Funny She Didn't Mention You...

I guess this story needs a little preamble. I have not been writing these first person narratives for about a year now. I had been busy with other web projects and then there is that other annoyance – work. I had also been dating someone last spring, and I didn’t want to jinx things by indulging in Kiss and Tell at the time. After that came to an end in early summer, I just had lost the habit of writing down my social exploits. Then there was a total fiasco dating someone in late summer of which I will have to write about sometime. Then came a pointless string of dates with an ex that went nowhere fast. So after three failed attempts at some kind of relationships over the last year it was time to try something different.

Different in this case was going further a field than downtown Champaign, Illinois. Indianapolis and Chicago are about equidistant from Champaign, but once in Chicago it still takes an hour to an hour and a half to get anywhere interesting whereas it only takes 10 to 15 minutes to tool across Indianapolis to the downtown area. Add to this that parking is easier, cheaper, closer, and the clubs of similar size and quality. Indianapolis it was for a set of weekend adventures.

So we’ll skip my growing dissatisfaction with clubs in Champaign/Urbana like The Legion and The Masonic, Club Xtreme is out of business, and The High Dive has become some sort of annoying weekly fraternity like keg party. And rather than replay the whole last year, we’ll just rewind to three weeks ago.

Funny She Didn’t Mention You…

The day seems to be slipping away faster than I would like. It always does. I even got a jump on my Saturday earlier than usual. I suppose I could have just hit the road for Indianapolis or Chicago before noon instead of going to the gym, but I’m just getting back in good form having shed most of a few extra winter pounds, and I have discovered that if I don’t go when there is nothing interfering, it can lead to finding it easier to not go when it’s not so convenient.

Anyway it’s closing in on Three O’ Clock, so I decide Indianapolis it is, because I don’t even know where to head to in Chicago and by the time I get into Chicago and figure out where I would like to go for a little shopping it’ll be dark already.

That leaves deciding what to wear after a quick shower. My main concern is looking sharp for the club later. I would prefer to wear a casual ensemble, but it is easier to pick out something that works with a tie. With a tie, I also don’t feel like I have to put in my contacts, which I haven’t been wearing lately anyway, mostly because I’ve been too lazy to order a new left lens and am using an older, fuzzier, less comfortable one. I forgo a sport coat, of which I have two or three that I never wear. To be honest I don’t get sport coats. They look good when I buy them, they aren’t tied to specific slacks like a suite, but when I get them home I just can’t seem to find the right pair of slacks to pair them with. Of course I could by matching slacks when I buy the sport coat, but the purpose of buying a sport coat had been to leverage a closet full of pants, shirts and ties. Sport coats remain for semi formal company diners and events, where even though I might feel I have not picked the perfect combination, I still have most likely chosen better than most of my coworkers who chafe at anything formal. I have one suite, and that is saved for the rare meetings with clients, weddings, and of course funerals.

It is with embarrassing vanity I check myself out in the mirror on my bedroom door. I look sharp; at least I think I look sharp. I will no doubt look overdressed to most where I am going, but I don’t care, in fact this is a plus for me.

I pack a few items in case I decide to overnight in Indianapolis -- then hit the road. It is straight shot down 74 to Indy, so two hours of nothing but listening to AM Radio. I hate myself for not being more into music on long drives, but I have become a news addict, and scan the dial for news. Most of the Chicago stations come in well enough, but NPR has some higher quality fair, but it fades in an out along the drive. Not all NPR shows are interesting though, in fact of late only “All Things Considered” and “BBC World Service” are really worth listening to, but they are head and shoulders above most of the crap that passes for news here in the States. After listening to some Right Wing Conservative on a non-NPR channel for a while, who has made some good points, but then lapses into some incoherent rambling that throws logic out the window, I switch over to some NPR Lib whose logic is impeccable, but whose fact and figures I happen to know are wrong, if not in fact outright lies. This disturbs me more than the Right Winger working himself into a lather, as with the Lib you have to be up to speed on the facts to see what he is presenting is wrong, whereas for the Right Winger it will be the circularity of his arguments that tips you off. I sigh and shut the radio off and play with a math/programming problem in my head that I have been thinking about on and off for a couple of years. I’m no Einstein however, and I realize I’m unlikely to make much progress on a riddle that has stumped far better minds for centuries. Still it seems a better exercise of mental ability than crossword puzzles or word search (which you wouldn’t/shouldn’t be doing driving a car anyway). For those curious, I created a factoring algorithm some years ago, and have two or three key areas, that if I could improve, might be a real contender for factoring compound numbers over other methods. Unlikely it would do so in Polynomial time, which would be the real Holy Grail of Factoring, but I can dream. This all so much an aside to our story that I hesitate to put it down, but this really is what I’m doing in my head as I chug down the road towards Indianapolis. Ok, not chug. It’s a 2004 Sebring convertible, but it’s not a quiet glide either – too much wind noise. The whistling wind noise is definitely annoying, and there is also a dull thumping cloth noise from the fabric of the roof beating in the wind. Still my last three cars have all been convertibles, and when the weather is nice you can’t beat driving with the top down.

I have only been to Indianapolis five or six times, but I suspect the frequency will be going up to perhaps once or twice a month, at least until I’m in something like a relationship again. Still I have already fallen into a rut even here. I head downtown, park close to Circle Center, then walk to Circle Center for some shopping and time killing until its time to go dancing later. I would have gone to Gator’s, which used to be in Circle Center itself, but this large popular bar has closed its doors in the last year. I wish I knew more about this, but it didn’t seem to be for lack of business.

Circle Center is a much nicer mall than the one we have back in Champaign. It is probably two to three times as large, but less sprawling as it has four levels to Champaign’s North Park’s one. Some of this size comes from a Movie complex on top, more eateries, a very large arcade, and the Gator complex of bars, now closed but still taking up space. Discounting this, the number of shops in not much greater, though they seem to have a better match of items that I want in clothing and shoes.

I wander from one end of Circle Center to the other, musing to myself that if I continue to do this the full 3 or 4 hours I have to kill, that I will have probably walked 10 to 15 miles. I then realize shopping could be a highly effective form of exercise if pursued correctly. Against this though is the memory of a growing number of shoppers back home at places like Walmart that use electric powered carts to do their shopping. These are not disabled people on average, but grotesquely fat ones. They can almost certainly walk, but I can see the cavernous size of Walmart would be a strain for them. So rather than work up the sweat they so desperately need they plop down on electric carts, enveloping the carts in Jabba the Hut like folds of skin, and whir through the store throwing high calorie items in the basket on the front. Does the irony of this ever hit them I wonder – the negative feedback loop they have gotten themselves into?

I manage to loiter in the mall long enough to take the clock up to 9pm and it is time to go as the shops are closing. Much of the last hour spent looking at patrons in the arcade plying their superior video game skills. When I had been younger I would spend hours shooting at moving blips on a video screen, but these days I’m more a voyeur. Of special fascination is watching DDR players in competitive synchrony to various techno beats. For those not familiar, DDR is short for Dance Dance Revolution, a game you play by dancing in sync to symbols on the video screen that belt out which of the 9 grid squares your feet should be on. I had thought to see a movie, but the couple I had been marginally interested in had stated at about 8:30, so it is time to exit the mall and kill a couple of hours walking around the small area of Indianapolis I am familiar with close to the RCA Dome and Conseco Fieldhouse, the latter home to the Pacers. Spring is still a couple of weeks away, and the weather just cold enough to be annoying for a walk of any distance.

It is hard to say how many homeless there are in Indianapolis, but there are many. Some lay still on grubby blankets and sheets of tattered cardboard, backs to the street and sidewalk, their begging cups visible but un-held, they have complete fled the world. Others sit with cups in hand shaking, shaking; assaulting you with an unending rattle of small coins. Still others, those standing, inquirer of you in a loud voice if you have any spare change. You find yourself steeling for the passing of these lost souls, planning how and where to fix your eyes as you briskly walk on by so as to avoid accidental eye contact else they trap you with a gaze that seems to beg and blame at the same time. An unvoiced “You could be just like me” seems to come from each one, and you tell yourself “no, no, I would never come to that.” I am killing time before having what I hope will be a good time. This unsavory juxtaposition of human suffering elicits guilt. Still I imagine most of these people begging for money don’t know true suffering, at least not the in-your-face begging types. They wouldn’t know suffering like some child left orphaned by disease or guerrilla warfare, unfed and starving in some South Asian or African hell. My own father, who’d been crippled by arthritis and forced to leave the vocation he loved, had on average suffered far worse I imagine than whatever self imposed destitution had kept most of these people down. I dislike passing them by, but in it way it would seem unfair to give to just these few just because they push their misfortune in your face.

I had planned to walk farther and peer at the sights more, or perhaps find some small café to idle the reaming hour away until the club I had decided to finally go to, the Lotus, would be starting to fill. But the chill is getting to me, and the constant attention from beggars also began to insinuate its way into my bones. At some point you begin to feel as though they are a tax on walking at night -- that you have no right to walk their streets if you don’t plunk down a dollar or two into their cups or buckets. I had had it in mind to most likely from the beginning to go to the Lotus, I had been there a couple of times in the past, but was hoping my leisurely stroll might unveil some more promising venue. I’m really missing Gator’s now as it would have saved me all of this dithering and searching, checking the movie times earlier would also have been a good idea, so that I wouldn’t have just been killing time, but possibly being marginally entertained as well. Now I change direction mid-block and head back in as straight a fashion for the Lotus, it’s early yet for dance, but at least it will be warm and I can just sit and relax.

There is no line visible at Lotus as I get within eyesight, though the other clubs on the same block have a small early attendance. I have not made note of their names, but these other clubs are belting out tunes from the 80s and I suspect are filled with a clientele closer to the medium level tech or business mold I am from. I look through the windows as I pass by and see mostly knots of people like one would see at a company going away party. By and large they are even numbers of women and men in these groups, so I conclude rightly or wrongly these are not likely to be singles out looking for a possible love connection, but husbands, wives, close friends, and coworkers out to let off some steam and cheer on whatever is the local sports favorite. I have a vague longing to be part of such a group, but I’m not. They remind me of what my parents’ friends had looked like to me as a child, and I realize that somehow I have not quite transitioned into the grownup social animal I should be. I have no wife or kids, not even a failed marriage, this last would at least be a sign that I had tried to enter the world of social folk doing what society expects of me.

The cashier at Lotus takes little notice of me as he asks me for my five dollars, but there are a couple of other employees close to the door who seem to fix a special gaze on me. This could just be because it is early and there is no one else to look at, then again I am likely to be one of the few white faces in the club tonight, so they are most likely wondering if I have wandered in by accident.

When I go dancing, whether it’s back home or not, I usually seek out hip-hop clubs. There are other dance genres that I prefer, but I do like hip-hop. I have yet to find a club currently that plays just the mix I like, though there have been clubs in the past. What I really would like to find is someplace that plays a little techno, a little hip-hop, a little mainstream dance, and a little retro. I am more likely to end up dancing if I go to a hip-hop bar nowadays however, and since I’m looking to meet women this seems like a real plus. I’ve always had a certain attraction for women of color, which is fine, because to be quite honest most of the Caucasian women I would find attractive don’t seem to have the time for me these days. Skin color or ethnicity are completely unimportant to me in deciding whether I would want to be with someone, though there are some races that seem to produce a higher percentage of women I find attractive, most of this centered around petiteness.

There was a time I felt a certain apprehension going to establishments that catered mostly to African Americans. Over 25 years ago when roller-skating was not quite dead yet I had some friends suggest I attend some semi private parties over at Kimberly Pines Roller Rink in Bettendorf, Iowa. These were all soul parties (hip-hop didn’t exist as a word yet I don’t think). Then as now, I was likely to be the only white face in the crowd. I fit in however by not fitting in. I was a good skater in those days, and these days a good dancer I think. While I may be an oddity, I just didn’t worry about it and while dancing or skating just concentrate on letting myself get lost in the beat of the music. These days I don’t feel any apprehension at all checking out hip-hop joints, though I do take a certain undo pride in going places my work friends and colleges wouldn’t go.

There is plenty of time to ruminate on these thoughts as I sit nursing a beer I’ve just bought. A beer I drink more to just having something to do, than to just look stupid sitting like a schoolmarm prim and proper doing nothing but waiting and trying to look dignified. There are three or four TV screens visible in the downstairs bar; they have random fair on with no sound, which if they had sound would have had to compete with the DJs tunes from upstairs. No one is upstairs yet, and only five or six down. For some reason I have always disliked the random visual clutter of televisions with no sound you find in so many bars and restaurants. If there were some reason, some unifying theme, some tie-in they made to the bar or restaurant then they would not annoy. There seems to be some subliminal message that one mustn’t stray to far from the tube. Ironically I find them all the more annoying because I am actually watching them while I wait – shifting my eyes from one to the other as though I was actually following something, but in reality it begins to feel like some kind of surreal collage.

It really is not that long until people start to arrive, I get up and walk around, trying to look like I belong here. Not because I’m uncomfortable in the setting, but so as to look natural and relaxed should I meet some woman I would like to talk to, and not look like some out of place loner-slash-stalker. This also affords me the opportunity to decide whom I might like to approach later, and while not exactly come up with a pickup line, at least a reasonable greeting. It occurs this behavior has certain intersections with that of a stalker, but I’m pretty sure I am not usually perceived this way, especially since most of the women I offer to buy drinks accept.

At first the people who are arriving cluster downstairs, probably waiting for friends who should be close behind or like myself are waiting for some tipping point of attendance when things shift to the upstairs. Then it happens like some small dike that fails, a small trickle at first, then a steady stream up the stairs towards the upstairs bar and dance floor (OK, like a dike that fails, but the water goes up). I join the upward flowing stream myself and look for likely dance partners. It’s way too early for anybody to be dancing yet, a certain critical mass not achieved. I myself would have no trouble being one of the first on the dance floor, had I someone to dance with, but I dislike dancing alone, which for males has become a more and more acceptable practice, but one I rarely indulge in.

The layout of the club is long and narrow, but not ridiculously narrow like the High Dive back home. At the High Dive there is barely enough room between the tables and the bar for you to walk single file. Worse, once the High Dive fills up, groups of people talking take to loitering in these areas blocking your progress through, then give you rude looks as you try to shoulder your way past towards the dance floor. It is the normal state of affairs for some weird zombie conga line of people to form trying to make it from one end of the club to the other, but which can’t make any real progress for the knots of people who feel an isle way is a convention center. So there they all stand weaving slightly from side to side, looking for an opening to slide on by.


After a few back-and-forths from one end of the Lotus to the other, I find a place to stand by the edge of the dance floor. A few people have started to dance, so I am now getting ready to get serious about find someone to dance with. I leave my little stake of territory between a table and the edge of the dance floor to do just that. There are three women close to the bar, all attractive enough. Now comes the problem of deciding which one to ask. I could go for cutest, or I could go with most likely to dance with me. I most often go for cutest. Call me shallow, but without anything else to go on, why not start out with pleasant looks? Of course what I consider pleasant looks is not to say I’m out looking for a super model, and often I will pass on the more beautiful women, not because I intimidated, but because they wear their beauty in an off putting way that says they know they are good looking, and you better be prepared to impress them if you dare to talk to them.

I wait for a small break in their conversation, then break in with a “Hi there,” when there’s a lull. They all look, but I lock eyes with the one I’m trying to get on the dance floor. She says hi back.

“I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?” I say. This has become pretty much my standard opening line -- polite, common, but not corny or crass.

She thinks for a moment, then glances sideways at her girlfriends who give her a cryptic grin back that could either be he seems nice or we won’t tell your boyfriend “Sure,” she says, “I’ll have a Royal Crown”

“Royal Crown it is,” I say and make towards the bar, which is only 5-steps behind where they are standing, she turns and follows me, so I say, “I was hoping to get a dance later when things pick up,” over my shoulder, while striking a pose at the bar that says I’m ready to order.

“Sure I’ll dance with you,” she says.

“Ummm what’s your name,” I ask as we wait.

“Natalie,” she says, “what’s yours?”

“Larry,” I reply.

“Nice to meet you Larry,” she answers back and then gives me some kind of polite nod.

“So that’s Natalie like Natalie Cole?” I ask.

“Yah, my mom named me after her.”

The joint is still just getting going so the wait for the drinks isn’t long; I get Long Island Ice Tea for myself and hand her Crown.

“Thank you,” she replies pleasantly, “I’ll be sure to save that dance for you.”

“No problem,” I say and then watch her turn and retreat to her girlfriends without following her. I would like to dance with her now, or perhaps get to know her better right now, but I don’t want to appear too eager or intrusive. Had she been alone I would have immediately engaged her in a discussion, but she is with friends and I don’t want to be in competition with them. Anyway I have the promise of a dance later.

I head back to my little nook territory off out of the traffic, now with a drink in hand. Next to me is a man in a black tee shirt, arms crossed about his chest, staring intently out over the dance floor area, which doesn’t have many dancers yet, but does have lots people milling about with an anxious lets-get-the-show-going kind of energy.

He glances sideways to me, “How you doing tonight?” he asks.

“Fine,” I respond, “how-bout you?”

“Oh I’m doing OK,” he answers back then turns his glaze back to the crowd.

One thing about me is I’m not shy. So with this stranger having already broken the ice, I decide to start a real conversation after a small pause. Not to seem to calculating, it also looks good to have a friend at your side when your out dancing, and if this stranger is a regular that could help me cut the ice on gaining social acceptance here.

“My name’s Larry, I’m not from around here.”

“My name’s Ray,” he says with enthusiasm and thrusts a hand out for a hand shake.

“Ray… You must be getting a lot of comments about your name what with the movie Ray out and all.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot these days, I was named after Ray Charles,” he says. It’s just a coincidence, but it seems odd I should meet two people in a row named after famous musicians. Maybe more people are named after someone famous than I realize, and I have just never thought to ask. “So where are you from Larry?” he asks back.

“Champaign, Illinois,” I reply. “We’re the ones with a basketball team that doing pretty good this year.” Which is a bit of an understatement as the Illini have just finished an undefeated regular season.

“Yah I heard about that,” he says. “So Larry, first time here? What do you think?”

“Seems like a nice place, I’ve been here a couple of times before. It’s a bit of a trip for just a night out dancing.”

“So what brings you out tonight?”

“Oh, been in a bit of a rut back home of late, just got out of a dead-end relationship, felt like a change of scenery.”

“I hear that, “ he responds enthusiastically.

“So what do you do Ray?” I ask.

“I work here for security,” he replies unexpectedly and with a big grin of pride. He’s bigger than I am, but not a huge man like some of the other bouncers that have the word “SECURITY” prominently emblazoned in yellow on their black shirts. “I like to just stand back and watch, make sure everything is going OK, most people don’t know I’m security.”

I don’t inquire, but Ray is probably in his early-thirties, younger than I am, but older than the other security personnel are. Maybe he has some mid management title with the bar. It does seem like I saw him earlier talking to people around the cashier area that were probably employees.

We chat for a bit, I tell him about the Canopy Club back home where I moonlight occasionally, then make to prowl the establishment again looking for a dance. It is getting close to midnight now and place has really picked up. Ray feels he needs to head off to duties somewhere else himself.

I approach a table where a couple of cute girls have been sitting all night. “How are you ladies doing?” I ask. “We’re doing fine,” the one in on the left answers in a kind of polite but disinterested way. I decide to focus on the one on the right. “I was wondering if you would like to dance?”

“Not right now,” the one on the right replies, “but maybe later.” This maybe-later answer is not always a “no”, but nowhere as good as a promise or a save-you, which themselves are not really guaranteed yeses.

“And who would I be asking to dance later when I ask?”

“Tequeesha,” she answers almost embarrassedly.

“How about a drink Tequeesha?” I inquirer, looking to get a firmer feel whether my attentions are wanted.

“I’m fine right now,” she says giving her nearly full drink a stir, “but you can get me one later.” Since there is no maybe in the last sentence I feel a little better about getting to know her later perhaps. She smiles, and I realize she is probably way on the young side for me, but I’m more interested in the dance than really getting serious. I haven’t been dancing yet and I’m getting a little antsy. Her smile reveals steel or silver capped teeth symmetrically left and right on her upper set ether side of the front four. When I was younger this was the standard type of caps one might get on baby teeth. I’m not sure if this is some fashion statement or low cost dental work. She’s pretty and I don’t mean to over emphasize the caps. I just wonder to myself if they are a fashion statement. My last girlfriend Twanda wore a gold cap with a star cut out on her left incisor, gold cosmetic caps being a been a pretty common accessory for some since the early ‘80s.

I go back to pace about looking for someone to dance with. I ask a couple of more ladies for a dance but am politely turned down. I don’t want to appear desperate so I plant myself close to the wall and try and just enjoy the music. After some time I see Natalie exiting the dance floor in what looks like a hurry with a girlfriend close behind her. I hadn’t noticed her on the floor, but by now the floor is a completely packed square of writhing human flesh -- in fact a quite a bit past the density point that I find for pleasant dancing – so it isn’t surprising I didn’t see her.

She sees me and alters her trajectory to walk over. “Hey Larry why aren’t you dancing?”

“Uh, I don’t know, I’ve asked a couple of ladies to dance, but it just hasn’t happened yet.”

“Well lets take care of that right now,” she says, takes me by the wrist and drags me by the hand to the dance floor, giving a quick wave to her friend who seems to be angling for the bar.

As I had expected, the bodies around us press a bit too close to dance comfortably, but I do my best to be expressive with my body in the crush. She seems satisfied that I’m not making a fool of myself on the floor and we make it through two songs. I would have liked to dance longer, but at least two songs say it wasn’t a pity dance.

“I have to rejoin my friend,” she says.

“Well can I buy you drink on the way?” I ask.

“Sure,” she replies and we exit the dance floor.

“Another crown?” I ask as we get to the bar.

“Sure,” she answers, and I order.

“Um, I don’t know when I’ll be getting back to Indianapolis, but if you like maybe we could do dinner and a movie sometime.”

“I’d like that.”

“Here’s my business card,” I say “its got my cell on it.”

“Thanks. You got a pencil, I’ll give you my number,” she replies back before I get the chance to ask her for it.

“I’ve got my phone with me, why don’t you just type your number in.”

“I can do that,” she says, then adroitly takes my phone to punch the digits in.

The Royal Crown arrives in short order and I hand it to her.

“What are you drinking?” she asks.

“Well I’ve already had a couple of drinks,” I answer “besides, I’m driving back to Champaign tonight.” In fact I’m still feeling a buzz from the last Long Island.

“You’re not staying over?” she asks.

“Well it’s only a two hour drive back, if I get tired I take a nap at a rest-stop. I won’t drive if I’m too tired. If I’m really tired when I leave here I’ll get a room.”

“As long as your safe,” she says. “Well thanks for the drink.”

“Your welcome,” I reply “I hope you’ll save me another dance later.”

“I will, you have fun,” she says in parting, then I watch her bounce off towards the back of the club, presumably to rejoin her friend.

My mood is especially good now, but I’ve only been on the dance floor once and now feel it some kind of challenge to dance with at least one other women -- if only to not have to answer no, should Natalie ask me later if I’ve danced any more.

I make it back along the tables along the wall and see three men talking to Tequeesha. It could be my imagination but they look to be flirting with Tequeesha and are being turned down, at least two of the do. They leave after a short talk, and I angle in to say hello myself. It become apparent the third person talking to the pair of ladies is a Security person. In fact a huge one with arms that are enormous. He is probably my height or a little shorter, but hugely muscular with a little bit of a roll about the waist. A fact which adds to his physical presence a bit, as it is the kind of gut you see on real weight lifters and not pretty-boy body builder types.

He is sweating profusely for reasons I’m unaware and is pulling his shirt off to be in just a muscle shirt. He wipes his brow with the freshly removed shirt and turns back towards me, noticing me for the first time evidently as I wait for an opening to talk to Tequeesha, assuming who ever this Security person is, he will have to attend to duties elsewhere soon.

“What do you want? Why are you standing there?” he asks with an evidently irritated voice.

“I was waiting to talk to the young lady,” I say in a polite voice.

“No you weren’t,” he answers back.

“Excuse me?” I ask surprised.

“You should just move on off,” he says firmly, in a voice I can’t quite read.

“I was talking to her earlier and was just stopping by to see if she would like to dance.”

If his tone had been professional before it now lapsed down into something low with a tinge of malice. “The lady is my girlfriend, and you should just take off now.”

I probably should have followed this advice, but I don’t really believe Tequeesha is his girlfriend and that he is abusing his power as an employee of the club. Worse I particularly hate guys that speak for women like possessions. “Funny she didn’t mention any boyfriend when I talked to her earlier.”

“It’s time for you to move now,” he says, visibly loosing his temper.

“Maybe we should go talk to the manager about this…” I begin.

I might have gone on to say something more, but he cut me off with a quick motion saying, “that’s it!” grabbing me from behind by me belt and shirt collar practically lifting off the floor, then begins to charge through the club with me in front like the shovel on a snow plow truck. I’m not really concerned for my safety, but I have to spend all my energy on not falling face first as his persuasive pressure pushes my torso ahead of my feet. On the other hand I’m not trying to appear to be fighting him as I’m sure to straighten this out with who ever runs the club, though I can’t say these thoughts are coming to me in real time. Just not falling down will be good enough for now. People are making exclamations like “Damn” and “Watch it!” as we barrel through the crowd. Drinks are flying and I do have the distinct thought how wasteful this is, and how mad I would be if I were a patron who got spilled on during this confusion. Our progress remains unchecked even at the steps and now I’m really concentrating on not loosing my balance, as I expect should I fall I might just be left to bounce down the concrete steps headfirst. We pass more startled patrons in the stairwell, and the flight continues all the way to the front door where I’m ejected with a theatrical push that leaves me pinwheeling my arms to regain my balance. Just outside the door are two police officers who startle at my appearance, but other than standing from they had been sitting/leaning they take no action as I straighten up and take time to adjust my tie. I guess they are use to seeing bodies come flying out of the Lotus.

I walk up to them to explain my situation. There is no sign they would have approached me, but I’m still feeling wronged, and have a complaint to make. I also want to make it clear I’m not the troublemaker here, though there is no appearance they care.

“What’s up?” ask the nearest of the two as I approach.

“Well I just got kicked out of this club, and I’m not too happy about it because I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

The two officers, one white and one black, exchange a knowing glance like oh-sure-we’ve-heard-this-all-before.

“I’d appreciate it if you might join me in going in and talking to the manager.”

“I’m not sure what good that would do, I think perhaps you should just go home,” says the black one. He says it in a friendly way, but it is clear he just doesn’t want to see any more nonsense regardless of who is at fault.

“Look, I really didn’t do anything and if nothing else I’d like to get my money back.”

The white officer steps back to sit again and leave his younger and probably more personable college to deal with me. “Look, let me go in and talk to the manager, you wait here,” the younger one says.

After a minute a short black man probably in his late 50’s with a white stubble beard and a small old-fashion driving cap comes out to talk to me.

“Look,” I explain “I was waiting to talk to some girl that your bouncer claims was his girlfriend. When I told him she hadn’t mentioned him he went off on me, if nothing else I’d like to get my money back, because I definitely didn’t do anything wrong.” I’m still pretty flustered so I’m not sure how well I’m coming off.

“How much did you pay to get in?” he asks.

“Five dollars,” I reply and our conversation doesn’t go much further. He doesn’t press me for details.

“Wait just a here just a second,” he says, then turns to walk back into the club.

“The girl’s name is Tequeesha,” I blurt out to his retreating back to prove the veracity of my claim. “If I hadn’t been talking to her earlier I wouldn’t know that.”

He comes back a minute later with five dollars in his hand, and gives it to me without malice or apology. “That take care of everything now?” he asks.

“Yah I’m fine, thanks,” feeling vindicated to some degree.

“You OK now?” asks the cop also.

I feel patronized a little, but repeat “Yah, I’m fine thanks,” and make off to get in my car and go home. It’s just about 2pm Indianapolis time, 1pm back home. Getting my money back and having an excuse to hit the road an hour earlier really isn’t all that bad a deal. If nothing else I have a story to tell back at work that should amuse, since I think I’m one of the last people most of my coworkers would expect to get kicked out of a bar, nothing close to it has ever happened to me before.


Prolog:

I usually don’t have a prolog for these stories, and I’m not sure how much more there is to write relating to this topic. I apologize for the abrupt ending, but I got kicked out, got my money back, went home -- not much more to say. I went back to the club the next week, sort of a pride thing, so there could be a bit of a follow up to write. I have talked to Natalie a couple of times, and she has called me as well, though I still haven’t seen her again yet. I didn’t get pen to paper as quickly as I would have liked with this, so some details may be blurred a bit, or mixed up with my follow up visit, but I’m fairly sure this covers the events with reasonably fair accuracy and lack of bias.

I’m posting this without much proofreading, having kind have promised I would post this story soon. So if you are reading this shortly after I post it, I may make some correction later on, feel free to point out writing errors if you find any.