One Last Dance

by P. A. Farrell

The room was softly illuminated, and the subtle beat of the music set the tone. A layer of dust had accumulated on the faux velvet wallpapered walls. Bits of light from the out-of-date disco ball danced across the open space, flooding it with odd patterns on tables etched with cigarette burns.

Marie found herself by the stage, bathed in the glow of neon lights as lunchtime passed. Her joints, stiffened by arthritis, hindered her movements. Unknown to her, today’s performance would be her last dance, a poignant farewell to a chapter of her life that she had outgrown. Now, she realized she had lingered in the past for too long.

Her small house, with its broken furnace and leaky roof, was on the verge of being repossessed because of her unpaid mortgage. The bills and lack of money had even pushed her to rely on friends to care for her dog. She couldn’t even afford dog food.

What good was her mother’s advice on finances? Her father had left them flat broke when he went off with that woman from the Dairy Queen. Marie yearned for more and felt this was her time now. She wanted money, was caught up in the allure of it: for a car, a trip to Hawaii, some new clothes.

The last conversation with her mother had been brief. “I’m going to make it, Mom, and I’ll write every week and send money as I can. I can’t do it here. You tried, and it didn’t work for you, so now it’s my turn.” The mother’s history with a fast-talking local photographer who promised he could get her revealing photos to movie studios had been her moment of foolishness. Now, the townspeople looked down on her as she washed dishes in the local diner, and dreams of stardom went down the drain like soapsuds.

Mentally broken by too many disappointments, her mother stared at Marie as though she knew it might not work out. But Marie knew her mother never wanted to send her off with harsh words.

“Honey, you give it your best shot. You know I’ll always be here if anything goes wrong.” The tears were denied their day as she hugged Marie tightly before she watched her grab her cheap suitcase and begin walking down the front walk to the waiting car.

There had to be a solution now, years later. Something that would give her security, stability, and a sense of self-worth, feelings she had never known. If only she hadn’t trusted that guy.

The man had hung around her high school’s main entrance, dangling dreams of showbiz success before her eyes.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he whispered as though engaged in some secretive plan, “I believe you’ve got potential and a great body.”

The persuasion was strong. His expensive, tailored suit and the dazzling diamond watch added to the appeal. Why stick around for a high school diploma? What good would it do? No one in her family had one, anyway.

She danced nightly at big clubs, the promise of stardom dangling before her, not quite within reach, but there, almost visible. But the better life would evaporate as the cigarette smoke, booze, and pushy strangers had. Money, something she had never had before, which came so easily, now poured out like rainwater down a spout. No thoughts about tomorrow. It was a grasshopper mentality, not one that, like the squirrel’s, involved saving for a coming winter, but the rush of attention blinded her. As the bills piled up, Marie never gave a thought to them.

She bought an expensive car that was later repossessed and a small home that would be in danger of being taken, too. Mortgages aren’t paid with a seductive dance.

That first dance in the smoky dark club with the eye-riveting illuminated stage was embedded in her memory. It was easy to call back the introduction that matched the horn music they play at the beginning of a corrida de toros, and then there was her new name, Candi.

Following the call of the high-pitched music, Marie pulled a matador’s cape closer around her skimpy costume and swayed her body in rhythm as she mounted the stage. The cape set off her entrance with flashes of brilliance reflecting from tiny mirrors sewn into the bright red embroidered fabric.

The set hadn’t come easily that day. But she knew it would become smoother; she’d learn to flirt to increase the number of bills stuffed into her costume. Such a long way from high school.

She got used to the hoots and hollers that always greeted her performances, along with the potent smell of cheap cologne and aftershave so close it stuck to her skin. She learned to avoid grabbing hands and even the occasional drink thrown at her. No, it hadn’t all been pleasant, but it was part of what she needed to do to survive.

Somewhere out in the darkness beyond her circle, where the clouds of cigarette smoke obscured the men sitting at small tables, there must be a producer, an agent, someone who would recognize her and see her talent. Where were they, and how could she get them to sign her to a film or model contract? She didn’t know the questions to ask or what to expect, but she wanted fame, and fame wasn’t at a strip club.

Was it the “parties” she refused or the “offers” she turned down that caused things to go wrong? Why had producers or agents missed her? No reason came to mind except that she got no help from her manager, who abandoned her for some bimbo, and off he went with Marie’s money. He’d said he’d take care of her. Sure.

Marie had hit a brick wall. Instead of ascending the stages of more prestigious clubs, the places were seedy now. Twenty years and no movies, no major Vegas hotels or clubs.

Gone were the men clinging and falling all over the edge of the stage, waving dollar bills as she slid across the floor or onto the pole in her sparkly outfit. A few drunk patrons now sat at this bar, hardly glancing her way.

Marie clung to the foolishness of youth even as time slipped through her fingers, not like sand but like broken glass, cutting deep within her where the scars wouldn’t show. But at forty, she couldn’t ignore the harsh realities of her existence. The once adoring audience whittled down to a few tired old men nursing cheap drinks, their eyes more resigned than enthralled.

She twirled around the pole, her movements a shadow of their former glory, her body protesting every bend and stretch. Even her costume, a bit of cloth and sequins, had turned against her, drooping where it should have been form-fitting. She glanced at the empty tip jar, a silent testament to her fading allure.

As she finished her set, the manager called her over. “Babe,” he murmured in her ear, “your time’s up. I only gave you this afternoon slot because no one else wanted it. Tomorrow, it’s over. We’re axing the afternoon show after that.” He’d been a good guy to her, trying to help, but this was business, and he was losing money. Maybe he had his own mortgage to pay. Maybe he had his own broken dreams. Another hit to that heart in her bony chest.

But after Marie’s last turn around the pole and her brief talk with the manager, her gaze caught something unexpected. In the smoky room, she noticed Sandra, her former co-worker at the call center, sitting at a booth in the corner. Sandra had left half a year ago to start her virtual assistant business. The pay from that call center job has been a lifesaver, but not enough now that this job was over.

Leaning back in the worn leather booth, Sandra called out to Marie. “I’ve been trying to reach you. My business is growing faster than I can handle. I need someone who knows customer service and is reliable.” She paused, stirring her drink. “The pay is better than this place, and you can work from home.”

Marie’s fingers trembled slightly as she wrapped them around a glass of water she had picked up at the bar. An actual job. Regular hours. No more aching joints or pitying looks. She thought of her small bungalow and how it could double as an office with a desk and a newer computer.

“I can’t promise it will be easy,” Sandra continued, “but I’ll teach you everything I know about digital marketing and client management.”

Marie nodded, feeling the familiar weight of her decisions pressing against her chest. But the weight felt different this time, like possibility rather than despair.

Afterward, she cleared out her locker for the last time. The neon lights flickered behind her as she walked out the door, her shadow stretching long and thin across the parking lot. Tomorrow, she would begin again.