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She was dancing naked in the dark. Her hips moved with the beat of the music in the red glow of the lights. Back arching, twisting, she sank to the floor and the music pulsed inside of her. The eyes consuming her were caught fish, twitching, transfixed. The girl stretched a naked thigh along the floor and, like an ecstatic penitent caught in the throes of a prayer, pounded the air with fists and flying hair.
The final beat of the music ended and the girl ran off the stage. Silently, the man in the darkest corner picked up his coat, and walked to the scratched door marked "Employees Only." Hesitating for just a moment, he entered and found himself alone with the naked girl. She was sitting at a mirror, staring at herself, and her expression did not change as the door closed behind him. He was looking at her silently when she startled him by turning to face him. She let her father look at her. Tiredness filled her eyes; her face was young under the makeup.
Suddenly, the girl began to cry. He moved to her desperately and knelt at her feet while she bent over clenched hands, sobbing. He tried to touch one of her fists but she gasped and pulled it to her chest, rocking back and forth through her tears. He heard her whispering, very low, very quickly, "I’m sorry... I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry. I—oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry."
The man looked at her sadly. He said, very gently, "Please just come home."
The girl sucked in her breath and became still. With effort, she looked in her father’s eyes and finally, in a steady, bruised voice, she spoke.
"Listen. When I dance, everything becomes real. And the men watching me help make it real. There’s nothing but my body and I can’t hide a thing. Dancing shows every bruise, every scar, everything that’s wrong with me, you know?" She looked at him intently. The man nodded slowly, but would not look at her.
"Please," he said humbly, "would you please cover yourself?"
The girl looked down at herself and then at him again, somehow surprised. He shifted awkwardly, but said nothing. After a moment, she picked a crumpled dressing gown off the floor and wrapped it around herself. "The thing is," she continued, "The dancing also shows them everything that’s right about me. Everything hurts less when I’m dancing because it’s all out there instead of inside. And it’s like, for those few minutes, I’m not faking anything." She looked away. "I know I’m just a jack-off girl. They don’t understand—I’m telling them my life. I got evicted, okay? I’m scared to death. But when I’m dancing, it doesn't scare me quite so badly." She licked her lips and looked at him.
"Go on," he whispered.
Quietly, she said, "I know I’m a bad woman for doing this. And I know what everyone thinks." She looked at him seriously, "I am sorry. So, so sorry. But I wish you could understand. My life is tough, okay? And sometimes I feel so trapped and scared and—don’t you get it? When I’m dancing naked on stage, it’s the only time I’m ever free."
And for a brief moment, the man really looked at his
daughter, and he thought he understood.
back to: Literary Arts
Home Literary Arts Visual Arts About Zephyr Contact Graphic Version
Mendocino College Online Journal of the Arts - Spring 2002 Text Version
Mendocino College
1000 Hensley Creek Road
Ukiah, California 95482