STARING AT BABY FEET

STARING
AT BABY FEET

                                               

            I kind of forget other people are on
the floor with me when I dance.  My
dancing has been described to me as wild, out of control.  I flail my arms, kick my feet, and generally
make a fool of myself.  But I do not
care.  I just love to let myself to when
I dance.  I love to close my eyes and
stand still for a few moments.  (I smile
sometimes.  You know one of those evil
grins you see on madmen in the movies.  I
think that bothers people more than my crazy dancing.)  I let the music fill me before I move.  I usually begin with a leg twitch or a
shoulder dip.  But always small.  It takes me a few songs to get up to
flailing, but once I do, I keep it up for hours.  I don't think I'll ever grow tired.

            Friday night I went dancing in
Providence.  I didn't like the first
couple of songs I heard, so I sat off to the side drinking a couple of
beers.  I watched this girl dance
alone.  She didn't put any soul into her
dancing.  She just moved mechanically,
like a robot.  (Like most people I
think)  I watched her for a while.  I almost made a comment, but just at the
moment I opened my mouth to speak, I saw her. 
I mean, I saw past the marionette in front of me and saw her.  I saw short brown unkempt hair, (which I
still found attractive) I saw blue jeans (faded), a simple black tee shirt, and
I saw her brown eyes and dark skin.  I
stared.  (Perhaps a bit too long) 

            There are thousands of moments in
this life that a person feels the urge to do something impulsive.  I feel those urges many times each day, but I
let a very high percentage pass by.  And
what a shame.  I could have many more
things to write about!  Friday, however,
I decided to follow impulse for once.  A
person gets tired of thinking of what could have been.  I made up my mind to talk to her.

            But it wasn't easy.  It took me twenty minutes just to maneuver my
way over to where she was on the dance floor. 
Each song I moved closer.  But I
didn't talk to her.  I just danced, with
her less than five feet away and remained mute. 
I felt the moment slipping away. 
And then she walked away, leaving me next to her friend.  She sat down at a table.  I went to the bar for a beer, intending to
stop at her table on the way back, but she wasn't there.  I felt cursed.  (I'm a little gutless, as always.  I can never approach someone with friends
around.)  I drank my beer before I danced
again.  By that time she had moved to the
other side of the dance floor.  She was
only twenty feet away, but it felt like a mile. 
I never can muster the courage. 
And I nearly gave up the while damned idea.  I mean, how long does it take for impulse to
turn into obsession? 

            But I didn't pass over this
urge.  I felt my feet moving and in a
moment, I was beside her.  I bumped into
her and said hello.  She looked at me, in
surprise that I actually bumped into her I suppose, and said hi.  I asked her name, but I couldn't understand
what she said.  I told her my name and
then walked away.  If I could only convey
how nervous I was at that moment!  But I
don't think I have that kind of talent. 

            I danced with her for the next two
songs, but she walked away immediately after the second song ended and before I
could talk to her.  She moved to the
other side of the dance floor to meet her friend again.  I was devastated.  I had been shot down and embarrassed by her I
thought.  I danced and cursed
myself. 

I
always curse.  (Lousy habit)  I was in the middle of one particularly
vulgar phrase (which I dare not repeat) when I felt a touch on my shoulder.  I turned, and there she was, holding her
hands out to me.  I slipped my hands into
hers and we danced.  She danced lightly,
gracefully.  She felt oddly familiar in
my arms.  I enjoyed the two minutes.  I will remember them.  I will remember the song.  I will remember the couple that danced next
to us.  (An ugly old fat couple!) 

            "I want to sketch you." I
said to her after the song ended.

            "What?" she asked.  She thought I meant in the nude, if the look
of horror on her face gave away her thoughts.

            "Not that.  With words."

            "Oh."

            "I want to write you a
poem."

            "Right here?"  She looked a bit confused.

            "No.  Outside."

            "In the rain?  I don't know." 

            "It is simple.  I'll take you out for pizza and write a poem
for you."

            "I have to get up early
tomorrow."

            She didn't understand that I wasn't
going to take no for an answer.  When I
have a poem to write, I get a little crazy. 

            She walked over to her friend and
told her what I had said.  She didn't
come back over so I took that to mean she wasn't going.  But I was determined to write her a poem.  We danced the last two songs of the
night.  Then came the difficult part of
convincing her to go somewhere with me.  I'll
admit that I wouldn't have gone with me. 
(By the way, I forgot to mention that she is Italian.  Like, you know, from Italy.)  I think I would have yelled for the police
after a couple of minutes.

            "I don't like pizza."  She said to me. 

            "Forget the pizza then.  Just come out to my car and I'll write you
your poem." 

            She still hedged.  (Who can blame the girl?)

            "Think about this.  Tomorrow you can tell you friends you had
some guy offer to write you a poem and that you told him to get lost or you can
show you friends a poem some strange guy wrote for you at a club.  Which makes for a better story?"

            Not exactly the most persuasive
argument I've ever heard, but she agreed. 
I told her she wouldn't regret it. 
(Famous last words, right)  It was
raining outside so we walked to the car quickly. 

            "Is this when you kill
us?"  She asked with a laugh.  So she knew the possibilities.  I guess I don't look like a murderer.  (Whatever that means)

            They got in the front seat.  I still think that was odd.  I showed them my notebooks and we talked of
trivialities.  I told her to keep talking
while I wrote.  I asked her to spell her
name, which is how I avoided having to ask her name again.  She spelled it.  V-I-O-L-A.

            "Like the
instrument?"  I asked.

            "Yes, but it Italian it means
purple."

            "Nice."

            And I wrote her poem.  I wrote a copy into my poetry notebook and
one copy for her to keep.  I handed her a
copy.

            "Thank you." She said.

            "And do I get anything?" I
asked.

            She laughed.  She said something to her friend in Italian
and then laughed again.  She turned to
the window and started pressing her fingers against the windshield.  The window had fogged.  After she finished, she jumped out of the
car.  I got out, said goodbye and stood
there in the rain as they walked away.  I
got back into the car to see what she had put on the window.  I saw the perfect images of two baby feet.