Circle of Dancers

CIRCLE OF DANCERS

She takes a deep breath as she looks at herself in the cracked mirror. She does not smell the stale cigarette smoke nor does she hear the idle conversations in the dimly lit room. Her subconscious barely registers the rhythmic beat of the bass drums.

The image wears a short white skirt with a white lace blouse. Young firm breasts threaten to burst through as one button holds the lace together. Her small feet are covered with lace anklets and white strapped high heels are below long tan legs. Freckles of summer are covered by makeup and crystal blue eyes are framed by black lashes made thick with mascara. Long blonde hair cascades like a waterfall to her tiny waist. She sees the image of innocence.

"Hey, Girlfriend," says Rose as she pulls a huge sweatshirt over her curly brown hair, "You look great!"

A nervous smile crosses the young face as she lets the music and voices seep back into her world. Smoothing her skirt with a shaky hand she turns toward Rose.

"You're gonna knock 'em dead." Rose lights a cigarette and inhales the gray smoke deeply. Sitting on a worn stool, she leans over and takes a blue sequined G-string out of her bag. Tossing it on the Formica counter-top, she makes eye contact with the young girl in the mirror.

Stumbling slightly in her heels, the young girl steps forward and gets a cigarette from her purse. The flame of the lighter wavers as she lights it.

"You don't have to do this, you know," says Rose. "Is it the money?"

They young girl sits down awkwardly on the stool next to Rose. The tight skirt riding up her thighs; making casual movement impossible. She shakes her head in affirmation.

"The first night is always the hardest," says Rose softly. She looks past her to the wall, with it's nicks and bruises from years near the costume rack. "I remember my first night. . . the second night is a piece of cake and pretty soon you'll be a pro."

Rose faces her and touches the young soft skin with her own worn hand. "You're up next--think of the music and let it take you away. Don't worry about the faces--just think of the music."

Ashes fall on the floor as the young girl reaches for the ashtray. Stubbing out the cigarette, she takes another deep breath.

"Have you had something to drink?" asks Rose looking directly into the eyes of a child--trapped in the body of a woman.

Blonde hair swings loosely as she shakes her head. Her pink fingertips fumbling to brush it back into place.

"It's too late now," says Rose, as she smiles encouragingly at the young girl. "Next time, have one drink, it'll loosen you up."

Another dancer saunters into the room grabbing a robe off a hook on the wall. "Crowded out there tonight," she says, counting the dollar bills, "got some great tippers, though. How's baby face holding up?"

"She'll be fine," says Rose wistfully.

"I told Jack not to start her on a Saturday night," she says as she stuffs the wad of money into her purse and flings it back under the counter. "He's an idiot."

The young girl hears the first few bars of the music she picked out. Hesitantly, she steps out onto the stage. The brightly colored lights are disorienting. She sways slowly to the music, not trusting her legs to move her body around without falling. The faces materialize as her eyes adjust to the lighting. She sees the loneliness floating in the air as thick as the cigarette smoke.

Closing her eyes, she is alone in her living room, feeling the music enter her body. She dances sensuously for the simple pleasure it brings to her--becoming the melody. Slowly and rhythmically she removes the lace blouse, letting it fall where it may. She moves her arms fluidly around her body with the grace of a cat stretching lazily. The skirt slips off -- a white pile of softness laying at her feet. In her solitude she loses her inhibitions and her body continues to relax with every note of the music.

The music has ended, but the young girl continues to sway until she hears the resonating words of the audience. Abruptly, with eyes open, she is back on stage. The faces come into focus as the smell of alcohol assaults her. She hesitates, unsure of herself.

Awkwardly, she picks up her clothes and covers her breasts. The lights are a blur of rainbow color as she leaves the stage. Running like a rabbit startled in the darkness, she stumbles into the small bathroom as a wave of nausea makes it's way through her body. Gulping for air, she leans over the cracked porcelain sink. Shaking, a cold sweat breaks out on her body.

She feels the warmth of Rose's arm as Rose places a robe over her small shoulders. "Sit down and put your head between your knees," Rose says, with motherly concern. "You'll feel better in a minute."

Moving her blonde hair over to the side, Rose softly caresses the back of her neck with a cool washcloth. "Just be still for a little bit and it'll pass."

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Tired blue eyes of the older dancer look into the frightened brown eyes of a young girl. Compassion flickers momentarily through the blue eyes, softening her face.

"It's your first night?" asks the older dancer. She turns, looking into the mirror and vaguely remembers the compassionate face of Rose. Turning back to the young girl she reaches out and touches her arm.

"I'll tell you what an old friend told me," she pauses, "The first night's the hardest. . . the second night is a piece of cake and pretty soon you'll be a pro."