Tonight I asked Monique to dance.
Monique took my hand before I had uttered a word and her girlfriends mysteriously disappeared to the other end of the bar. I never even saw their faces.
I asked Monique her name. She said "Winnie." I said, "Winnie?" She repeated her name, but this time she said "Monique". I said "My name is Pascal." She said, "Pascal?" I said, "Yeah." "Can you dance, Pascal?" What kind of question is that? I thought.
We danced, loud latin music filling the room. Monique said, "You are funny on the dance floor." I didn't care. I had asked Monique to dance, and now she was dancing with me. That was all that mattered to me, so I just smiled and said "I'm funny?" I was okay with being funny. She furthered, "You have rhythm, but you don't know how to dance." I understood. We exchanged hands. I was dancing great, I thought. "Well, I'm no formalist, for sure. I'm just making it up." She shrugged, somewhat amused. I think. Anyway, the song ended, and I thanked her dancing with me.
Before all that, I was talking to Mary Rose for quite some time, sitting on the radiator. Mary Rose was this curious old woman, probably about 70 or 80, who had come into the bar and made her way to the back where me and my friends were celebrating vyeseleph's 30th birthday. Mary Rose parked in the corner in her heavy coat and knit wool cap and like everyone I couldn't help watching her. She was something of a beer scavenger, picking up stray bottles and emptying them into her glass and then setting the empties in the window sill. One time I saw her pick up a half-empty bottle of budweiser from under the radiator. Yep, se emptied it into her glass, and placed it in the window sill with the rest. She also had this curious habit of sticking her curled finger into her open mouth while she stared into nowhere. It was as if she were picking her teeth, but it looked more like she had some weird obsession with poking her tongue. Curious all around. So I went over and introduced myself, and she told me her name was Mary Rose. I told her my name and she asked if I was French. Then she told me she had a half-French half-Berber great-grandmother who saw three centuries, having been born in 1796 at the tail-end of the French Revolution and then dying of pneumonia after an earthquake in Calabria, Italy in 1908. I used to know what a Berber was. Then she told me about some boy scouts getting yellow fever out on Long Island last summer. She also seemed to know a lot about breeding dogs, pit bulls in particular, which were bred for strength in order to lead bulls around the farm by their noses, and here she demonstrated by grabbing my septum and giving me a little tug. Turns out she's a pathologist assistant at Bellevue, which might be the truth, but it didn't really jibe with the whole beer scavenger aesthetic. Anyway, like many old people, she seemed full of stories and eager to tell them, so I accommodated her by saying "Yeah" and "Uh-huh" a lot while she unloaded vast amounts of bizarre trivia and no small amount of spittle upon me. I also got some pictures of me and Mary Rose which should show up here soon, once I get copies from skryche and stacycats. Hint hint.
But anyway I asked Monique to dance and she said yes. That was awesome. I felt awesome, even though she didn't really appreciate my dancing. I wish Dana was there so I could have danced with her instead. I like how she dances.
Big run tomorrow. Big sleep tonight.
Monique took my hand before I had uttered a word and her girlfriends mysteriously disappeared to the other end of the bar. I never even saw their faces.
I asked Monique her name. She said "Winnie." I said, "Winnie?" She repeated her name, but this time she said "Monique". I said "My name is Pascal." She said, "Pascal?" I said, "Yeah." "Can you dance, Pascal?" What kind of question is that? I thought.
We danced, loud latin music filling the room. Monique said, "You are funny on the dance floor." I didn't care. I had asked Monique to dance, and now she was dancing with me. That was all that mattered to me, so I just smiled and said "I'm funny?" I was okay with being funny. She furthered, "You have rhythm, but you don't know how to dance." I understood. We exchanged hands. I was dancing great, I thought. "Well, I'm no formalist, for sure. I'm just making it up." She shrugged, somewhat amused. I think. Anyway, the song ended, and I thanked her dancing with me.
Before all that, I was talking to Mary Rose for quite some time, sitting on the radiator. Mary Rose was this curious old woman, probably about 70 or 80, who had come into the bar and made her way to the back where me and my friends were celebrating vyeseleph's 30th birthday. Mary Rose parked in the corner in her heavy coat and knit wool cap and like everyone I couldn't help watching her. She was something of a beer scavenger, picking up stray bottles and emptying them into her glass and then setting the empties in the window sill. One time I saw her pick up a half-empty bottle of budweiser from under the radiator. Yep, se emptied it into her glass, and placed it in the window sill with the rest. She also had this curious habit of sticking her curled finger into her open mouth while she stared into nowhere. It was as if she were picking her teeth, but it looked more like she had some weird obsession with poking her tongue. Curious all around. So I went over and introduced myself, and she told me her name was Mary Rose. I told her my name and she asked if I was French. Then she told me she had a half-French half-Berber great-grandmother who saw three centuries, having been born in 1796 at the tail-end of the French Revolution and then dying of pneumonia after an earthquake in Calabria, Italy in 1908. I used to know what a Berber was. Then she told me about some boy scouts getting yellow fever out on Long Island last summer. She also seemed to know a lot about breeding dogs, pit bulls in particular, which were bred for strength in order to lead bulls around the farm by their noses, and here she demonstrated by grabbing my septum and giving me a little tug. Turns out she's a pathologist assistant at Bellevue, which might be the truth, but it didn't really jibe with the whole beer scavenger aesthetic. Anyway, like many old people, she seemed full of stories and eager to tell them, so I accommodated her by saying "Yeah" and "Uh-huh" a lot while she unloaded vast amounts of bizarre trivia and no small amount of spittle upon me. I also got some pictures of me and Mary Rose which should show up here soon, once I get copies from skryche and stacycats. Hint hint.
But anyway I asked Monique to dance and she said yes. That was awesome. I felt awesome, even though she didn't really appreciate my dancing. I wish Dana was there so I could have danced with her instead. I like how she dances.
Big run tomorrow. Big sleep tonight.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
legionnaire:
Glad you had fun. We were all wondering whether Mary Rose was going to get lucky last night. When she walked in I said to Skryche that I felt like I was in a David Lynch movie - I half-expected her to start talking backwards and breaking out a log. Very surreal.
wuvmonki:
Mary Rose was great. I loved how you two were chatting it up. I think if I weren't so afraid of old people I would have been right there with you chatting with her. She was really funny pouring everyone's half finished drink into her glass. When you left for a bit to dance or something she even took some of your beer. I thought that was funny since you had just bought her a beer. She was a cute old lady and you looked adorable talking to her.
