Dancing Eddie
The band was like
syphilis in the 19th century, enjoying widespread popularity in the hearts and pants of the
upper crust but suffering very slow penetration amongst the
great unwashed. They played for the
cocaine-infested
custard layer in the
sponge cake of society, being paid outrageously to play for an audience of not more than
fifty people who wore
thirty pairs of
underpants between them and spent the entire
gig as
high as the ceiling in
skyscraper heaven.
Eddie posed as a
bassist. While the
chic chicks flirted with the band, he got to spend hours at the bar with a slightly
plainer alternative, who spoke when spoken to and wore
underpants.
Gigs followed a pattern. The band
executed number after number while fifty pretty boys and girls danced to their
private,
internal rhythms.
Eddie used a tiny, little portion of his brain to play his
bass on automatic, with the rest of his powers of concentration devoted to examining the audience, picking the
wheat from the
chaff, and making a mental note of the most likely source of female companionship. He had enough experience to determine the
shy from the
daring, the
talkative from the
introspective and, more importantly, the ability to gauge the size of a girl’s
backside from a quick look at her
exposed shoulders.
Tonight Eddie catches the eyes of his carefully selected prey. A grimace shows that the sheer physical effort of playing the bass has exhausted him. A little smile in return for his herculean acting skills is all he needs. Done.
An hour later Eddie is feigning interest in her conversation, politely nodding and smiling without listening too hard, when a phrase penetrates his thespian abilities. “So, do you believe in God?” she asks.
“I know one who lives close. Come with me.”