Dew Drop Inn by Robert Vaughan

I was late to the square dance bar for guys with O.C.D. It was fully underway but before I stepped into the Dew Drop Inn, I had to circle back to my car thirty steps one way, three times, circle the car three times, thirty steps total, then click my alarm beeper three times off/on, off/on, off/on. Ah, better. I’d hoped they’d all be in two straight lines, the way we used to choose partners in gym class. It’d had been ages since I’d square danced, or danced at all. But Benny said, c’mon, you’ll have fun. All the guys are a blast. When I entered the room, he waved to me from the floor. I don’t wave, it confuses people. As I hung up my coat, I did a quick scan, counting heads, relieved to find there were thirty-six dancers, four couples formed nine squares, but the caller made me anxious. I joined Benny, the first song was Abba, and everybody sang along. I abhor pop music. Only listen to waltzes and was hoping we’d start with the Blue Danube. Benny reminded me it’s not Ballroom Dancing. He led me around the circle while the barker called things out of alphabetical order, like “heads promenade” (fourteen letters, shit!) before “allemande left” (same…fuck!) Just didn’t make sense. Felt like two left feet, or fifteen toes or I’m just not cut out for this inane activity in a room filled with whirling dervishes.

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