Play Something Dancy

by Dee Simon

  “Hey. I need some help. Can you help me?” Doug had a very low, guttural voice that was difficult to understand. It was practically a croak.

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I quickly exited the lavatory and went to find someone else to help him. Luckily, I ran into Big Jeff, one of the club’s enormous bouncers, coming into the bathroom.

  “Jeff, dude, we have a situation here. You’re going to have to deal with it because I gotta head upstairs.”

  “A situation?”

  “Yeah, check it out.”

  We walked to the third stall. Jeff opened the door and started laughing till he had to wipe tears from his eyes.

  “That motherfucker is lying in a pile of shit. Fuckin’ mudslide.” Still laughing, he then walked over to the urinal and relieved himself.

  “Do you know where his caregiver guy is? Someone needs to help him out.”

  “Caregiver? What the fuck’s a caregiver? You’re on your own with this one, buddy. I don’t clean up shit.”

  “His nurse. Can you find the guy who takes care of him? We gotta help him out.”

  “All right, calm the fuck down. I’ll help you.” Jeff walked into the first stall, grabbed a roll of toilet paper, and tossed it to me. “Here you go, man. Knock yourself out.”

  He left the bathroom laughing loudly. In a panic, I ran outside to look for Doug’s caregiver, but he was nowhere to be found. It was possible that Doug had come by himself but highly unlikely. I returned to the foul-smelling bathroom and walked over to the ailing man.

  “Hey, where’s your nurse?”

  He tried to lift himself up to look at me, but his hand slipped in the shit puddle and he slammed back onto the ground. “I fired that fucking prick. Fuck him. Now give me a hand,” he slurred angrily.

  Doug was inebriated, and apparently he had fallen and shit himself while lying on the bathroom floor. Not knowing how to handle this situation, I watched him try to lift himself up again, this time using his collapsed wheelchair for support. I cautiously approached him and extended my hand, careful to watch my step. The stench was overbearing, and I held my breath while I struggled to pull him off the ground. He was almost to his feet when he slipped in the shit puddle and practically pulled me on top of him. I narrowly avoided stepping in it, and forced my legs out to maintain balance. Doug crashed to the floor and lay there groaning for a few moments, trying to catch his breath. Once again, I grasped his left hand and attempted to pull him upright. This time he pushed off the toilet with his right hand and managed to stand shakily on his withered, malformed legs. I leaned him against the wall and picked up his wheelchair, unfolded it, and rolled it to him. He muttered something that sounded like either “asshole” or “bless your soul” and wheeled himself to the sink.

  “Hey, are you okay? I gotta go upstairs and change the song.”

  “I’m fine. Thank you,” he growled in his raspy voice.

  Having no idea how to extricate myself from this awkward scene, I just turned around and briskly walked out of the bathroom. I thought it was best if both of us forgot that this encounter ever occurred. I didn’t know if he had another nurse he could call to drive him home, but I didn’t wait around to find out. The following week, I was working my Friday day shift when a well-groomed man who resembled John Waters in a white nurse’s uniform walked into the booth and timidly asked, “Excuse me, are you the DJ who helped Doug out last week?”

  “Doug the Re—” I almost said “retard” but luckily caught myself. “Umm, Yeah. Why?”

  “Doug’s very grateful that you helped him and would like to buy you dinner tomorrow.”

  I was taken aback and didn’t quite know how to respond. “It’s okay. He doesn’t have to do that.” Honestly, I could think of many other things I’d rather do than have dinner with Doug the Retard, such as going to the dentist or renewing my driver’s license at the DMV.

  “Oh, but he insists and, trust me, Doug’s not fond of rejection,” he said indifferently.

  “Well, okay, but I have plans tomorrow, so I can’t have dinner with him.”

  “How about Sunday evening?”

  “I have something going on Sunday too. I’m booked this weekend. Sorry.”

  “Listen, Doug will keep sending me back here to invite you to dinner. He will not accept ‘no’ as an answer. Please have dinner with him, and we both can move on with our lives.”

  I took a couple moments to survey the serious expression on the nurse’s face and realized that this was far from a joke. “Okay. I’m not working Monday.”

  “Excellent. I will make reservations at Gary Danko at 6:00 PM.”

  “Gary Danko?” I had never eaten there but knew it was one of the most expensive restaurants in the city.

  “Yes, that’s Doug’s favorite restaurant. Please don’t be late. Doug is not fond of tardiness.”

  I couldn’t care less what Doug was fond of, but this dinner sounded like it might not be so bad after all. Gary Danko is one of the finest dining establishments in the city, and I’d heard it takes three months to get a reservation there for a regular person. I was sure Doug spent so much money there that they treated him like royalty. Regardless, it had been a long time since I had lobster, and this would be one of those rare occasions that I could order the highest-priced items on the menu and not feel the least bit of remorse.

  That Monday evening, trying my best to be punctual, I left my apartment at quarter to six and caught a cab heading up Polk Street. The cab driver looked at me twice when I told him my destination and asked, “You going to work?”

  “No, I’m having dinner there,” I replied, not trying to conceal my annoyance. I’m sure I didn’t look like the typical Gary Danko habitué, but I was wearing a Calvin Klein black dress shirt tucked into a creased pair of black slacks. I even wore a tie for the occasion. Whatever. This might be the only opportunity for me to eat at Gary Danko, and I was not about to let a surly cab driver ruin my mood. “The reservation’s at six, so I’d appreciate it if you could step on it.”

  Though I couldn’t tell for sure, it looked like the driver rolled his eyes when I said that and he continued driving at the exact same pace. It rarely does any good to tell an urban cab driver to “step on it.” The restaurant is located in the Fisherman’s Wharf neighborhood, which was about fifteen minutes from my apartment, and since there was little traffic, we arrived shortly before six. A doorman opened the door of the cab and escorted me into the dimly lit restaurant. I noticed immediately that the décor was a bit more modern than I had expected and had a very Upper East Side Manhattan vibe to it. As soon as I walked in, a blonde hostess with an unflattering toothy smile cheerfully piped, “Welcome to Gary Danko. Do you have a reservation tonight?”

  “I’m here to meet Doug,” I said shakily, suddenly realizing that I didn’t even know Doug’s surname.

  “Oh, okay. Hold on a moment.” She whispered something to an attractive woman with short brown hair standing to her right and then shifted her attention back to me. “Autumn will show you to Doug’s table.”

  Doug obviously was a regular here if the staff knew him by his first name, though I doubted there were many disgruntled paraplegics who frequented this restaurant. I followed Autumn down a dark hallway to the second dining room. She led me to a cozy banquette in the corner, and I slid into the cushioned booth opposite Doug who was seated in his wheelchair. For being such an ogre, he almost looked handsome in his black suit and dark blue tie. He watched me closely as I sat down, and waited till I composed myself before saying anything.

  “Thanks for coming. I appreciate what you did for me the other day,” he growled.

  “Thanks for inviting me. I don’t think I ever formally introduced myself. My name is Da—”

  “I know your name,” Doug said curtly, cutting me off. “Would you like some champagne?”

  “Okay.” I reached over and picked up a bottle of Dom Pérignon from the bucket and poured myself a tall glass. I noticed that Doug had a massive mou
nd of caviar on a platter in front of him.

  “Are we out of champagne? I’ll ask the dickheads to bring another bottle. Do you like fish shit?” he asked, shoving the platter of caviar over to me.

  “Thanks,” I said as I picked up a spoon and deposited a generous glob of caviar on a cracker. Doug was still staring at me with an intensity that made me feel uncomfortable. “So, do you dine here often?”

  “I know the owner. That’s the reason these dickheads have to kiss my crippled ass. Watch this. Hey, shithead. Yeah, I’m talking to you. Why don’t you bring me another bottle?” he shouted, holding up the half-empty bottle of Dom. He then slammed it down on the table. “These fucking pricks don’t know hospitality from their assholes.”

  The server that he screamed at hurriedly ran off to fetch another bottle of the $300 champagne. I focused my attention on the menu, thinking that the sooner I ordered my entrée the sooner I’d be able to leave. It didn’t come as much of a surprise that Doug wasn’t the most agreeable dining companion. The server returned with the new bottle and apprehensively placed it in the bucket next to the half-empty bottle, eyeing Doug the entire time and preparing for a sharp rebuke. But Doug ignored him. His attention was also focused on his menu.

  “I take it you’ve never been here before.”

  “Umm, no I haven’t,” I responded, not knowing whether he was being condescending.

  “Well, it’s a five-course dinner. Feel free to order anything you want. I don’t fucking care.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I doled out another generous portion of caviar on a cracker and was about to take a bite when our server approached the table. He was a young man in his mid-twenties, and, judging by his steeled countenance, I could tell that he had served Doug in the past.

  “Hello, gentlemen. Have you made your selection?” he said with a slight lisp, looking at Doug.

  “Why don’t you ask my friend over there. I’m still deciding.”

  “All right. Sir, have you made your selection?”

  I could tell that he was a bit surprised that Doug referred to anyone as a friend, let alone someone my age. “Umm, I will have the oysters and asparagus salad to start with and the Maine Lobster as the entree.”

  “Excellent choice, sir. Doug, have you made up your mind?”

  “I’ll have some oysters, the risotto, and the beef filet. You know how I like it.”

  “I most certainly do. Gentlemen, I’ll return with some sparkling water in a minute,” he said, and then disappeared into the dining room.

  “You know these restaurants only hire faggots?” Doug had resumed staring at me with the same uncomfortable intensity as before.

  “Well, there are a lot of gay people in this town, and they need jobs too.”

  “Really, I had no fucking clue,” he croaked sarcastically. “What did you think of my new nurse?

  “He seemed very friendly.”

  Doug roared with laughter that rapidly devolved into a fit of coughs, sputters, and chokes. “Friendly,” he said, barely being able to spit out the word. His face was red, and he took a moment to regain composure before continuing, “He’s a faggot too. I told him that if he gets an erection when he wipes my ass, he’s fired.” He burst into another laugh-coughing fit that lasted for several minutes. He finally stopped when he realized I wasn’t laughing at all. “Would you lighten the fuck up? I’m just joking. Why does everyone have to be so fucking PC in this city? Here, take this.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a large bag of what looked like cocaine, and flung it at me. I caught it before it would have hit me in the face, and swiftly hid it in my lap under the table, looking around anxiously to make sure none of the other diners had seen him throw it at me. The restaurant was dark, and we were seated far enough away from the other diners that I didn’t think anyone noticed. But, still, I was startled.

  “Jesus Fucking Christ. What the hell are you doing?”

  “What do you mean? I’m giving you some blow to lighten your goddamn mood. You’re too serious.”

  “This looks like an ounce. That’s a lot of blow to be carrying around.”

  “I don’t give a fuck. Now do it up, son.”

  “Here? At the table?”

  “For fuck’s sake,” he sighed. “Give it to me.”

  I gently handed him the hefty sack of blow underneath the table. He snatched it from my hand and dropped the sack on the table in front of him. Pushing back the tablecloth, he then proceeded to dump out about half of the bag’s contents. I was in shock and couldn’t believe he was being so brazen. “Umm, what the fuck are you doing? Shouldn’t we be discreet about this? That’s a large quantity of cocaine you got there.”

  Doug glanced at me for a moment, shook his head, and started crushing rocks of cocaine with the bottom of his champagne glass. He then picked up his knife, flipped it upside down, and cut out six four-inch lines.

  “Now shut the fuck up and do some blow.”

  He handed me a rolled up $100 bill which I used to quickly snort my two lines. The coke was harsh, and I leaned back into the booth as I felt my upper jaw and right side of my face become instantly numb. Doug snorted, grabbed the bill from me, and proceeded to inhale the four remaining lines.

  “That’s about as pure as you can get,” he chimed as he looked over at me, noticing the overwhelmed expression on my face. Using his right hand, he clumsily scooped the rest of the pile back into the bag and returned it to his inside jacket pocket. “Feeling better now?”

  I nodded. I had never done cocaine that pure, and I could feel an adrenaline rush pulsating through my entire body. I took several deep breaths to steady myself before downing my glass of champage. At this point, our server arrived with the first course. He gingerly set the asparagus salad and oysters in front of me and another plate of oysters and the risotto in front of Doug. He asked if we wanted any more champagne, and Doug ordered another bottle without bothering to look up at him. The food looked delicious but my appetite had completely vanished. I looked over at Doug and realized that he had been staring at me fixatedly for the past several minutes. Perhaps the drugs were making me paranoid. I decided to divert my attention and try one of the oysters. Thankfully, they were medium-sized, because swallowing large raw oysters is like throwing back a shot glass full of cold semen. With a small spoonful of vinagrette, I knocked back the first oyster and reached for another before noticing that Doug was still staring at me. I tried to ignore his glower by looking at the other diners in the room, but eventually it became so uncomfortable that I had to address him directly. “Did I piss you off or something? Why do you keep staring at me like that? It’s rude.”

  As soon as I spoke up, Doug looked down at the table and then up at the ceiling and then back down at the table. “No, I’m not angry. I’m confused,” he said in his croaky voice.

  “About what?” At this point, I didn’t really care about upsetting him. This meal was difficult to deal with, so if it ended now, I could live with that. Fuck the lobster. The cocaine had killed my appetite.

  “About the reason I’m envious of you.”

  “Envious of me?”

  “Yes, and it bothers me.”

  “Why would you be envious of me? You hardly know me.”

  “I know what you are, and I know what you do. And I’m envious of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How many of those girls do you fuck a night?”

  “Well, even though it’s not really any of your business, it’s much less than you’d think,” I answered honestly.

  “Yeah, well, it’s still more than me,” he growled as he stared down at the table and began fidgeting with his fork. He paused for a few moments before lifting his head up and pointing the fork at me. “Here I am worth exponentially more than you and I can’t even fuck one of those whores. And you, a drug-using hippie, have your pick of the litter. God is one merciless cunt.”

  “Fuck you, I’m not a hippie.”

  “Fuck me, huh? Fuc
k me. Do you know what I have to do to get an erection? Do you have any idea?”

  “Doug, I really don’t want to know. And if you’re going to carry on like this, I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t go. I apologize. My caustic nature often rubs people the wrong way.”

  “Really, you don’t say,” I remarked glibly. But I could tell by his pained expression that an apology from Doug was a rare occurrence, and I couldn’t help but wonder why he extended me the courtesy.

  “It’s just that I don’t have many friends, and I don’t know how to relate to others. You would never understand how it feels to live in this useless shell of a body. I can’t even manage my own continence.”

  Well, this dinner conversation had taken a strange twist largely due to the cocaine freeing Doug’s tongue. I briefly considered steering it back to more banal topics, such as the weather or some new TV series, when I decided to seize the opportunity to ask, “What the fuck happened to you? Were you born like that?”

  Doug’s beady eyes squinted behind his thick glasses, and he seemed slightly startled by my question. He ruminated a few seconds before eventually responding, “I was a young, stupid prick who never appreciated what life had given me. I come from an incredibly wealthy family and have always had a silver spoon up my ass. From boarding school to university to employment at my father’s company, everything has been handed to me. I never once studied for an exam in college. I didn’t have to. My father’s generous donations bought me a place on the honor roll. I rarely showed up for work, yet I still received a seven-figure paycheck. And the women. Oh, do I miss the fucking women.” Doug raised both hands in the air as he said this as if in gratitude to some long-forgotten sex deity. “I banged supermodels, porn stars, actresses, golddiggers. You name it, I fucked it. I hosted some of the craziest swinger parties in Northern California. Believe me, nothing makes a girl hornier than cocaine and ludes. God, I wish I could relive the fucking seventies.” He paused for a moment to reminisce before placing his right palm on his forehead and continuing morosely, “Then it all came to a crashing halt. Literally. It was the summer of ‘81, maybe ‘82—I forget. I went to a raging party at some mansion in Malibu. We had been partying for four days straight. By the third day, I was so intoxicated that I couldn’t remember my own fucking name, and by the fourth day, I thought it was time for me to go home. This is all hearsay because I don’t remember any of it, but I left the party in some guy’s Porsche and sped up the Pacific Coast Highway till I ran into a utility pole, going about ninety. The car was practically torn in half. I woke up about two months later in a hospital unable to feel the lower half of my body. Doctors said it was a miracle that I survived. A miracle for them, perhaps. For me, a constant reminder of what I’ll never be able to do again.” Doug stopped talking and for the next minute or two sat in silence, staring at the plate of oysters in front of him, his face a rictus of deep and devastating sorrow.