The Dancer

The Dancer
by Samuel Ramratan.

When I saw her I almost stubbed my toe. She has moved into
my easy going neighborhood with two children and a
well to do handsome husband. It was not that they
were living right next door but because of how
things were it could well have been.

She did not see me that time because I had ducked
quickly moving down another aisle away from her
family. Cutting my shopping short and leaving
hurriedly I returned home to muse over Miss S,
the only name I had known her by. Those were the
days in my early twenties when strip tease was
making its way through the Torontonian suburban
scene. Sure there was Zanzibar, that well known
dancer joint on Yonge street embracing Dundas, but
police my friends divided all downtown action from
the burgeoning scene away from Toronto's city
center.

My first trips to those clubs were around the time
when taking it all off centered around pipe dreams
based in hell. It was fun those early days when the
girls talked the talk, walked the walk and danced
rock an roll or punk. Calling them strippers was a
sure way of becoming unpopular with the fellas, but
saying dancers made your presence at least bearable.

By the time Miss S, rolled into the club, I was an
accepted regular. Grand enough on the pool table to
gain the bikers respect, quality pot in my pocket to
be chosen when the local crowd headed outside, and
nice enough to be picked out when the dancers were
on stage.

Vying for their attention, to be hailed as heroes
of the hour, men were rapt with attentiveness,
circled around that square stage. If you were lucky
they would come sit at your table after their shift
on stage. The days, those days all without taking it
all off. Everything changed when it all came off and
remarkably Miss S, she was a perfect example of how
things had changed.

The Monday she walked in, like usual we were all
there at noon. Habits of nature, creaming the
boldest and friendliest females in a cold society,
like a drug, one you never had to take home with
you and one that never left a bad taste in your
mouth. We were all nervous, the pack of us crazy
fellows because she was different, at once her
affections were something to be cherished. I don't
know but these days no affection passes in strip
clubs, the G-string took off with affection,
real laughter and money laden lecherous boys and
crass men. Miss S, her name had made my skin tingle,
my heart go bleep and eyes narrower.

You see she was young, pretty, vivacious, sensual,
friendly, warm breasted, and me my friend, I was
young so when she sat with me that afternoon, the
local gang knew at that instant there was something
about me. Best of all I didn't let them down that
day. It didn't take much time before I pulled a few
tables together and shared her decent affections,
like a lion who shares with family.

Those days that followed no one would have thought
that club was a strip joint. It was like an Italian
backyard full of noise and activity when Mama had
family over. I had become King, only because I was
as they all had said, pretty cool guy. The golden
crown that I wore fell quickly off soon after.

I have been wondering what to do and how to face
Miss S, now that she is real middle class living
in our small community, not that she had ever
graced those lower rungs of decrepit society. You
see my friend, I run our Friday night poker game
for all seven neighboring married men. For some
reason the neighborhood wives trust me with their
men. They retain their air of respectability
Saturday morning and their pockets are never emptied.

John, in whose house Miss S, and her family have
taken up residence, was part of our game and we
were planning on inviting the newest member of our
community to those Friday night fun times. So last
Friday at our habitual sessions, they asked me when
was I going to introduce myself and the Friday night
poker game to Chris. The next door neighbors had
been in contact. Now I am single so I have no buffer
zone relying mostly on my wits and good sense.
Honestly I am sort of scared.

You see I became scared after losing my King hood
back in those days when G-strings dropped with
Ontario courts ordering them off. All dancer girls
had changed including Miss S. She had stopped
speaking to me that day I was there watching. I
myself wasn't curious, it was just habit, being
there, seeking out my fun.

Women are strange beings and it could have been
that because she had some strange affection for me
and the way we guys had embraced the newbie in her,
her dignity was compromised that day all strings
dropped.

She had finished the week then we never saw her
dance again by then dancers were termed 'nakeds'.
Yes, the crew who needed shock waves of nakedness
called them 'nakeds' while the viewing audience had
swelled. It was good for business, that nakedness,
but for us, the old gang it crushed our civility.
We didn't stop going we only hung around the back,
centered around a competitive pool table, but
never around the squared stage except under special
circumstances when some poor female implored one of
us to sit close for moral support. Today it is all
cold, cold hard cash even the free flow of pot
these days must probably be attached to licentious
behaviors.

So Miss S, I never even knew her real name but I
can't say I have ever seen her naked. Embarrassed
I had always averted my eyes when her turn had come
up or headed outside with the boys. If she had done
likewise we would have been blind to each others
ridiculous reactions. It was like that day in the
shopping aisle, I had ducked my responsibility.

Mabye she would not recognize me, my irrational self
complained. Laugh. Anxiety. I cannot run away. I
have to face my past and Miss S. I chose the next
Wednesday night armed with an addressed invitation
signed by our whole gang with my own address on it
as the night out hangout.

Apprehensively I rang their doorbell listening to the
familiar echoes of its da ding da ding at around
seven ten that chosen evening. It was one of her
children who answered with a yeh, after swinging
the door wide open. I heard her voice calling out,
it sounded like a souped up version of what I had
remembered. Chills overcame me immediately. Your
parents, I mumbled in a less than authoritative voice,
tell them it's one of the neighbors.

He translated for me. Mom it's your friend. I warmed
instantly. She appeared, how queen like, seeing me
her eyes questioned mine, daring, bolder than before,
secure in their double holsters. I flubbed my
planned lines, I was a man again, courage instantly
soaring, but my hand having nothing to do raised
itself to my head scratching brushing around a bit.

Hi I said, calmly, welcome to the neighborhood. I
felt like I was smiling, early twenties rushed up
to my head again. I am here on behalf of the Friday
night outing gang. I dropped the word poker like
hot cat shit. I stretched out my hand in friendship,
the invitation firmly grasped in the other. Her eyes
softened, she laughed softly, a whisper of the years
gone by edged into her voice. Is your husband in,
I asked carefully. She extended her own hand, slowly
like equals, she had recognized me, come in she
said, I was expecting you!