MYSTERY OF THE TEXAS TWOSTEP

CHAPTER NINETY THREE:

BIG BUBBA

Written by Rick Archer 

LIMBO MONTH TWENTY ONE
MARCH 1981

GRADUATION NIGHT AT WINCHESTER

 

As I drove over to the Winchester Club for our third Graduation Night event, I decided to get Jane out on the dance floor and have a candid talk.  Only one problem.  I could not find her. 

Where's Jane?  I looked everywhere, but could not spot her.  When Jane failed to appear, I could barely contain my disappointment.  Jane had turned me on something fierce during our Mae West talk.  I wanted to pick up right where we left off, so I worried what her disappearance might mean.  Jane's unexpected absence upset me even more because I wondered if I would ever see her again.  Since her class had just 'graduated', all I could do was wonder if Jane would take the follow-up Intermediate class starting next Wednesday in April.  Since her husband was clearly not interested, maybe he would refuse to come back.  If so, would Jane come back on her?  Fearful I would never see her again, I sat there crying in my beer.  Jane had captured my imagination.  I liked her far more than I cared to admit.  

There was another reason I was in a bad mood.  I was afraid there would be another ugly incident tonight.  At last month's Graduation event, a young Vietnamese couple and the lady's female cousin had been turned away at the door when they arrived to participate.  They had been stopped at the door and ordered in a curt voice to produce IDs.  Lorallyn and her boyfriend Duc presented a Driver’s License, but the cousin had not brought her pocket book along.  Based on the cousin’s lack of ID, all three of them were denied entrance.  Asking why they were being sent away on such a flimsy excuse, the doorman barked, "Figure it out!"

They protested, but when the doorman threatened to call the police, they realized this was one argument they were not going to win.  Since this incident took place outside, I never knew a thing.  When I learned what happened later on, I apologized profusely to the couple.  I also wrote a letter of protest, but did not receive a reply.  I had felt hostile towards the Winchester ever since. 

The unfair act of denying entry to this Asian trio confirmed my suspicion the Winchester manager was just as prejudiced as the club's redneck patrons.  Keep in mind the Winchester Club had been catering to rough blue collar customers long before my group of yuppie puppies ever came along.  Outsiders like us were not particularly welcome, but what were they going to do with 100 people?  No doubt the size of our group posed a major problem.  They would have to be nuts to turn away that kind of business.  Nor would they have the Bellaire police on their side with 100 well-heeled professionals speaking their mind.  

My classes were jam-packed with clean-cut, sheltered Yuppies who had never been near a nasty honky-tonk in their lives.  My biggest concern was that the same hostility my Asian friends had encountered might in some way ruin tonight's fun. 

I had good reason to worry.  I could see the Regulars did not like us.  These were the days of 'Disco Sucks'.  The men were angry, tough-looking characters and the women had hard, intolerant expressions on their faces.  They viewed our Fake Cowboys with suspicion and disgust.  For one thing, we were much younger.  Some of us did not dress like they did.  Our group danced circles around the Regulars, a fact that intensified their distaste even more.  I also think they resented how much fun we having.  Once we got drunk, no doubt our silliness and laughter irritated the Real Country crowd no end. 

We noticed the hostility, but didn't worry about it.  The size of our group guaranteed safety.  Plus the enormity of the club helped.  Since our tables were on the opposite side of the floor, for the most part our worlds did not intersect.  With the dance floor serving as a giant gulf, we stayed on our side and the Regulars stayed on theirs.  

Occasionally some of the Regulars would drift over to check out our horde of attractive women.  Every now and then, one of them might even ask one of the girls to dance.  Invariably each guy got shot down, a fact that no doubt made us even less popular.  One night I asked a lady named Karen how she knew who was with us and who wasn't. 

Karen grinned at me.  "Trust me, Rick, every girl here can tell who is who.  Their approach gives it away.  All they have to do is open their mouth."

Karen had a point.  This was Culture Clash, pure and simple.  Young versus old.  Rich versus poor.  Privileged versus underprivileged.  Urban versus Cowboy.  Smiles versus frowns.  College versus high school or less.  Professionals versus construction workers, farm workers, truck drivers, and maintenance men.  People who could dance and those who couldn't.  The two groups were as different as night and day. 

Since many patrons had a hang-dog, beaten-down appearance, I wondered if some of them were unemployed.  If so, that would explain why they frowned all the time.  Right now, they wanted to take their bad mood out on someone and we made prime targets. 

If there was one saving grace to the evening, Victoria said she wasn't coming tonight.  Thank goodness.  Feeling grouchy, at least I didn't have her to worry about.  However, I was in no mood to dance.  While I sat there glumly wondering if I would ever see Jane again, one student after another came over to ask when the big Cotton-Eyed Joe event would take place. 

"Soon," I answered.  "Be patient.  When it comes, you will know."

Based on my two previous trips, I knew the Cotton-Eyed Joe was something akin to the National Anthem at this joint.  When Isaac Peyton Sweat, lead singer, announced "Grab your partner, do-si-do, now it's time for the Cotton-Eyed Joe!", everyone in the building flocked to the dance floor. 

I could see the Cotton-Eyed Joe was a big deal at the Winchester, but I did not know why.  I had my theories.  For one thing, the dance was so simple anyone could do it.  In addition, with several hundred people out on the floor, anonymity was guaranteed.  Better still, since everyone danced side by side, a beginner could copy other people in line and pick the dance up on the fly.  Besides, it was fun to get out on the floor with the enthusiastic crowd and scream "Bull shit!" at the top of your lungs.  Quite cathartic. 

Knowing the Cotton Eyed Joe would be a highlight of Graduation Night, each week I reviewed the dance to make sure it was drilled deep into the minds of my beginners.  In addition, the last thing I had done before our visit tonight was give the class one more review.  Smart move.  My beginners could not wait to put their training to good use.

I marveled at the power of Graduation Night to grab the imagination of my students.  Many of these people had never been to a Western club in their lives.  That's why they had taken my class in the first place.  They were too intimidated to visit a club on their own, so my class served as a way to prepare.  It was effortless for me to get them all fired up for the Winchester adventure.  I loved how their eyes grew wide with wonder at some of my various tales of what to expect.  Since most of these people had no idea what to expect, they were prone to be pretty gullible.  Knowing this, I hyped the event to the hilt.  No one seemed to mind.  Exaggeration is the spice of life. 

Recently someone told me Isaac Peyton Sweat, lead singer at the Winchester, was the same person as 'I.P. Sweat' listed on the label of my Cotton Eyed Joe record.  Having never made this connection before, now I realized why the Cotton Eyed Joe was such a big deal around here.  This song was a big hit, the singer's major claim to fame. 

I'd a been married a long time ago
If it hadn't been for the Cotton-Eye Joe

Where did you come from? Where did you go?
Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?

He came to town like a raging storm
He rode through the fields so handsome and strong
His eyes was his tools and his smile was his gun
And all he had come for was having some fun

Got a ball-peen hammer and a two by four
Gonna whip the hell out of Cotton-eyed Joe
Where did you come from? Where did you go?
Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?
 

"Gonna whip the hell out of Cotton Eyed Joe."  What the heck was that supposed to mean?  I had been curious about the strange lyrics for some time, so one night I commented to the class that the words to the song made no sense to me.  During Break Time one of my students pulled me over and shared a dark secret about the origin of the Cotton Eyed Joe.  Apparently the song began as a spiritual sung by a Black slave.  He was a cotton picker whose girlfriend was also a slave.  40 years ago, his girlfriend ran off to Tennessee with another cotton picker named 'Cotton Eyed Joe'.  This betrayal explained the key phrase in the song, 'I'd a been married long time ago if it hadn't been for Cotton-eyed Joe'.  The singer of the song wanted revenge on Cotton-Eyed Joe, the slave who stole his woman.

Learning the deeper meaning brought a wicked smile to my face.  I seriously doubted the Winchester rednecks had the faintest idea their beloved song dealt with the troubled love life of a Negro slave.  Knowing the Cotton Eyed Joe was such a big deal at a place where bigotry was rampant, the irony was inescapable. 

To fully appreciate the story I am about to tell, let me explain how the dance called the Cotton Eyed Joe works.  The Cotton Eyed Joe has two parts.  Part One consists of eight Polka triple steps going FORWARD.  Part Two consists of four triple steps going BACKWARDS preceded by a motion I referred to in class as 'Hook-Kick'. 

This 'Hook-Kick' motion has a dark secret of its own.  It is a reference to the need at rodeos to kick away the nasty cow shit sticking to your boots.  You didn't need to know that, did you?  I wisely kept that secret to myself rather than put a disturbing image in everyone's mind.  After all, the 'Hook-Kick' part of the dance was everyone's favorite.  And why is that?  This is where everyone got to cuss out loud.  In fact, I suppose the wild, uninhibited cussing is the main reason the song became popular. 
 

I.P Sweat: 'Now what you say?'    crowd reply: Bull-shit!  
I.P Sweat: 'Y'all say what?'            crowd reply: Bull-shit!
I.P Sweat: 'Stepped in what?...'    crowd reply: Bull-shit!
I.P Sweat: 'Ah, the Hell you say!'  

I.P Sweat: 'Now what you say?'    crowd reply: Bull-shit!  
I.P Sweat: 'Y'all say what?'            crowd reply: Bull-shit!
I.P Sweat: 'One more time!'           crowd reply: Bull-shit!
I.P Sweat: 'Cotton Eyed Joe!' 

I.P Sweat: 'Now what you say?'    crowd reply: Bull-shit!  
I.P Sweat: 'A little bit louder...'      crowd reply: Bull-shit!
I.P Sweat: 'Still can't hear you...'  crowd reply: Bull-shit! 
I.P Sweat: 'Hell yes!'

I.P Sweat: 'Now what you say?'    crowd reply: Bull-shit!  
I.P Sweat: 'Y'all say what?'            crowd reply: Bull-shit!
I.P Sweat: 'Stepped in what?...'    crowd reply: Bull-shit!
I.P Sweat: 'Cotton Eyed Joe!' 
 

Isaac Peyton Sweat loved to get the crowd riled up.  Whenever they screamed 'Bull-shit!' in response to his taunting "Still can't hear you!", the roar of the crowd was deafening.  It is hard to express the considerable joy people took in screaming 'Bull-shit' as loud as they possibly could.  No one can appreciate the utter joy of cussing in public until you've tried it yourself.  Not just that, the cathartic primal scream was considered therapeutic by many.  Tipsy with beer and assured of anonymity by the giant mob on the floor, no one held back.  Seriously, the chance to scream 'Bull-shit' 12 times at the top of your lungs was worth the price of admission right there.  Plus all the beer you can drink!  The crowd loved to scream the profanity.  Welcome to Texas.

Meanwhile, I could not exactly have my students screaming 'Bull-shit!' in dance class.  Glen Hunsucker's jazz dancers were in the room right next to us.  So I substituted a less offensive phrase.  I had my students call out "Hook, Kick, Back it Up" four times.  That phrase accurately described the footwork and helped people catch on.  Meanwhile the parallel lyrics to this section of the Winchester version were, "Bull Shit, Ah the Hell you Say" and so on.  I assumed my students were smart enough to understand the 'Hook-Kick' phrase was a polite substitution for the expected profanity.  But maybe not.

Despite my disappointment at Jane's no-show, I was pleased to note we had another huge crowd for March Graduation Night.  Our side of the floor was packed with 100 or so beer-blitzed students having the time of their lives.  About an hour into the night, a stir went through the crowd when Isaac Peyton Sweat announced it was time for you-know-what.  Immediately huge numbers surged to the floor.  Everybody... regulars, waitresses, pool hustlers, lounge lizards, cockroaches, dance students and me... I mean everybody!... got out on the floor for the Cotton Eyed Joe.  The floor was jammed.  It was not unusual to see 300 people participate, a total which included our group of 100.  But tonight we may have reached 400.  This was by far the most crowded I had ever seen the floor. 

Some people dance the Cotton Eyed Joe as a couple.  More commonly it is treated as a chance to dance as a group.  8 to 10 students form a line.  The men put their arms on the women's shoulders while the ladies wrap their arms around the man's waist.  In this way, the line of students is tightly linked together.  When the music starts, their line rotates forward in a circle around the floor 'chariot-style'.  I estimate there were 30-40 lines of people on the vast floor.  Each row of people resembled a spoke inside a wagon wheel with 30-40 spokes.  Each line followed the line in front of them as it rotated counter-clockwise around a center point on the floor.  

Once my 100 students hit the floor, there was barely room to move.  The lines were so congested it looked like rush hour in evening traffic.  Fortunately, as long as everyone continued to move like we were supposed to, the crowd was no problem.  We simply inched our merry way forward and made sure to scream profanity at the appropriate time.  Our main concern was to watch carefully where we kicked.  We were so closely bunched together, when we 'Hook-Kicked', we had to make sure we did not kick the backside or the legs of the people dancing in the line two feet in front of us. 

As a way to encourage my Beginners to participate, I was in the middle of one line with nine rookies from my class.  These were people who had never been to a Western club.  We stood side by side with our arms intertwined.  This was it, my Yuppie Puppies were about to dance their very first Cotton Eyed Joe in public!  Yeehaw!  The excitement was more than they could handle.  The fiddle strains were our cue to start, so we began dancing up a storm. 

Just about the time in the song where the crowd was supposed to scream "Bull-Shit", somebody bellowed out "HOOK-KICK, BACK-IT-UP, HOOK-KICK, BACK-IT-UP!!!"

Huh??  I paled instantly.  Whoever was shouting the wrong words had to belong to our group.  Where else would those words have come from?  Oh great.  I was so embarrassed!  Some fool was so ignorant he did not realize "HOOK-KICK, BACK-IT-UP" was a teaching phrase, not something to actually say during the song.  Furthermore, the guy wasn't just saying "HOOK-KICK, BACK-IT-UP" in a normal voice, he was screaming at the top of his lungs.  Whoever it was, he was yelling so loud I could barely hear Isaac Peyton Sweat over the racket.  I froze with the fear that this might blow back on me, but then dismissed it.  With 350 people on the floor, there was no way I had anything to worry about.  Instead I set upon identifying the culprit.

Looking down the line, my eyes fell upon Jeremy, a tall, skinny kid, age 18.  Good grief, Jeremy was just barely old enough to drink.  Jeremy was drunk out of his mind from an overdose of Beer Bust Night.  At first I was merely irritated by the kid's confusion, but my frown turned to horror when a huge Bubba guy directly in front of Jeremy turned his head.  Astonished to find some fool behind him had ruined his Cotton Eyed Joe, Bubba told Jeremy to "shut the fuck up!"  Jeremy was so blitzed he didn't even hear the guy. 

Fortunately the song transitioned into the Polka part, so Jeremy quieted down and resumed dancing.  No harm done, so I guessed we had weathered the storm.  However, the next time the song returned to 'Now what you say?', Jeremy was back in action.  Jeremy resumed bellowing "HOOK-KICK, BACK-IT-UP!!" at the top of his lungs.

This time the big Bubba guy was really mad.  He turned around, balled up his fists, and screamed right in Jeremy's face, "You stupid idiot!  Did you not hear me the first time?  I told you to shut the fuck up!  You must be some kind of moron Disco dancer!"

Whoa, a moron Disco Dancer.  No ordinary insult!  The women gasped and so did I.  Seeing this giant ready to vaporize the kid, fear ripped through our group.  This Bubba guy could snap toothpick Jeremy in two if he lost his temper.  Paralyzed by horror, our entire group took a big step back for fear of Bubba punching out Jeremy.  Bad move! 

Or should I say Very bad move?  Full of fear, we moved backwards just as everyone else moved forward.  The Polka music where everyone goes forward had just resumed at the same time as we backed away in panic from a very angry man.  The line directly behind us crashed hard into our backs, causing a major collision.  Everyone in my group was knocked forward totally out of control, especially the women.  As we lurched forward, without thinking we put our hands on the backs of Bubba's row in front of us in a desperate attempt to regain control.  In the process, we knocked them down and now it was their turn to crash into the people in front of them.  Bubba was so big, he was unaffected.  He stared in consternation as people in his group collapsed to the floor. 

Meanwhile several lines behind us began a domino effect of knocking each other down.  In a flash, a chain reaction of fender bender collisions took out roughly 20% of the people on the dance floor.  Pandemonium broke out.  Oh my god!  What have we done?!?  I nearly fell myself, but managed to keep upright along with the woman on my left.  Poor Jeremy was not so lucky.  He was so drunk, he could barely stand up to begin with.  Stumbling wildly, Jeremy was propelled right into Bubba's arms!!

Bubba was so surprised to have this inebriated kid stagger into his arms, he actually sort of hugged Jeremy in reflex.  Bubba took one look at his girlfriend sprawled on the floor, then turned back to his captive with a look that could kill.  Filled with anger, Bubba stood Jeremy up, then gripped the kid's shirt with one hand and clenched his fist with the free hand.  I gasped in horror.  I had never had a student killed in the line of action, but this could be it.  Based on Bubba's look, I was certain Jeremy was a dead man.

In the midst of the Jeremy-Bubba Showdown, chaos was rampant across the dance floor.  I watched in amazement as the massive chain reaction set in.  As people in one line stumbled, they caused another nearby group to trip and fall as well.  Line after line fell like toppled dominos.  That's how crowded the dance floor was.  With six or seven lines disrupted, the scene resembled a massive freeway fender bender.  Like rear-end collisions on an icy freeway, there were stacks of tangled people piled up all around us.  I guess about 40 people hit the floor, but fortunately no one was hurt.  As for the rest of the crowd, due to the crazy pile-up, everyone stopped dancing, then looked around in bewilderment.  What on earth was going on?  No one but me and my row of students had any idea what had caused this fiasco.  We knew because it was our fault.

Up on the stage, Isaac Peyton watched the collisions take place.  Seeing his Cotton Eyed Joe ruined, he stopped singing and exclaimed, "What in the hell is going on out there?"  With his microphone still on, Isaac Peyton started to laugh and could not stop.  We could all hear him and his laughter was infectious.  Since no one was hurt, the whole room burst into Beer Bust Night-inspired hysterical laughter.  The massive pile-up did not bother anyone a bit (with me as the notable exception).  Instead they thought this was the funniest thing that had ever happened.  Rather than be mad, the whole room dusted each other off and began teasing the fallen ones. 

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Meanwhile, hidden amidst the chaos and laughter, a tense drama was taking place.  Located at the epicenter of the Grand Collision, ordinarily I would have enjoyed the considerable humor of the moment.  However Bubba was very upset.  I had been watching Big Bubba to see what he was going to do.  During the massive domino effect, the big guy had been so distracted he just stood there gazing in shock like everyone else.  Bubba frowned mightily while everyone in his group including his girlfriend stumbled around him.  Once he ascertained no one was hurt, he turned back to Jeremy, clearly the cause of the disruption.  The skinny teenager was practically dangling in mid-air thanks to the big man's hand grabbing him by his shirt.  I thought it would help that Bubba's friends were laughing, but the giant was not mollified.  Jeremy had knocked down his girlfriend and ruined his Cotton Eyed Joe.  Supremely offended, Bubba wanted to make an issue out of it.

Bubba was straight out of Central Casting.  Of course he was wearing a black hat with a feather in it.  Don't all villains?  Noting the dangerous look in his eye, who was going to protect us?  Where was John Wayne when we needed him?  Bubba had an unshaven, weathered face with a huge untrimmed mustache.  In addition to rattlesnake boots with steel tips, he wore ragged blue jeans, a faded yellow and brown plaid shirt, and a belt with his name on it.  It was too dark for me to spot his name, so I decided 'Bubba' was close enough.  Bubba was probably an ex-football player.  He was certainly as big as one.  Bubba was 6' 4", 250 pounds with no neck due to his immense shoulders.   Noting his grimace, I had a very bad feeling about this.  Fearful that someone would have to pay in blood, we cowered and kept our distance. 

Big Bubba was so angry, we were convinced he was about to smash Jeremy's face in.  And what about poor Jeremy?  Jeremy was oblivious!  Jeremy was so out of it, I'm not sure he even realized he had caused the massive pile-up with his Hook-Kick bellowing.  For that matter, I don't think he fully realized the danger he was in.  Jeremy reminded me of a clueless puppy dog who chews up some shoes and then innocently wags his tail.  Continuing to hold Jeremy's shirt, Big Bubba got right up in the boy's face and asked with venom, "All right, kid, where in the HELL did you learn to dance?"

Jeremy grinned broadly.  Without hesitation, Jeremy turned and pointed his finger right at me.  Jeremy said, "Gosh, Mister, there's my dance teacher right there!  His name is Rick Archer!  He can show you how to do it!"

Oh shit!!  You think I'm kidding, don't you.  No, I am not kidding!  This is exactly what happened.  Furthermore I did not see this coming or I would have been gone long ago.  Sure enough, Bubba let go of Jeremy, then turned to look at me with eyes ablaze.  I was paralyzed with fear.  Jeremy was just a toothpick, not worthy of a punch.  I was fair game.  When Bubba took a step in my direction, I feared for my life. 

As I cringed in terror, everyone else in our original group vanished like fleeing cockroaches.  They scurried into the crowd, dragging Jeremy with them to safety.  Seeing this giant man bristle with hostility, the surrounding crowd did not want to miss a thing.  They encircled us from a safe distance, inadvertently cutting off any chance of escape.  Showdown!!   Gunfight at Winchester Corral!  Bubba squared off with me on the dance floor while everyone else watched anxiously from a safe distance.  As my life flashed before my eyes, I could just see the headline... 'Dance teacher forced to sacrifice life for loudmouth student.'  No doubt I would be remembered fondly (maybe even a statue!), but at the moment I preferred to live.

Panic-stricken, I was no match for this guy.  Dance teachers are not exactly known for their fighting ability and that included me.  My last fight was in the 7th Grade.  If Bubba wanted to fight, I was in serious trouble.  Bubba didn't waste any time.  He had a bone to pick.  Bubba did not care about the Cotton Eyed Joe anymore.  What he cared about is that SOMEONE had brought this crowd of idiot Disco Dancers to his hangout.  Now due to a truly bizarre accident, Bubba had just discovered the man responsible for bringing this unwanted group of outsiders to ruin his fun.  Bubba got right up in my face.  His breath was bad, he smelled bad and he slurred his words.  I tried my best not to flinch, but my heart was racing wildly as he proceeded to chew me out.

"Look, Buddy, I am so goddamn sick of you and your stupid Disco friends coming in here and ruining this place!   I've seen your crowd.  You're just a bunch of Stupid Ballet dancers who think it's funny to hop around with your cute little outfits and your cute little girlfriends and pretend you're cowboys.  Well, you ain't country, goddamnit!  You don't know shit about Country, so why don't you and your friends get the fuck out of here and leave us alone?"

Then Bubba glared at the crowd.  Suddenly fearful, everybody took a step back.  In a raised voice Bubba said, "Y'all don't belong here, none of you!!"

Strong words.  With that, Big Bubba shoved me hard in the chest using both hands.  His power knocked me backwards several steps, then I fell down.  Satisfied, Bubba turned and stomped off as the crowd parted faster than you can say "Red Sea".  As for me, given how angry he had been, I felt like I had gotten off lightly.  This had been a very close call.  You want to know what was going through my mind?  While I was out there trembling, I wondered how it was possible that out of a crowd of 350 people, Bubba had somehow found me.  Not just that, he was able to isolate me in front of everyone for public castigation.  I did not say anything, but I sympathized with his complaint.  Big Bubba had a right to be mad.  It was true our group had invaded his space and no doubt our silliness bothered him no end.  However we meant no harm.  Besides, we paid our money and had a right to be here.  What was so important that we had to be enemies?  I wish Bubba had given me a chance to make peace.  I wanted to find the guy and apologize, maybe even have a talk about the problem.  However, at the moment I was far too intimidated to go anywhere near him, so I retreated to safety instead. 

After Big Bubba left, I was surrounded by countless students who applauded me for my courage to stand up to the guy.  Courage?  What courage?  The way I saw it, I was not about to start a fight for something as stupid as this, but what choice did I have if he threw a punch?  Meanwhile, the whole gang was laughing their asses off at my predicament.  In particular, Chuck Clayton was convulsed with laughter.  "Way to go, Fearless Leader!  That big guy was so scared of you, he turned around and left!"   Chuck was teasing.  Everyone could see I had been terrified.  So much for Fearless Leader.  It might have been funny to Chuck, but I had been really worried during the confrontation.  Trust me, I am not the martyr type.  For a minute there, the big guy looked like he was out control. 

"Okay, Chuck, if you think this was so funny, where were you and everyone else during the big showdown?"

Chuck cracked up.  "I'm sorry, Rick, I wanted to come to your rescue, but someone had to protect the women!"

When Chuck's comeback provoked peals of laughter, I was deeply irritated.  Not one of them had come out there to stick up for me.  Right now I was too disgusted to stick around and be the butt of more jokes, so I disappeared into the crowd.  I understood this was a funny story.  And if it was anyone but me, I would have laughed too.  Everyone enjoyed sharing where they had been during the big collision.  They loved the Indy 500 pile up, they enjoyed Isaac Peyton's laughter, and they really liked the exciting confrontation.  Me?  I felt abandoned.  After Jeremy fingered me to Bubba, for a minute there he looked angry enough to throw a punch.  I was much too rattled to dance for a while, so I poured another beer to calm me down.  I was still mad that everyone thought it was so funny to see me knocked down, so I found a dark corner of the room and went to sulk.  Not one person had stood up for me. 

MARCH 1981

JANN FONTENO

 

From a distant dark corner of the Winchester, I listened to the raucous laughter as everyone celebrated the Cotton Eyed Joe Mishap and dramatic Showdown.  I felt lonelier than I had in a long time.  Part of it was Jane's disappearance.  I was very worried that I would never see her again.  I was also humiliated due the wonderful entertainment I had provided.  No doubt the Winchester Regulars were laughing at my expense, but so were my so-called friends.  I don't know why I took it so hard.  It was not like I did anything wrong.  I just felt so foolish getting chewed out by Bubba out in front of a huge crowd.  While I sat, a pretty redhead spotted me from afar and came over to chat. 

"Hi, I'm Jann Fonteno.  I'm in Judy Price's class at the studio.  You're Rick, right?  Aren't you the owner?"

I was not in much of a mood to chat, but as they say, Jann had me cornered.

"Yes, Jann.  What can I do for you?"

"Oh, nothing really.  I wanted to meet you and tell you how much fun I am having.  I love Judy's class.  Judy is the funniest woman I have ever met.  I call her 'Hootie' because it rhymes with 'Judy'.  The boys liked my nickname, but they changed it and started calling her 'Hottie' instead.  One night in class Judy overheard the laughter. She suggested we put her names together and call her 'Hottie Hootie Judy', but only if they promised to use it in a reverential tone.  Judy cracks me up.  In addition I wanted to tell you that coming here to the Winchester is a great idea.  I am having a blast tonight and so is everyone else.  By the way, you were pretty brave to go face to face with that big guy out there."

"Trust me, Jann, it had nothing to do with courage.  He cornered me before I could get away.  I wanted to run, but then the whole world would know how afraid I was.  I was praying the whole time he wouldn't be stupid enough to punch me in front of 200 witnesses."

Jann laughed.  "You did look kind of worried out there."

"You have no idea.  I'm just glad I lived to talk about it."

That was how I met Jann Fonteno.  Jann would soon take her rightful place as one of the most interesting characters ever to join our growing cast of oddballs.  Like the quirky regulars of Cheers who used the Boston bar as a way to see their friends on a nightly basis, Jann was about to become the newest character on the show.    

Speaking of characters, Ammonia saw me talking to Jann.  She waved and blew me a kiss, then looked around for a lap to sit in.  As usual, Ammonia was trying to agitate.  Ever since I rejected her a month ago, Ammonia had seen more laps than a napkin.  Clearly this was one of those nights when the demons come flying out of Bald Mountain to torment me.  First Jane, then Bubba, now Ammonia.  Not my finest hour. 

Jann took pity on me.  I guess she figured misery needs company.  For lack of anything better to do, Jann pulled up a seat and began to talk about the studio.  By the end of the night we were old friends.  That was how I met the amazing Jann Fonteno.

Jann would prove to be a mystery girl.  Not just to me, but to everyone.  How someone could be so outgoing, yet reveal nothing of substance about herself was a riddle to me.  A pretty redhead with a nice figure, Jann was bright and very friendly.  Considering her warm nature and abundant social skills, no one could figure out why Jann never settled on a boyfriend.  It made no sense.  On a nightly basis, Jann could be found in the arms of countless men who loved to dance with her.  Like a butterfly, she would float from one man to the next all night long.  I am sure guys asked her out all the time and Jann could have her pick of any of these guys.  However, if Jann was ever linked with one particular guy, it was news to me. 

I never saw Jann enter a club with a date.  Jann would show up alone and leave alone.  Since Jann was very discrete about sharing the details of her love life, I never had any idea who she was seeing.  Perhaps Jann had her fair share of flings, but if so, she made sure to pick men who kept their mouths shut.  No gossip ever reached my ears.  Nor did I pry.  I preferred to mind my own business. 

Another unusual feature was that Jann never seemed to have a job.  She always seemed to be free during the day.  Since her father was a county commissioner, maybe Jann was rich and did not need to work.  If she was rich, you could not tell by looking at her.  Jann rarely dressed up or used makeup.  Wearing loose tee-shirts and baggy jeans, Jann seemed to go out of her way to make herself look plain.  Why would a pretty girl do that? 

Since Jann didn't have a job or a steady boyfriend, she had way too much free time.  Bored and maybe a bit lonely, Jann adopted my studio and used it to fill the void in her life.  In addition to classes, she made a point to go dancing virtually every night.  All that practice paid off.  Jann became an excellent dancer in rapid order.  In addition, she quickly became a card-carrying member of the Nifty Fifty.  Once she was on the inside, Jann used her popularity to help expand the group.  An easy-going gal with a quick smile, Jann was one of those people who could circulate effortlessly from one group to the next.  Due to her unusual amount of free time, Jann spent practically every night getting to know the other dancers.  Nor did she restrict herself strictly to guys she knew.  If she saw a good dancer who was not with our group, she would go over and try to recruit him.  Jann used a clever pickup line.  "Hey, you, come join us at my table.  Me and my girlfriends need more guys to dance with!"

Jann was a social dynamo who drifted from corner to corner at the Winchester talking to people and introducing them to other students.  Since these people were here to dance, invariably strangers were in each other's arms within moments after Jann bestowed her blessing upon them.  Jann was the most gifted schmoozer since Victoria in her heyday.  However, unlike Victoria, Jann did not aspire to be the star.  Nor was she the part of any clique.  I never once saw her show off or try to be the center of attention.  Jann was perfectly content to spend the night blending in.  All she cared about was chatting with her girlfriends, making introductions, and dancing with as many men as humanly possible. 

Jann was just as popular with women as she was with men.  She was everybody's buddy.  As Jann got to know people, she made it her mission to glue them together.  Jann had a unique ability to help various pockets of people merge into the larger group.  Before the night was over, Jann had introduced three people from Group A to four people in Group B.  Then she proceeded to do the same thing with two other groups.  In short order, Jann had made herself the unofficial hostess of our dance program. 

Basically Jann adopted the studio and made it her hobby.  She never asked permission, she never asked for anything in return.  Under her watchful eye, the studio's social program flourished.  When I speak of the Dance Community, Jann was the Queen Bee.  As we shall see, Jann accomplished this by coming up with one of the most clever ideas I have ever witnessed.  She was so effective, I often asked myself what I had done to deserve her.