Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Too Much to Drink...
“You wanna know the secret of successful dancing?”, my dance teacher asked me one night, a mischievous glint in the one eye that wasn’t obscured by an eye-patch. “You wanna be king of the dancefloor, eh?”. “Of course”, I replied. His face broke into a grin, exposing a silver tooth which glinted ominously in the moonlight. And with that he produced a bottle of Cuban rum from inside his jacket. “This is my secret”, he said as he thrust the bottle under my nose. “Drink this and you will dance like a king”. I knew from that moment on that my teetotal days were over.
And so, it was a cold wet October night that found me supporting the bar in the Polish hall. The ubiquitous Vancouver rain was no match for the tears that streamed into my highball glass as the glamorous Polish lady conjured up numerous colourful cocktails for me. Exotic drinks with exotic names designed to disguise the inevitable fact of hangover. I spun my sorrowful tale to the Polish beauty, telling her of my futile search for the ever elusive Helen which had taken me halfway across the continent and cost me a small fortune in salsa lessons and alcohol.
Later, I take the lovely Polish lady out on the tiles, my teacher’s words of wisdom echoing in my ears as I dance like I’ve never danced before, the cocktails working their mysterious magic as I weave across the floor, spinning and swirling my prepossessing partner to the rhythm of the pulsating Latin music. Our dance finishes and we head back towards the bar. Well, my friends, as we walk, who should I spot out of the corner of my eye only my beloved Helen? Like a mirage she appeared, dressed in white, gliding elegantly on the arm of a well-dressed man. My first impression was that I had died and gone to heaven and this vision before me was none other than an angel of our Lord, so radiant was she in all her wondrous beauty.
I watch, entranced as she dances with the tall gentleman. And then they finish, and he escorts my lovely Helen to a seat. As if in a dream, I walk towards her, my heart palpitating furiously as I consider the possibilities. Ask her for a dance or profess my undying love for her? My counsellor suggests I take things slowly but what does he know about true love? As I walk towards her I remind myself I’m glad I wore my lumberjack boots – a trick I picked up from George Costanza, a character from the once popular Seinfeld TV series and the nearest thing I have to a role model. Laugh away dear readers but I’ve learned many a trick from Mr. Costanza not least the advantage of a pair of Lumberjack boots when you need that extra lift. They don’t exactly go with my imitation Armani suit but given a choice between height and style I’ll opt for height any day of the week. Ah yes, the ways of the vertically-challenged!
Suddenly, a hand taps me on the shoulder and I turn around to see a wild-haired woman grinning down at me, her eyes aflame with mischief. “Would you like a dance little man?”, she asks me, somewhat patronisingly. Before I can answer, she grabs me, whisks me onto the dancefloor and proceeds to throw me around the place with reckless abandon. It was around this point that the numerous cocktails kicked in. The room started to blur as she span me hither and thither. Anxious voices echoed in my ears as the crowd moved out of the way of the crazy lady. My stomach groaned ominously as the cocktails sloshed around unceremoniously inside. Luckily, I blacked out just before she sent me flying through the window.
The next thing I remember was waking up on the ground in the rain as anxious faces peered down at me. “Is he okay?” someone enquired. “I think he’s drunk”, someone else whispered disapprovingly. I stood up, all 4’9” of me (5 foot in my Lumberjacks!), and brushed the glass off my now bedraggled suit. Through the smashed window I caught a glimpse of the beautiful Helen as her handsome friend escorted her out of the hall. But before I could do anything my crazy dance partner appeared in front of me. “I was wondering where you had got to! Let’s have another dance little man!”. And with that, she lunged towards me, that mad look in her eyes. What did she want from me? I wasn’t about to find out. I turned and fled, running down Fraser street, the mad woman in pursuit. Somewhere around Kingsway a bus hissed to a halt and I jumped on. “Quick! Drive!”, I screamed at the driver who took one look in the rear view mirror before slamming the door shut and putting the boot down. “Woman trouble, huh?” he quipped. “You don’t know the half of it”, I replied as I beeped my ticket through the machine, wondering if I’d ever see my beloved Helen again. My friends, I tell you – this salsa dancing is a dangerous business.
