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HE JUST WANTED TO DANCE, but his girlfriend wouldn’t let him.
So they drove home. Tensely.
“You’re an interesting chick, real interesting,” he told her.
She ignored him and turned up the radio.
“Oh? You actually like music? Didn’t know that-
Billy Joel rocketed louder, his failed attempt to be Bob Dylan, er, his classically successful Piano Man wailed with greater spirit and volume.
“Very clever! Very clever hot shot! Is that a head nod I saw just now? Is that what it was?” he was yelling.
She was tired of his voice and swerved violently to the side of the road. They got out of the car and he was holding his tongue but staring at her like she was really going to be put in her place, like, this was it.
“You know what your problem is?” she started. It was a horribly weak way to throw down the gauntlet.
“No, but I know what at least two of yours are.”
“Christ, what else other than not dancing?”
They were standing in front of a house on a quiet street. A light turned on, potentially to Billy Joel’s crescendo.
“You don’t even care. You just turn up that music and drive. You’d rather forget than apologize.”
He looked bitter as a pickled turnip oozing violet contempt, his face flush.
“I didn’t feel like talking about it Johnny,” she sighed.
“You never do Diane,” he began to cry. “Not tonight, not yesterday, not ever!”
He lost it, crying miserably over the hood of her car. She was drawn to his sensitivity in the early going, but something very loud, even more so than Billy Joel as he finally belted out his sorrows one last time, was telling her that it might be time to call it quits.
She was about to, too, but the inevitable was delayed by a gruff voiced visitor.
“What’s that pussy crying about?” a cowboy, who presumably came from the house with the light on, asked.
Johnny looked up, sadly, and asked the cowboy where he came from.
“Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“Then cool it with the interrogations. Sides, you’re the one crying at my doorstep. It’s embarrassing. The boys are coming over for poker and I’ll be damned if you’re going to sit there and welcome them with this pathetic excuse for manhood.”
Johnny was going to say something, but Diane was already high-fiving the cowboy and throwing the rock on sign into the air.
“If this isn’t your sister than you’ve got a lot to say for yourself, blubbering like a child.”
“It’s my girlfriend.”
“His ex,” she added.
“Oh, well you might want to stick around honey. The boys I know would sure like a pretty thing like you at the table.”
The Boys are Back in Town came on, coincidentally, and four hooligans in assless chaps drove up in a brown Cadillac convertible. The Cowboy greeted them, and it was then that Johnny and Diane saw that his ass, too, was bare as the night.
“Diane-what are you talking about ex? And you’re not really going to go in with these creeps are you?”
“Johnny, just take my keys. Drive home.”
She stuffed them in his hand and walked along with the cowboys, each of whom slammed the beers they had been drinking, threw the cans up in the air, pulled out guns from their holsters with lighting speed, and shot the arcing aluminum with perfect aim.
The resident cowboy did not partake in the target practice, but just shook his head and laughed at Johnny, telling him, “Some nights boy you find yourself alone, cold, and with no one to dance with. Other nights, a red haired angel shows up on your lawn, ready to leave her troubled past behind. Life sure is something.”
He patted Johnny hard on the back.
“Chin up. Tomorrow’s another sunrise. Balls are dropping later these days. How old are you-ten?”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“Ouch. You don’t have a sense of humor either. Best of luck to you though. Thanks for stopping by.”
The cowboy walked after his guests who happened to be carrying a wildly laughing Diane into the house.
So they drove home. Tensely.
The Boys are Back in Town came on, coincidentally, and four hooligans in assless chaps drove up in a brown Cadillac convertible.
“You’re an interesting chick, real interesting,” he told her.
She ignored him and turned up the radio.
“Oh? You actually like music? Didn’t know that-
Billy Joel rocketed louder, his failed attempt to be Bob Dylan, er, his classically successful Piano Man wailed with greater spirit and volume.
“Very clever! Very clever hot shot! Is that a head nod I saw just now? Is that what it was?” he was yelling.
She was tired of his voice and swerved violently to the side of the road. They got out of the car and he was holding his tongue but staring at her like she was really going to be put in her place, like, this was it.
“You know what your problem is?” she started. It was a horribly weak way to throw down the gauntlet.
“No, but I know what at least two of yours are.”
“Christ, what else other than not dancing?”
They were standing in front of a house on a quiet street. A light turned on, potentially to Billy Joel’s crescendo.
“You don’t even care. You just turn up that music and drive. You’d rather forget than apologize.”
He looked bitter as a pickled turnip oozing violet contempt, his face flush.
“I didn’t feel like talking about it Johnny,” she sighed.
“You never do Diane,” he began to cry. “Not tonight, not yesterday, not ever!”
He lost it, crying miserably over the hood of her car. She was drawn to his sensitivity in the early going, but something very loud, even more so than Billy Joel as he finally belted out his sorrows one last time, was telling her that it might be time to call it quits.
She was about to, too, but the inevitable was delayed by a gruff voiced visitor.
“What’s that pussy crying about?” a cowboy, who presumably came from the house with the light on, asked.
Johnny looked up, sadly, and asked the cowboy where he came from.
“Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“Then cool it with the interrogations. Sides, you’re the one crying at my doorstep. It’s embarrassing. The boys are coming over for poker and I’ll be damned if you’re going to sit there and welcome them with this pathetic excuse for manhood.”
Johnny was going to say something, but Diane was already high-fiving the cowboy and throwing the rock on sign into the air.
“If this isn’t your sister than you’ve got a lot to say for yourself, blubbering like a child.”
“It’s my girlfriend.”
“His ex,” she added.
“Oh, well you might want to stick around honey. The boys I know would sure like a pretty thing like you at the table.”
The Boys are Back in Town came on, coincidentally, and four hooligans in assless chaps drove up in a brown Cadillac convertible. The Cowboy greeted them, and it was then that Johnny and Diane saw that his ass, too, was bare as the night.
“Diane-what are you talking about ex? And you’re not really going to go in with these creeps are you?”
“Johnny, just take my keys. Drive home.”
She stuffed them in his hand and walked along with the cowboys, each of whom slammed the beers they had been drinking, threw the cans up in the air, pulled out guns from their holsters with lighting speed, and shot the arcing aluminum with perfect aim.
The resident cowboy did not partake in the target practice, but just shook his head and laughed at Johnny, telling him, “Some nights boy you find yourself alone, cold, and with no one to dance with. Other nights, a red haired angel shows up on your lawn, ready to leave her troubled past behind. Life sure is something.”
He patted Johnny hard on the back.
“Chin up. Tomorrow’s another sunrise. Balls are dropping later these days. How old are you-ten?”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“Ouch. You don’t have a sense of humor either. Best of luck to you though. Thanks for stopping by.”
The cowboy walked after his guests who happened to be carrying a wildly laughing Diane into the house.
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