Three Simple Questions: THAT OL' CERTAINTY

2019 AGELESS AUTHORS CONTEST FINALIST

WHO AM I?

I swear to God I did not go into that honkey-tonk in Austin looking for that old certainty. Honestly, I just like country music... oh, yeah, and the women. They can even be asymmetrical! And the beer, I like the beer. 'N I just like to dance the 2-Step. That’s all.
Just exercising my emotions, okay passions, and my Sentient Soul and I’ll ask a pretty woman to dance. Hold her real close, left hand in her right hand, slightly cupped; my right hand on her lower back - maybe her back belt-loop. Catch a beat or two... and we Texas 2-Step. Slow-Quick-Quick; Slow-Quick-Quick; repeat.

Some gals don’t like to be held tight and kinda try to wiggle away. Some don’t like to be led and resist for a moment. Then I ask them if they REALLY want to dance. Some want to be independent, but the 2-Step, well when you 2-Step and you twirl, go open-style and cut your way through the traffic, somebody BETTER lead so it will be less loco and more motion in the locomotion.

So there I was 2-Steppin’ and Swing Dancin’ and the band was stylin’ George Jonesn’, Ray Price n’ and Willie ‘n Merle and George Strait, Clint, Hank Jr. and, Lord knows who else.

There were layers and layers of lights and boots and hats and glitter and see-through blouses, and sounds. Layers and players. And more than a few nay-sayers. Some drunken pals. Some suffering gals. Winners and losers. Just a Friday night in Austin.

WHY AM I HERE?

I swear I do not EVER look for Dame Adventure. I do not WANT Dame Adventure. I have a deviated-septum, a Collies fracture and trashed knees - and do not NEED more adventure. I was just there to dance. Hold a woman real close, right hand on her lower back. Slow-Quick-Quick; Slow-Quick-Quick... Say a word or two. Ask her name. Concentrate on the dance moves. Step back and twirl her, catch her eye and smile, real polite like. Asymmetrical is fine.

But the thing about Dame Adventure is that she whispers. Honest to God, she whispers. It’s like you hear someone calling your name but it would be absolutely impossible to be boot-scootin’ and hear a whisper when the band is playing Hank Jr.’s “Family Tra-dition!” But, there it was.

So, I began cutting behind her and side stepping and scanning the tables at the edge of the dance floor and we made a full circle around the room.

Where in the WORLD did that whisper come from? WHO in the world is whispering my name?

WHAT DO I WANT?

It was like I was Moses and the red-neck sea parted and there She sat. Right there at the end of the table. I was certain she whispered. She had a coy, knowing look in her eyes.

Her mother, about my age, sat beside her. Her mother was no rodeo rookie. She had Dolly hair, a flouncy, low-scooped blouse, bare-midriff, skin-tight jeans and a tooled belt which read “BITCH”. She had Botox, lipstick, dentures, and defenses. On the table in front of her was a small clutch. I guessed a 2-Shot Derringer.

Her was the mother of She. She had whispered to me. This was the third time in my life that I’ve met such a She. I felt whatever in me that was solid turn to liquid and what was liquid turn to air. My heart started racing. Other men started to look, too. My chest trembled. I smelled the competition.

I stopped. Still. My dance partner didn’t know what was going on but she followed my eyes and saw they were riveted on She - the one for me. I had to have her. I didn’t know what it would take, divorce, money, bass boat; but that didn’t matter. I didn’t care about what I was going to lose.

She was just the most perfect woman. A wild abundance of sunlight and femaleness glowed around her. Young, fresh, untapped, spontaneous, waiting for a decisive move.

That old certainty. Yeah, I felt it. Then the Planet Saturn kick Macho Mars out of the way and showered me with historical memory forces. This was my third She! I already knew how this was going to end. I touched my deviated-septum. Why do I always wind up with losers like She, I asked Mars?

“Excuse me, ma’am.” I said to Her mother. “Would you like to dance?”

Her eyes lit up, her Botox levitated, she popped up, slung the tiny derringer clutch over her low-scoop flouncy blouse and held out her hand.

I was just there to dance. Hold a woman real close, right hand on her lower back. Slow-Quick-Quick; Slow-Quick-Quick... Say a word or two. Ask her name. Mmm, she smells NICE. Concentrate on the dance moves. Step back and twirl her, catch her eye and smile, real polite like. Asymmetrical is fine.

As we say in Texas: “It’s better to aim at a star and hit a stump than aim at a stump and miss.”