Dancing with Vanna White
by Brian Osborn
I have tumbled and staggered through my life’s affairs; stumbled and crashed into the out-of-breath old grouch I have become. I am not the “me” I imagined I would become when I was 20, or 30, or even 40. In my youth I did not foresee the over weight and over tired “me” that I drag through each day. The optimistic “me” from the past rejects the baggy eyed, pessimistic fat man in the mirror.
I should be somewhere else; driving a convertible along a slow winding road that follows the lazy river. Are those poplars? Yes, I believe they are; with brilliant leaves that vibrate and sparkle in the sunlight. I am driving and tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of a favorite song. I turn off the highway onto a shady lane, toward the foot hills, and I sense that I am nearer to a temporary rest. I slow down and around the next bend in the road I see the sign:
I pull into a clean parking spot. All of Jen’s parking spots are clean. The music’s silence is abrupt when I turn off the car. Once inside the diner I feel like everybody is a friend. I know them all, strangers I have seen before, and I am just as familiar to their smiles and nods. As I walk through the diner to a window booth I look at my reflection in Jen’s clean glass. I am tall and much thinner, with dark thick hair and my muscular frame is – do I see muscles? I step back to admire the reflection.
Just as I sit down Jen arrives with a glass of sparkling ice water. Not a plastic tumbler, a real glass drinking vessel. Can it get any better? I read the menu – all my favorite dishes: Mom’s meatloaf, Aunt Carol’s pecan pie, dad’s sloppy Joes, and grandma’s Yankee pot roast.
“I’ll have the club sandwich, Jen.”
I walk over to the juke box and drop in a nickel; yep, just a nickel for two songs. A certain song comes to my mind. At first it is just faint in my memory and then becomes clearer as I scroll the play list. There at E-2 I hear the words louder:
“Blue sky, smiling at me.Nothing but blue sky, do I see.”
I turn back toward my window booth and as I walk and watch my reflection a woman stands up in the aisle in front of me. “Shall we dance?” she says. Her blond hair is pulled back a little, revealing sparkling ear rings; her skin is silk and cream. She holds her arms out wide, tilts her head just a little to the right and smiles a perfect smile. I take her into my arms and whisper “This better not be a dream.” And we float across the floor.
“My name is”…
I’ve forgotten my name. The name I use as I stumble through my reality does not fit the lucky, handsome reflection I see dancing with a beautiful woman. I make up a new name on the spot.
“My name is Juan Carlos Balderama” I say. “I fight bulls.” The beautiful woman whispers,
“My name is Vanna, would you like to buy a vowel?” I grin at how unexpectedly lucky I have become.
After the dance, after the club sandwich, after I pay the bill and Jen gives me some change and a friendly hug, I hop back into my car and pull back onto the road, driving down toward the valley. As I get closer to town I see my eyes grow dull and puffy in the rearview mirror. My hair turns gray and thin. My favorite song on the radio has morphed into a series of vulgar groans and screams that spew into my consciousness to the drunken beat of a clothes dryer full of tennis shoes.
I look in the rearview mirror only to see a hazy scene. I can no longer see Jen’s Diner or even the foothills now, just smog and gray air where I should see the mountains. Every intersection I come to is a red light; the exhaust fumes burn my throat. I notice my car’s upholstery is worn and grimy with age. My transmission is leaking – I can smell burned oil as I stop and go through my life. I have left stains that I regret wherever I have gone. It is too late to clean them now.
I try to remember what I had for lunch; all I remember is paying the bill. I seem to remember there was a lady, an old lady I think, that spoke to me. She said she used to dance at the Whiskey or someplace else. Her teeth were loose and she slurred her sentences.
The closer I get to my house the more my head begins to ache. I start to cough, my chest wheezes and hurts like hell as I spit up lung oysters. I get intrusive looks from people as if they wonder how I am still breathing. They all wish I would cash in and die right here; what could be more exciting. That little bit of something they can laugh at – a piece of someone else’s misery that diminishes their own.
My car sputters into the driveway and dies. I stumble into the house coughing and cussing. My head is pounding and sweating and I am pretty certain I will vomit soon. I don’t even remember what I’ve been doing for the past four hours. But I clearly remember a bull fighter named Juan Carlos; it might be the name of someone I read about or that I saw on television. I distinctly remember that name. I remember the words of Juan Carlos, or maybe someone who knows him talking about bull fights, and he said,
“Sometimes the bull wins. Sometimes, the bull wins.”
Brian Osborn: I am a 51 year old aircraft mechanic, currently living in Tucson, Arizona, who writes as a hobby. I write quite a bit in my current job, but it is business and technical writing. Reading and writing short stories and poetry provides a creative outlet that diminishes the stress of work. For me, writing is more a craft than an art form. Contact Brian.
