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“Wow! Like on Bridezilla?”
“Not exactly. But I have met a few bridezillas in my time.”
The DJ started playing the “Cha Cha Slide” and half the people at the bar ran to the dance floor.
“Oh, that’s my song!” Jazmine started doing the line steps right in front of our barstools.
“Well, why don’t you go do it then . . . like, on the dance floor?” Bird pointed to the lines forming in front of the DJ.
Jazmine rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. She looked at me like I was her best friend. “You want to dance with me?” she asked.
“No, she doesn’t,” Bird jumped in. He turned to me. “Just ignore her. My aunt dropped Jazmine on her head when she was a baby,” he joked.
“That story is not true,” Jazmine said. “There was a carpet on that floor.”
We all laughed at her wit and she pulled my arm.
“Come on, girl. You look like you need to dance. All tight in the stuffy suit. Let’s rock the house,” she said.
“I’m not the best dancer,” I pointed out. (In fact, I was the worst dancer. I knew the “Cha Cha Slide,” but I preferred to do it alone . . . in my home.)
“Well, from looking at you, you don’t know anyone here, so this is the best place to start working on your smooth moves.” Jazmine wouldn’t let go of my arm.
“You know what? I’ll go.” (This was the liquor I’d been sipping on talking.) “But only if Bird comes with me.”
Jazmine grabbed Bird’s arm then, too.
“Hell no,” Bird protested. “Ain’t nothing but women on that dance floor.”
“There are dudes, too.” Jazmine pointed to a few men in the back of the line looking at women’s butts.
“You two can go. I’ll be here waiting on my fish sandwich,” Bird said.
The waitress seemed to come from out of nowhere to push him on. “Those sandwiches won’t be up for ten more minutes. You know Slim is slow as shit back there. I’ll hold the sandwiches for you.”
“Please!” Jazmine pulled us a little more.
“It’s just one song,” I said to Bird.
“And it’s almost freaking over, all the deliberating ya’ll doing.”
Bird slid his drink onto the bar.
“Just one song,” he said. “And if the other brothers leave the floor, I’m out.”
The good thing about line dancing is that all of the moves are already preplanned. All you have to do is follow along. Work on memory. Problem is, I have the worst dance-move memory. Whenever I get on a dance floor—like for the Wobble, the Electric Slide, even the Tootsie Roll—my goal is to get behind the best dancer and just do what she does. Luckily, Jazmine was the best dancer in Bigelow’s. I stood behind her and she was my instant choreographer. The only problem was that she was changing half the moves and freestyling and whatnot. I almost knocked a few people down following her. Bird, of course, stood behind me and did more booty watching than moving. When the dance turned to the back, he just stood there and moved his hands to the beat.
The bad thing about line dancing is that the songs are always longer than you can ever be prepared for. And after every dance, you feel like sitting down, but the beat starts up again and you can’t seem to get off the dance floor. Lord, how long were we out there, me sweating and feeling the hairs on the back of my neck curling up. And it was funny, too—Bird must’ve seen the little sweat droplets rolling down my neck, because he started dabbing at them with a napkin. Soon, to save my energy, I just did the dance in place in front of him. And when the song went off we stayed there and danced together one more time.
Some man in a purple silk two-piece outfit (which, along with gold chains, was apparently the standard outfit for men in Bigelow’s) grabbed Jazmine and pulled her to the middle of the floor, where she made it clear that she believed she was starring in her very own movie titled Dance Fever.
Bird and I went back to the bar where our hot fish sandwiches were waiting for us. He was obviously one of the most popular men in the bar. He could hardly take two steps without someone grabbing his arm and whispering in his ear. It was interesting, because in that place I seemed more like I was hanging onto him. Women looked at me like I was lucky to be with him. They whispered when I walked by and poked out their asses to get him to look in their direction.
Ignoring the pool of grease in the bottom of the fish basket that likely made the sandwich as tasty as it was, I replenished every calorie I’d burned on the dance floor, tearing through the sandwich like it was my last meal. Bird and I could hardly talk, the food was so good. I ate until there was one little last bite and gave up.
Bird finished his sandwich and then reached over for mine.
We laughed as he scarfed it down and pounded on his full belly like Tarzan.
