Dancers & Other Short Stories

Dancers

  & Other Short Stories

  J. R. Oneal

  Copyright 2015 J. R. Oneal

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dancers

  Rocking at the Store

  Cross Country

  Hootchie Cootchie

  Plum Branch Wedding

  Wild Woman from Borneo

  Disaster at the Old Wash Hole

  The Question

  Civics Lesson

  The Fight

  About The Author

 

  DANCERS

  Fiona stared out the window at the park across the street, watching people walking their dogs underneath the streetlamps. She turned up what was left of a gin and tonic and finished it off; then walked across the room to the bar and mixed another.

 

  "You want anything, Snap boy?" she asked.

 

  "No, I'm good. Still working on this beer."

 

  "I'm bored," she said as she crossed the room and flopped down on the couch. She stretched her arms over her head and said, "I want to do something."

 

  I ignored her as I tried to change channels on the TV. I pointed, clicked, tried again, and then slapped the remote. Batteries were probably about dead. Finally, the channel changed and I clicked again. Thomas Magnum, PI crept stealthily along the beach advancing on some bad guy. I clicked again. Gray static this time.

 

  "What's that noise?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

 

  Fiona's ears perked up as she heard a furious rustling sound coming from the kitchen.

 

  "That had better not be what I think it is," she said as she leapt from the couch and crossed the living room in three long strides.

 

  "Biscuit," she shouted. "Get off of that trash bag." Fiona stomped her foot on the linoleum floor trying to get the dog's attention. The rustling continued. A yelp came from the kitchen followed by growling and snarling as Fiona tried to pull him off the plastic bag. Then more thrashing. I heard a loud snap as Fiona finally attached the leash to Biscuit's collar.

 

  A minute later she emerged from the kitchen, short blonde hair in disarray, wearing a too small and faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt, pink drawers, and old rubber flip flops. She was dragging a small black bundle of fur struggling for all it was worth. The dog's toenails dug into the hardwood floor making an intolerable scraping sound as she tugged at the leash. She pulled him to the back door, opened it, unsnapped the leash and pushed him outside into the night.

 

  "You stay out there until you can calm down," she yelled.

 

  From the kitchen, I heard a string of curse words followed by the sound of cans, bottles, paper, and other items being stuffed into a new plastic bag. Fiona went outside and put the bag into a large garbage bin. A couple of minutes later she came back in and headed down the hallway to the bathroom with those damned flip flops slapping the floor and cursing underneath her breath.

 

  Biscuit was a neurotic and sexually obsessed Pekingese that would hump anything in sight. He was especially fond of trash bags. When I first encountered him, I thought he was cute, frisky, and playful. Over time I grew to despise the dog. His dark brown eyes looked at me like I was a lesser being and I was convinced that his soul had prowled the netherworld before he was sent to make my life miserable. Now, don't get me wrong. I love dogs. Just not this one. It was kind of like meeting a beautiful woman only to find that she had a personality that was rotten to the core. I pined for the day when Biscuit would disappear, never to return. In fact, I often fantasized about taking matters into my own hands.

 

  "You need to get that dog fixed, or put down," I said.

 

  She yelled from the bathroom, "I'll get you fixed. Or maybe put down. I know some people who wouldn't think twice about it and they don't charge much."

 

  I took a sip from the Coors bottle and picked up an old newspaper. I flipped the pages, scanning the same articles I had read a dozen times. I put it back on the end table.

 

  "I'm still bored," she yelled like a petulant child.

 

  "So what? It's almost ten o'clock," I replied.

 

  "I want to go out."

 

  For the tenth time, that day, I wondered how I had become the roommate of a crazy woman. Not just funny crazy, but seriously insane - at least from my point of view. Her personality was like a dark shadow that changed with the wind. Sometimes playful and full of fun, other times full of spite and hatred. The alcohol abuse did not help things. Each day seemed to reveal a new version of herself. Most of the time the changes were minor, but I had seen some things that I'd rather not remember. I wondered how many personalities she might have. We got along OK but there were times when I felt a vague unease. Something that told me to move on.

 

  She was pretty selfish for the most part. Her needs and desires always took priority over everything else, especially the desire to be rich. She had an obsession with money and celebrity. But there were times that she could be very giving. A few months ago when I needed a place to stay for a few days she moved me into her house with barely a second thought. Those few days had become a couple of weeks, then a month, and now almost seven months. Each time I was ready to move she had found a reason that I should stay.

 

  Staying was easy. I liked the small house. It was comfortable, close to work, and easy to maintain. I could stay there forever if it weren't for Fiona and Biscuit. On Fiona's bad days, she and Biscuit seemed almost mirror images of one another.

 

  "I'm serious," she said, coming back down the hall. A second later she was standing in front of me, hands on her bony hips, looking down at me with derision. "I'm bored. I want to go out."

 

  "You need to put some clothes on, woman," I said.

 

  "I will when we go out."

 

  I realized that this was going to be another one of those nights where there would be no rest for me. When she wanted to do something, she wouldn't let it go.

 

  Finally I gave in. I'll fix her Little Red Wagon, I thought with a devilish smirk. "I saw a little night club just north of town the other day. Dancers, I believe it was called. Let's go over there."

 

  "Great," she said. "I'll get ready."

 

  A small voice inside my head said, "You should be ashamed of yourself."

 

  I got up, stuck my bare feet into black loafers and put on a clean long sleeve blue shirt. I left the tail out and rolled the sleeves up a couple of turns. No need getting too spiffed up. I looked in the mirror. For a middle aged man that looked like a large version of Captain Kangaroo, I didn't look too bad. Fiona stuck her head in the door to my room and asked, "You ready to go or not?"

 

  She dressed and primped up quicker than any woman I had ever met. I looked up and saw her slender frame in tight jeans, high heels, and a spaghetti strap top. She was no classic beauty, not by any stretch of the imagination. But she did have that something that kept men pawing the ground whenever she was around. The women just glared, crossed their arms over their chest, and wondered, "What the hell's she got that I ain't got."

 

  She was a notorious flirt and was an expert when it came to trolling a nightclub. Havoc followed in her wake. Men fought with other men, their wives, and girlfriends over her. Women's h
ackles would rise and their backs would arch when Fiona gave their husbands or boyfriends a look that lasted a second too long, especially if the men didn't turn away quickly enough. She created a carnival-like atmosphere wherever she went and it was fun to watch when you knew what was going to happen.

 

  Fiona took deep pride in seducing a man, especially if that man had money or was a hotshot of some type. If it turned out that she liked him and his pockets were deep enough she would establish a relationship with him. The relationship lasted until she had rooked as much money as possible from the unsuspecting victim. Then she would cut him loose. Sometimes it was quick and easy, other times not so much. Rarely was only one man involved in her web of deceit at the same time.

 

  Fiona was equally at home with men from both ends of the social and economic spectrum. Some were just playthings, others were seen as sources of income or as a way for her to gain status. Occasionally a lawyer or politician lost his way and fell into her trap.

 

  Flower delivery was a routine event around her house. She would draw a man in and then the delivery of roses would begin. I found myself on a first name basis with every flower deliveryman in the city. At times, the house would look and smell like a damned funeral parlor.

 

  Oh yes, the birthdays. When a prospective donor to her financial well being would ask why she was out on the town or celebrating, the answer was always the same. It's my birthday. This would always guarantee a present within a few days. Men who stayed around for any length of time seemed to overlook the fact that she had multiple birthdays each year. Need new tires for the car? It's my birthday. Can't pay the power bill? It's my birthday. And woe be unto the poor bastard who showed up with an inexpensive present.

 

  Few people were ever allowed behind the curtain to watch a master manipulator and con artist at work. Why was I able to see this? I have no idea really. I had no money. I was not particularly good looking, and I was a horse's ass at times. Maybe it was because her charm had little effect on me or maybe it because I didn't care one way or the other.

 

  My inner voice nagged at me. I wondered if I had made a mistake suggesting Dancer's.

 

  A few minutes later I fired up my '65 Buick Wildcat and listened to it's throaty rumble with satisfaction. I gunned the engine just a bit. Fiona crossed the yard in a trot afraid that I might leave without her. It wouldn't be the first time. She got in and I eased the floor shift into first gear, then pulled away from the curb. I wound through the downtown streets trying to keep the 'Cat under control. We were flying low when we hit the Interstate. Finally, I was in the moment. Dancers was only a few minutes away.