Chronicles of the Muscular Dystrophy Dancers
Laura enters the ballroom of the magnificent Amberson Hotel. She looks beautiful - well, as beautiful as one who has just sneaked into an establishment by climbing through the bathroom window can look. That’s the wonderful thing about restraining orders. They only count if you get caught.
I sit at the hotel bar in my tuxedo, watching her move through the hotel. Laura saunters sexily towards the hotel bar, which isn't easy, seeing that I made Laura carry her own luggage. Laura looks beautiful in her black strapless gown. It used to have straps until some mean people tricked Laura into using the straps to fix the fan belt in their car by telling Laura they were filming a Mentos commercial. I just hate mean people. That’s the one trait I’ll always have in common with those Playboy centerfolds. Well, that plus I also have abnormally large nipples.
Laura sees me and smiles. She has one of those smiles that light up an entire room. It’s bright and wide and dazzling - like Julia Roberts’ smile in that hooker movie. I love going to these dressy affairs with Laura. We look dashing and romantic together and even if it’s just for one evening, we look like a couple that belongs together. There are times in a relationship when you just need one of these evenings to give you confidence that things will work out. The evening would be perfect except for the annoying man who is screaming that his hair is on fire. Maybe it’s just me, but somehow it just doesn’t seem wise to sell cigars and matches to drunk people.
I smile back at Laura. Not a big smile. I can’t do full smiles. I have two really sharp incisors that make me feel really self-conscious. But, I smile big enough to let Laura know I’m glad to see her.
" Laura, I can't believe we're here,” I say. “ Remember the last time. The caviar, the champagne, the ..."
" Sex," Laura grins.
" Yes, it's a shame that couple gave the police our address and had our binoculars taken away," I say.
" I can’t believe how much I’ve missed you,” says Laura. “ I look back at all the times we broke up and all the reasons seem so foolish in retrospect. Except for that time you asked to taste my menstrual blood. That was kinda gross. I can’t believe you asked. I mean, you won’t even eat food that’s fallen onto the floor. But, I’ve thought a lot about why we keep getting back together and you know what? I’m so tired of thinking about it. Let’s just accept that we are meant to be together. We’re like that couple that lived next door to me. You just looked at them and there was this magic that surrounded them and they looked like they were meant to be together forever.”
“ Didn’t they break up?” I ask.
“ Well, yeah,” says Laura. “ But I’m talking about the way they looked before they broke up. Before she stabbed him and all.”
" I know what you mean,” I say. “ I have this feeling that we were always meant for each other. I mean, do you think it's just fate that you happened to be my nurse at the hospital even though we hadn't seen each other for five months?" I ask.
" Not really. The other nurses just refused to care for you. They're still seething about the time you unplugged Mr. Heinemeyer's heart monitor and attached it to the television in hopes of getting better cable reception."
“ I still feel bad about that. Especially considering that after all that hassle, the only program I could get was Super Sloppy Double Dare on Nickelodeon. But, let’s not rehash old times now. Let’s wait until some of those misdemeanor trial dates approach before we worry about that again. Let’s just dance tonight,” I say.
We take to the dance floor. I hold Laura closely to my chest. We spin around endlessly. Everything seems magical. Like one of those paperback romance novels only bought by bored housewives who haven't been able to get aroused by daytime T.V. ever since Bob Barker stopped dyeing his hair. The moment was just like one of those romance novels - only neither of us were named Thor. Unless of course you count Laura’s middle name.
The music stops and the crowd looks away from the stage momentarily to avoid having to see the trombone players empty their spit valves. The crowd stands there, not moving, waiting passively for something to happen - kind of the way L.A. Clipper basketball players play defense. Finally, a small man in a blue blazer steps up to the microphone. He looks like one of those bizarre creatures who try to make you sample free meat products at supermarkets. I suspect the man has been wearing the same suit for the past two decades. Even the plastic flowers pinned to his lapel manage to look dead.
The man tries to remove the microphone from its stand, but it does not come loose. He ends up tipping the stand at a forty degree angle until the microphone rests closely to his mouth. It’s like how Frank Sinatra would hold the microphone stand on stage while all the women in the audience swooned. Although, I must say, the maneuver seems much less romantic when the person holding the microphone has an excessive saliva problem which causes the microphone to short.
The man clears his throat, and in the process, the appetites of all those in the first three rows, and speaks energetically to the crowd. " Welcome to the Amberson Hotel's 10th annual dance-a-thon to benefit children with muscular dystrophy. We’ve listened to all the wonderful comments and suggestions you’ve all made to make this evening truly special. And, based on your suggestions, we’re pleased to announce that - for the first time ever - we’ve decided not to invite any of the children who actually suffer from the disorder to tonight’s dance. We agree that they just put a big downer on the whole evening. But, for those of you who are interested in updates on a particular child, we’ve invited their healthy siblings to stand in the lobby and let you know how these children have been.”
Laura and I make a point to visit the lobby before the evening is over to see how the child we sponsor is doing. Laura and I are quite impressed with the sponsor program. It’s like an adoption - only you don’t actually have to do stuff with your child. What Laura and I especially like is that if you donate an extra hundred dollars, you get to change the child’s name to whatever you want. You can do that or you get a free muscular dystrophy tote bag. But Laura and I agreed that the idea of a muscular dystrophy tote bag just seemed too demeaning. We named our child Huey. Huey was also the name of the baby monkey we adopted at the zoo. We figured it would be easier than trying to remember two different names. At first our child resisted the idea of a name change. She felt the name Huey just wasn’t right for her. But, after we threatened to stop sending her money, she quieted down.
Finally the emcee finishes his speech by saying, “ Now if everyone will go to the dance floor, our dance contest will begin!"
The crowd lets out an uproarious shout and the contest begins. Before the music starts, the judges walk through the crowd and begin eliminating all the really white people. Especially the ones still wearing the Billy Ray Cyrus haircut. Finally, the music starts and the crowd begins dancing. The judges begin removing all the hippie couples who try to noodle dance to Funkytown. The song ends and the band begins playing Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. Luckily Laura and I recognize that this is a trick. The judges are merely interested in removing all couples who try to dance while lip synching to the song. We keep our lips shut while the judges remove these couples, including the gay couple who got into a fistfight over which one got to sing the Kiki Dee lines. It amazes me the number of people who will enter a dance contest without knowing anything about dance contest protocols. For instance, in this day and age, I can’t believe anyone would enter a dance contest without knowing how to do the hand gestures to the YMCA. The judges remove couples who can’t change the hand gestures fast enough to keep up with the song. They also remove some of the larger couples who, due to friction problems, have difficulty getting their hands raised high enough above their heads to properly form the letter “A”. The songs continue to change and the judges remove more and more couples from the dance floor. Laura and I continue to dance. We are outlasting all the other couples - possibly because we tainted the hor's doevres with an infectious viral strain. Not a really dangerous strain, mind you - unless you happen to be a small child or an elderly person with a heart condition. Finally it is down to us and one other couple. But, Laura and I are cheated out of our trophy. Personally, I don’t think the judges are right to remove us from the contest just because Laura accidentally farted while doing the Twist. Like it never happened to Chubby Checker.
Laura and I retreat to a room upstairs. The hotel staircase is lined with impressive paintings from eighteenth century France all of which seem to revolve around naked fat people lying on beds of wheat. The stairs are covered with an ornate, multi-colored carpet - the type of carpet that is too garish to have in your own home, but yet looks perfectly normal somewhere else. Of course, that’s also how my family describes all our relatives.
Laura and I continue towards our room. Laura has the key tucked in her bosom along with some dinner rolls from the buffet that we stole for after-sex snacks. I carry Laura up the spiral staircase as Rhett Butler did in Gone With the Wind. Well, I tip the bellboy five dollars to do it, but it's the thought that counts. I would do it myself, but I hurt my back during a celebrity limbo contest while on a book tour some summers ago. In retrospect, it was rather foolish trying to keep up with Emmanuel Lewis and the actress who played the ugly roommate on Three’s Company.
We enter our room and Laura begins to undress. She slowly lowers her evening gown. The dress slinks slowly to the ground, revealing more and more of Laura’s soft body as it slides down. I love the way Laura’s breasts emerge from her dress. They’re like two Eggo waffles popping out of the toaster - except I don’t need to use a fork to dig them out when they get stuck.
Laura slowly undoes the zipper to my black tuxedo trousers. The zipper catches on a loose piece of thread and gets jammed. Laura yanks on the thread, but it just gets longer and longer. I want to tell Laura to stop, but now seems like the wrong time to criticize. I make a mental note to mention it to Laura after sex. The thread finally breaks and Laura continues to lower the zipper. Laura slides my trousers down so they rest upon my thighs. I stand there in the fancy monogrammed underwear that my parents gave me for Christmas. Well, the underwear isn’t really all that fancy. Instead of having the monogram professionally done, my parents just spelled out my initials with staples. But, it’s that personal touch that makes them so special to me.
Laura rubs her hands up and down the outside of my underwear, gently massaging the bulge in my jockey underwear. Laura smiles and places her hand inside my underwear, deftly removing the dinner rolls that I had also stolen for after sex snacks. I kiss Laura’s free hand - rather than pay 25 cents for her non-free hand - and then gently release it. I let go not because I want to, but because Laura’s hands are all slippery from the margarine on the dinner rolls. Laura slips her hands under my white dress shirt and wipes her hands upon my chest hairs. I momentarily become suspicious. I always get that way when someone tries to butter me up. But I push those fears aside to the one area of my brain not interested in sex - the area that is responsible for memorizing Star Trek jargon. Laura runs her silky smooth hands down my chest, unbuttoning my shirt.
I finish removing my pants. Laura then slips my underwear down around my ankles, causing me to momentarily lose my balance. I hope I don’t fall down. That just seems so unsexy. I regain my balance and I try to use my feet to fling my underwear across the room. Unfortunately it catches on a big toe and I have to shake my foot vigorously to get it off. I must look like one of those drunk people who think they have ants crawling all over them. People that I usually refer to as mom and dad.
An “Inspected by #12" tag flutters from my underwear to the ground. They’re not a new pair of underwear though. I just slip the tag in there because Laura has a thing about new underwear. Laura figures if she’s going to shave her legs and do her hair and make-up, the least I could do is wear new underwear. Although I figure the least I could do is to show up for a date stinking drunk and spend the night peeing in assorted house plants.
Laura kisses me passionately. I feel her tongue press firmly down on my tongue and then roll underneath. I can taste the cilantro from Laura’s meal as the spices in our mouth blend together. Laura moves her lips to my neck and then whispers as she nibbles my ear. “ I’m glad you wore that sexy underwear tonight. I just love underwear that comes in a tube.”
“ I like to think that any pair of underwear I have on would be considered sexy underwear,” I say defensively.
Laura throws her head back and laughs. That joyous, carefree gesture always makes me melt. Although, tonight I suppose the gesture would have been more endearing if Laura remembered to stop nibbling my ear before she threw her head back. We stop my ear from bleeding, using bits of dinner rolls to apply direct pressure. The bleeding finally subsides and we finish removing our clothes.
Laura and I stand undressed in the center of the room - the moonlight glimmering against our naked flesh. We look deeply into each other's eyes and finally accept what we knew was going to happen all night: that our bellboy wasn't going to leave until we gave him his tip.