Slick

Slick

Slick *owns* this casino.

It belongs to him.

He knows everyone passing through the Eden Lounge, points each out, and throws them his chin as they cross the floor.

He jumps up from his table, one foot snaps out, and kick-turns spinning himself full circle. In time with the beat. Immediately darting across the dance floor, down the steps, and out the bar with a Manhattan rush-hour shuffle, thin black flip-top phone to his head all the while.

An exit worthy his stature.

If anyone was looking.


...

Early 70's, tall and slender, suit and tie tailored to his lean frame. Appropriate to the decor. Grey hair slicked back to the base of his neck, a pair of cheap sunglasses resting on on his crown. Making eyes at the young ladies. Like he could own them too.

Makes a circuit of the room, open phone still in hand, pressed to his temple except for the rare moment he pulls it down to shake it chest level, Moroccan style.

There's no one on the line.


...

His wife, brickhouse portly, a light blue frock, tiny white floral print, draped over a perfect egg-shape, shares his table though he never manages a seat for a thirty second stretch.

During one such absence.

Suddenly she springs to her feet, and throws down The Twist with a spry grace, shimmying a slow circle in the same spot he dances every time he passes.

Unabashedly, unashamedly.

This is *her* song.

What were the chances the band would cover Chubby Checker tonight?

The tune ends and she returns to her seat, not to stir again.

He's out of view the entire time.

Like it never happened.


...

The night carries on.


...

Spotting him across the room, bachelorette in a pink T-shirt points back, shoulder dipping, head and hip jutting to the side. She throws a double-handle fishing rod in his direction, cranking the wheel to the rhythm of the music.


Hooks him on the second cast.


And he's back on the dance floor.


...

From Cross Country USA 2009