The Dancing Queen

“It’s a running joke around here that Jocelyn is the party monkey,” Jim said. The wide grin on his wide face reminded me of an ape.

I didn’t understand, so I just chuckled a bit and tried to similarize my facial expression.

“She’s always…’monkeying around,’ if you know what I mean,” he said with his smile that might have been the dreamwork of some drunk animator. “You know, with the boss’ wife.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, like she’s….you know…” His laugh was like a pig drowning in the mud that it so desired.

“I thought, you know, the boss is kinda like a” (don’t say religious) “straight edge kinda guy.”

“Oh yeah, but they’re into some wild stuff, man.” Jim’s eyes extended over his face and dripped with hate. “Wild shit that you would never dream of.”

 

+++ (where is the asterisk?)

 

I always thought that dreams were just in our heads. Like if you thought of something real in your head, even though that was real, it’s still just a dream ’cause it’s just in your head. Sometimes, and I think we have to give ourselves some evolutionary credit (for whatever that means), that’s not true. What’s in our head does exist in the outside world, it’s just that you have to prove it. Look at Einstein and how those observers somewhere in Africa (a continent that my education excuses me from the direct knowledge of its geography) saw those stars during the solar eclipse.

You just have to have a good argument. I’ve never been good at arguing.

 

+++

 

“I like to dance and get drunk,” Jocelyn said. Jim chugged a handle of whiskey in the corner of the bar. Everyone else was just drinking or dancing, and Jocelyn was dancing in front of me. Like I knew how to handle that. “You want to dance?”

“I’ve, uh…I guess…dancing is uh, you know…” Dancing is a way to prove your prowess in athleticism to those around you. It’s a fluke of it looking a lot like fighting, but only a few people fight nowadays. “It’s fun.”

“You like to dance.”

Isn’t it alone?

No…no, ha. It hears all the things listen.

One wonders what it says. It wants to be so still.

It’s in the woods under the rocks by the trees and it hears the forest. The forest speaks through the animals in the woods.

The sky even sings, and it hears this and shudders and shuts down, perpetuating the dark myth that the damned are tortured. It is torture, and wouldn’t you know that it doesn’t care?

It doesn’t give a FUCK! A single one rests beneath its hairy, muddy, bloody paws that tore through the winter’s snow-covered floor with such excitement for the freedom that it never found, never saw.

It trickles down the back of your hand and into the sink, unloved and never found.

It dies down in the corner of his room.

But it isn’t alone! All the voices tell it not to let alone.

All the voices tell it to go alone.

Tell it to go away.

Go away.