do something with my life, today was my last day of drinking.