At 10 in the morning, it’s already 92 degrees with a heat index of 101. My sheets stick to my skin, heavy with my sweat and all of the dreams that flushed out of my body last night. Although I’m not sure, I sense that somewhere on the sheets is a salt crusted stain in the shape of Alaska, which is the place I dreamed of. I was fishing in a river there when a plane landed, skipping across the water like a flat stone. When the pilot opened the door, it was myself as the pilot and passenger and I offered to fly me away.
But there’s no time to write it down in my dream journal . I’m late to work so I throw on a pair of skinny jeans that my legs resist due to the sweaty dampness that slows the fabric down as I tug them up.
Arriving at the corner of Cool Springs and Carrothers , I park my 1983 Chevy S10 in the walking park, then I grab my signs. My task is to advertise the mattress sale. While I get paid hourly, we earn bonuses if we move five customers to the store.
The bonuses make the difference and I do anything to get them. All it takes is a little showmanship.
Me, I actually re-enact the Michael Jackson Beat It video and Thriller.
I have an old guitar amplifier that I plug a cd player into. Then it’s showtime.
The bells ring and I make a dramatic face, then I point my finger at a driver, coaxing them towards me with a “come hither” look.
Nobody usually gets out of their car, but it’s fun.
On this particular day, a woman in a jeep with her roof down pulls over and begins to dance. At first, I think she’s doing it to mock me and be ironic. That’s usually the case.
Standing out here I’ve had stones thrown at me,fast food trash projected towards my sign, and I’ve even had a father drive his son close to me, take a picture, then state, “If you keep getting in trouble in school, this is what you’ll become. A fucking no-name on some corner , twirling a sign.”
However, that doesn’t happen today. The woman hops out of her jeep and moves towards me without violence.
” Hey, I really need this today. I’m Shirley.”
I extend my hand to shake.
“Hey Shirley. I’m Bob. What can I help you with?”
“It would be fun to do the Beat It routine. I haven’t done it since I taught a few years back. Can you take the lead?”
“Sure. Weird request, but sure.”
I walk over to my cd player and hit the button again.
“Ready? Stand behind me to my right, and follow.”
The music begins.
I narrate the choreography directions, and she follows my moves. Even at 45 years old, I’ve never led anyone in anything, but this feels good. It’s a first.
We have a great time dancing and have a lot of laughs. Other cars watch us and cheer us on. When the song is over, she asks if she could get a cd from her car.
Of course, I oblige.
She may have friends who want to buy a mattress– which means a bonus and maybe two big macs for me.
“Here we go. It’s Patience by Guns and Roses– one of their slow songs.”
I remember how much I loved this tune in high school.
We pop the cd in and feel timid as soon as we hear Axl’s whistling. Shirley takes baby steps towards me, as if fighting gravity, going against the wind, and I feel the heat rise to my face.
She places her right cheek on my chest and dips her hands under my arms to embrace my shoulders.
She sways back and forth, like a boat on water.
Then I hold her and I sway.
She starts to shake as she cries on my chest. My cheeks get wet from my tears, but I wipe them, afraid of soiling her hair.
All I can do is hold her and tell her it’s all ok until it’s not . So we hit repeat on the player and dance until the sun goes down, and the traffic is gone, and we can’t separate our bodies knotted together like two cars in a wreck.