Several weeks after I arrived in Birmingham someone mentioned a club where "salsa" dancing was done on Thursdays, and so I made an appearance the following week. The club was an ordinary pub, but with tables cleared from one end of the room to allow space for dancing. When I arrived there were three or four flamboyantly dressed women dancing with men in jeans and jumpers or t-shirts. They stayed with their partners throughout the evening. The others in the room looked like like the patrons of other pubs in the city. There were clusters of men in jeans and jumpers, and of women dressed in tight black trousers or skirts and black or silver tops cut to display varying amounts of shoulder, breast or belly. There was no hint that they were aware it was already October. The women wore heavy looking black shoes with very thick soles. Both men and women appeared to be unaware of the dancers or the recorded music, except to the extent of raising their voices to be heard over it.
I was not impressed with the potential for actually dancing. But as I finished my half of bitter, a woman in a black skirt and red blouse crossed from the toilet to the table nearest the dancers, moving with a restrained samba step. I took that to mean she was at least listening to the beat of the tape machine, and determined to approach her table.
"Excuse me," I asked. "Would you like to dance?"
"Wait a minute; I don't want to miss this. You can sit down."
I pulled over a chair from the next table, and she slid to the left to make room. She lightly touched my left forearm as it rested on the table, effectively pinning me in place, and turned back toward a round-faced girl two seats away.
"Now what were you saying again, Louise?"
"It was an article about this research project," Louise repeated. "They had these lads trying out different pick-up lines to see which ones were most effective."
"Certainly a better use for a ten thousand quid grant than one of those boring cancer cure studies." This was the view of the blondest of the lot,who had brown eyes and eyebrows. She wore brighter lipstick than I cared for, and was pretty despite it.
Her skepticism was echoed by the woman next to her, who could easily have been a younger sister, similarly dressed in a dark, narrow-strapped tanktop, but with longer, brown hair and less emphatic makeup. "I can see the researcher wandering into the common room-- 'Oi, who wants ten quid and the cost of his booze for the night? Just tell us what lines work best, and the telephone numbers of the girls they work on.'"
"So what lines worked?" the woman next to me asked Louise.
"The simpler the better, Kari. The elaborate, fanciful lines always fell flat."
So her name was Kari. I should have introduced myself when I first came over, but the conversation hadn't gone at all the way I had planned.
The woman to my right laughed and said, "How about 'What's your sign, baby?' That's a line for simple people if I ever heard one!"
"That's Becky's favourite, too," the younger sister said. "Somebody ask what her sign is."
They all looked at me, except the very blonde woman, who was searching her handbag. In an ineffective attempt to imitate a Californian, I stared deep into her bosom and asked, "Hey, babe-- wut's yer sign?"
Becky lifted one hand demurely to the base of her throat, and with the other she unfolded a creased sheet of paper that was neatly lettered with the words:
"I suppose I should have 'Welcome! We greatly appreciate your custom' printed on the other side, just in case," she added, "but to tell the truth, I've never had the occasion to use that line. Rachel has much better luck that way." She looked at the younger sister, who didn't reply.
The woman on my right, who wore a silvery halter top and seemed to have small flakes of mica here and there on her shoulders and breasts, asked, "Have you ever met one of those who says, 'I know we've met somewhere before'? Then he asks every place you've ever lived, worked, or gone on holiday until he's ready to claim some sort of common bond. If I had any secrets to hide I'd think they were reporters or private investigators, not just lads looking for company,"
"So, what do you say to someone like that, Helen?" Kari asked.
Helen didn't reply, so Rachel broke in. "I was working in London this summer, and spent every penny on rent. I'll never do that again. It's much nicer to lodge with Becks, and date her mates. Anyway, I was having a drink with a girlfriend one Friday when this fellow dressed like an investment banker comes in, watches us a few minutes and then comes over and asks me if we hadn't met in Srinagar. Then he mentions Thailand, Singapore, every damn country in southeast Asia. When he got to Borneo, I asked if he had been to the Sultan's garden party. 'Yes,' he says, 'wasn't that palace magnificent! And you were in a white-- or very light-- number that surpassed it for elegance. Do you remember meeting me there?' So I say, 'if it wasn't you, it was a different pretentious bastard.'"
"Now, which year were you in Borneo?" Becky asked.
"I got as far south as Penzance once. That's pretty close, isn't it? Anyway, the prat wouldn't give up. He turned to my friend and started chatting her up. But she's used to London life and just said, 'don't you love those Asian spices! I've got some pepper spray here in my bag.' He set down his G&T and walked right out. What a prat!"
Helen cleared her throat and had a sip of lager, then said, "This bloke goes up to a girl at a party and says 'didn't we meet once in Leeds?' She says 'I've never been Leeds.' So he says 'either have I-- it must have been two other people."
I laughed. Everyone else smiled, but waited for Helen to continue. With the possible exception of round-faced Louise, she seemed least likely of all to attract admirers, but she must have had some reason to buy the silver halter top. Finally she went ahead.
"This happened while I was at university. All sorts of people make their way into the college dinners. An older man saw me trying to catch the waitress's eye, so he stepped over and hooked a glass of sherry for me, and one for himself. And of course he said I looked very familiar but he couldn't remember my name. Dinner dress makes anyone look distinguished, but he must have been at least 40. So I said 'thank you very much for the sherry, but you're old enough to be my father, and I don't want to waste your time.' A look of sheer panic covered his face-- it frightened me to see it. He swallowed hard and asked 'did your mother work in a chippy in Leeds in 1981? Beth Stevens?' So I explained that mum was a doctor in Manchester named Ellen. He dropped into a chair and said, 'thank God, you gave me quite scare.' Well, it was all very contrived, of course, but it was so funny I had to laugh. I sat down by him and we chatted till dinner was served. He was widowed, and a poet, but there was no sign that he was ever lonely. It was really fun for 20 minutes, and then we went to our places and it was all over. But he might have been a good father. Not that there's anything wrong with my father."
"Your turn, Roscoe," Kari said, giving my forearm a light squeeze.
"I'm Yoshi. I'm afraid I don't have a good story to tell you about an approach that went wrong. But I know I'll have one the next time the subject comes up."
The women laughed; clearly they realized what I was referring to. But Kari didn't give up. "Tell us about a line that went well, then," she said. " This isn't the first time you've asked anyone to dance."
"All right. This happened in a western dance room in Shinjuku when line dancing was becoming popular. When I walked in, I saw three women together, all dressed like they were going to a fancy dress party as the Queen of the Golden West-- leather hats, leather waistcoats, and wide leather skirts, all trimmed with fringe and silver beads and roundels. One was absolutely gorgeous-- like a model from a shampoo advertisement. One was quite plain, and the third fell somewhere in between-- pleasant looking, but certainly nothing special. So I introduced myself, and asked the middle one if she would like to dance."
"Damn!" said Becky. "Why do men always avoid those of us who are absolutely gorgeous?"
"All the better for us plain girls," Kari said grimly. But she gave my forearm another squeeze, and I continued.
"'Not really,' she said. 'But Rika would love to-- she said so as soon as you came through the door.' Rika was the beautiful one, of course, and she started nodding vigorously even before I could ask if her friend were telling the truth. She really enjoyed dancing, and seemed to know the lyrics in English and Japanese for every number, but if she had any sense of rhythm it didn't reach her legs. She bounced all around, more or less at random. That was no problem line dancing, of course, but we stayed on the floor for a Cajun waltz, and I was miserable. Rika had no idea of how to follow-- even if I held her so our thighs stayed in contact, her feet were either under mine or on top of them every measure. But nothing dampened her enthusiasm. I lasted through the next line dance, but then I was exhausted and had to drag her back to her table.
"In the meantime the other two had been dancing with each other, with more grace and real passion than I had ever seen on a dance floor. My heart ached for a turn with either of them, but my feet were aching more, an in any case they never returned to the table. I couldn't abandon Rika, of course, but trying to talk with her was almost as hard as dancing. Finally I noticed some handsome boys looking longingly at her. So I stood up and invited her to dinner the next week. You know the procedure-- she said she would have to check her diary and promised to call me, so I gave her my card and left. And of course I never heard from her again, thank goodness. I realize this sounds very shallow, but I think they were trying to teach me a lesson about focusing too much on physical beauty."
And although the timing was bad, I stood up and again asked Kari if she would like to dance.
"I really would," she said, "but . . ."
"But not with you!" the other five said in unison.
She ignored their laughter and said, "But not just yet. As long as you're up, though, why not get us a drink."
I quickly scanned the table. "Three lagers, two red wine and a diet coke?" I asked. One of the lagers-- Rachel's-- was actually a cider, but I guessed the others correctly. The soft drink was for a very fair woman sitting on the other side of Kari. Her hair was bleached only by the sun, so was not too uniform in colour. And her skin was fair enough that the redness was easily visible in her fingers and across the bridge of her nose. She was slender but did not look like a dieter; I had guessed a diet coke only because they seem to be much more popular than the sugary blend. Unlike the others, this woman was dressed as though coming home from work rather than going out for the evening. She wore a long-sleeved beige blouse with a large bow at the neck, with a navy suit coat hung over the back of her chair. Of course I could not see beneath the table, but I imagined a straight skirt.
When I returned with the drinks, round-faced Louise was talking about her former boss, a deputy chief constable of police. I had not heard his approach line, but since it was Christmas time, I suppose he had something about collecting his present. He had groped and propositioned her in his office. As a result, he had gotten a badly bruised larynx when she hit his throat with her elbow, and she had gotten fired. Louise considered it a fair exchange of gifts, even if it was more costly than the five pound limit that had been specified by the station social committee.
Unfortunately, Louise's story turned the table's attitude toward men, currently represented by myself, from mockery to anger. I tried to think of a comment to defuse it, but could not. I was grateful when the fair girl with the diet coke spoke up.
"You remember I used to spend a lot of time with Sharon Miller..."
"Yes, it was Sharon and Tracy, always together," said Becky with the brown eyebrows. "How is she?"
"Fine. We were out one night a year ago, and I think we were both on the prowl. I know I was. We were sipping wine in the Firkin something or other-- it's been bought by another chain now-- because there were always plenty of men there on a Friday night. All of a sudden this bloke carrying an empty glass and a full bottle walks up, stretches out both arms like he was on the cover of the Vain Men's Club Quarterly, and says 'I know you want more!' And he sits down and pours us each some more wine.
"Well, I thought he was on the cute side, but that didn't matter-- he was only interested in Sharon. It turned out he worked in her building, and they had been exchanging smiles in the lift for a few days. So pretty soon they both have plans and are trying to keep their wits about them, and I'm feeling like the cosmetics consultant at the convent. More to the point, most of that bottle and the next went into my glass, past my ruby lips, and then who knows where.
"Whilst this process was progressing, it was getting later-- close to eleven-- so Sharon obviously wanted me to go and I obviously wanted someone to go with. There are still plenty of men around, but it's hard to break into a crowd. Then I spotted one sitting by the windows all alone. He was older than me, wearing one of those brown bomber jackets that looked like it had been through the wars, although obviously he wasn't that much older. But he was getting bald, and had a cloth cap laid on the table next to him. He was definitely the most stable looking man in the room. I don't know what I was thinking-- maybe that if he brushed me away, one of the others would notice, think I was easy, and come make an offer.
"So I told Sharon and her friend-- his name is Kevin-- that I thought I saw someone, and walk over to his table. And I blurted out the dumbest thing imaginable. You won't believe it."
None of us tried to guess.
"I say, 'I want to have your baby.' He looked at me, up and down and back again. And it must have been an eyeful-- I was wearing a black, strapless sheathe that only covered about 18 inches from neckline to hem. This was a year ago, and I had a little more meat on me. And he checked every curve I had-- I though he was about to reach out and pinch to see if I had good muscle tone. After about 40 seconds I remembered to smile.
"Finally he said, 'right, that would be nice.' I sat down in front of his cap, and he asked, 'do you want a drink first?' To tell the truth, another glass of wine was the last thing I needed or wanted, but he said, 'probably coffee is the best bet this time of night; do you take milk and sugar?' I asked for one sugar, and he said, 'that's good-- if we both have the same I won't have to remember which cup is which.' Then he reached under the table and pulled out a largish sports bag, stuffed the cap in his pocket, and set the bag down where the cap had been. 'Don't take your eyes off this-- it's valuable, and you really can't trust anyone in a place like this,' he said. And off he went.
"I turned to give Sharon the thumbs up, but she and that Kevin were gone, so I just sat there. To tell the truth, I was beginning to realize what I had done, and was frozen with fear more than just waiting patiently. But you know how it is in at a big bar at last call-- it seemed like it was taking him forever, and I really had to pee, pardon my language Yoshi. So finally I grabbed the bag and headed for the ladies. The bag was heavier than I expected. You can see where this is going, but I had no idea."
"I set down the bag, and had just sat down myself when I thought I saw some motion inside the bag. I'm surprised I didn't scream, but obviously there was nothing I could but sit on the loo till I was done. As soon as I could get my tights up I grabbed the bag and ran out to the bar, but the barman said nobody had ordered two coffees, and he hadn't seen any older men in brown jackets. I couldn't say anything, or do anything except go to a table, put down the bag and my head, and cry."
"The barman-- that nice Steve who runs the Pigeons now-- came right over with a coffee and held my shoulders until I had stopped crying enough to drink it and tell him what happened. Then he checked the bag to make sure the baby was all right, and went to telephone the police and a cab."
"That Steve really is nice," said Kari. "Cute, too-- I'd be all over him if he was straight."
"If he were straight I don't think he'd be so nice," Becky started, but her sister broke in.
"I was all over him once before I knew. This was a late summer evening at a real dance club, and like you say, he looks just brilliant. He and one of his mates edged past me and I just grabbed his arm and insisted on dancing-- I actually dragged him out under the lights while his mate laughed at us. He was a good dancer but definitely shy. I wondered what he was doing there and decided to really push. Pretty soon I was holding him as close as I could, right in the middle of the floor, and kissing his ear.
"Like I said, he was acting really reticent, but then he worked one hand in between us. I thought he was going to push me away, but he slid the hand down and started rubbing my crotch. That was just the mood I was in at that point, but suddenly he whispered, 'Bloody hell, you're a girl!' and he stopped still. But then he added, 'we'd better keep dancing, or people will notice,' and jiggled me over to where his mate was standing. And he actually gave me a squeeze and a little kiss, and said 'cheers, love.' Then the two of them walked off, hand in hand. He was so careful not to embarrass me. And he always smiles at me, but he's never mentioned that night again."
"It's not the same thing thing, Rachel," Becky said. "If some obnoxious lad was bothering him, I'm sure Steve would brush him off just as quickly as any of us."
Helen and Louise agreed with that, but Kari still had her eye on Tracy. She handed her another tissue and asked what happened next.
"The cab never came, but the PCs wrote everything down and checked through the sports bag-- it had nappies and a couple of bottles but no identification, obviously-- and finally drove me back to the flat. They said Social Support Services couldn't get anyone to me that time of night, and asked me to watch him-- the baby was a boy, about a month old-- till morning. They still weren't sorted Saturday morning, and I had to take him to the corner shop for another box of nappies before they finally picked him up Sunday afternoon. By then I was not at all willing to let him go, obviously. I put in all kinds of papers, but my income wasn't adequate, my flat wasn't adequate, and I wasn't . . . they didn't say anything, but I got the idea they didn't think much of my morals."
Tracy stopped, and Kari handed her another tissue.
"I don't know where he is now, and no one knows where the damned father is. Or the mother. Sharon hung on to that Kevin, and she had a baby too, about six weeks ago. Now she's talking about marrying him. I went to see them, just after it was born, but I don't think I could do it again, even if she wants me for a bridesmaid."
Helen asked who was ready for another drink, but no one did so she went to the bar alone. Becky and Rachel headed toward the toilet, and Kari stood up and looked toward the dancers.
"Are you willing to take a chance on the plain one," she asked.
I joined her and lowered my voice to answer. "You're so beautiful that the only way I can take my eyes off you is to hold you close and look over your shoulder."
"That's not a bad line," she said. "But you need to work on sounding sincere."
I promised I would, so she held me close and looked at my shoulder, more or less in time to the taped salsa beat.