“Dancer” by JDA Winslow

I’m doing my odd man’s dance on the floor of the bus, accompanied by the zang zang tum of flesh meeting metal. My body gives up with a soft insistent “buhbuhbuhbuh” that emanates unwanted from loosened lips. I feel my body tense up and slacken out although I’m only halfway in at best. I return, finish my little performance and enact an awkward bow, demanded not by my audience but the confined space of my functionalist theatre. I’ve pissed myself and I feel sick.

I rest my head against the window, enjoying the usual post-dance feeling of lucidity and resigned euphoria. I hold a brief conversation with my dead mother’s ghost, hallucinating because my headphones are broken. She (as always) disapproves of my floor-bound jitterbugging. The rest of the bus seem unimpressed too but -judging by the average age of passenger- bladder control and joie-de-vivre aren’t merely deficient within me. Not that I’ve got anything in common with these almost-dead-mostly-hopeless lot. I’m a dancer. I keep a nervous eye on the squares of light that could indicate my next chance to escape. I’ve always been a dancer. I was on a cruise ship to Denmark, too young to function properly, out of my comfort zone on a wonderful early nineties cocktail of allura red and sunset yellow. There was a giant parrot that kept on inducing me to new states of childhood hedonism. There was a dancing competition. Flashing lights.

I get off the bus and head back home to change. The suaveness with which I produce my bus pass offsets the smell of urine. I exchange the usual half smile with my new expectant fans (I’m known as something of a maverick) and settle damply in my seat. I dismount from the bus and return to my parent’s house. I don’t live here anymore. I extract phone from pocket and receive an incredibly important call that necessitates an immediate change in direction. Murmuring sweet nothings to my social prop, I return to the house which is not my parent’s house but is the house where I live. I am hungry but the kitchen is in use. I walk up three faded flights of stairs (I am glorious but humble), open the door and retreat to my en-suite. I shower.

Showering acts as an impromptu baptism, a confirmation of my dancer’s body. I permit the water to run over my face. Liquid trickles off my nose. My shirt is soaked, unbuttoned it peels off and watches me forlornly from the floor of the shower. I scratch my heels with my toes until shoes and socks succumb. My jeans, although offered some protection by the sad umbrella of flesh that sits over the waist band, are growing heavy. My index finger loosens the rivets progressively before I let the denims weight expose me to the world. I extract my feet and remove my underwear. Forehead is placed on glass, feet firmly on floor, hands on back of neck. The brace position is assumed in case of emergencies.

I first learnt it flying to France, a giddy ten year old, dragged round endless days of fuzzy pictures. I met Vincent and foxtrotted in his honour on the grand floor of the Musée d’Orsay. I was bribed with the promise of one day in Disneyland during which I was too short to ride any of the rides (my parents said that day I’d drive them crazy). I left perturbed, annoyance somewhat becalmed by my acquisition of an overpriced stuffed black panther who became my guide and confidante. I was going to drive my parents crazy, but then I learnt to dance and we switched. I was going to drive but chose dancing instead. Now I wait for starry nights, me and Vincent and a thousand others, all alone. We whisper softly the secret of our incoherence in quaking arms and shaking legs. I taught him all he knew.

I emerge into the steam, film noir reversed, and inspect my latest haul. Blood is blossoming under my skin, flowering in tired approval of my latest revue. I am not content and I need advice. I am not content.

I head to Panther, wise steed of Dionysus. He’s on my bed, limbs flailed out, next to such other wise sages as Wolf, Mammoth and Rabbit. Thus we begin, “I’ve been dancing again” I say, boldly, but softly, knowing my magic must not leave the room. Panther is pleased, it’s the dancing that keeps us connected, keeps us together. Panther taught me how, he waited, waited for me, for many years. He needed a vessel for his black magic. Panther’s keeping quiet though, he’s sorry about the piss but that’s my own fault. I’ve been dancing for too long now to let that go on. Wolf agrees, Mammoth and Rabbit stay silent. I’m their sole focus Panther reminds me, their one chance. “Saviours mine are saviours thine” they chant softly in unison and I feel strength growing inside of me. I must go see Dr, I must return to the bus, but I must wait, I will perform for Dr but I must be careful. Dr doesn’t know about my private pantheon, my dedicated deities and I don’t intend to let him. Dr gets tetchy though, gets all wound up in his M&S suit in his N.H.S. room. Loves his abbreviations he does.

I’m heading off to see Dr, might see Singer there, what a team we make, all singing all dancing. Escaping through performing as an educational psychologist calmly informed my parents over my head, presuming I was too busy with Panther at the time to listen. I was as it happens, or would have been, had not Panther stopped me softly and alerted me to the hushed tones that meant something physically quiet and emotionally loud was happening.  Saviours mine, saviours thine.

I must remember Panther. He’s in my bag as I leave the house, I can feel his presence, his power, his foresight, leaking into my back through the nylon. It’s an old hiking rucksack I borrowed in a casual and unmentioned fashion, I do up the waistband, this being the closest I get to a hug nowadays. I get out the door and realise I forgot to get fucking dressed. I walk back upstairs, undo waistband, put on a fresh set of non-urinated on clothes and head off. Best not tell Dr about this, the thought makes me flinch and I run upstairs and take the whole pantheon with me.

Dr, Dr, I keep painting myself gold because I have a gilt complex. Dr told me that I use humour as defence mechanism so I’ve been honing it under Panther’s careful guidance. I’m a bee, buzz off. I work by stealth, me and Dr both do, he plays mind games with me, pretends he cares then doses me up. Dr, Dr, I keep crying in the night because I’m sacred and my mother’s dead and my father won’t speak to me and my brother won’t see me. Dr, Dr, I can’t sleep at night, although I’ll soon drop off. Dr , Dr, the pills you give me don’t make me better they just cut me off and send me to new and magical worlds where I’m scared in whole new ways. Dr, Dr, every time I drink coffee I get a sharp stabbing pain in my eye and every time I’m near a razor I get a weird tingling in my wrists and ropes just cry out to hug my dear little neck. Fuck off now Dr. I’m on the bus now Dr and I close my eyes tight, ignoring the incessant cat calls of passing lights.

I’ve made it to the real world, although I’m very much a visitor here. People are everywhere and that panics me. I’m out of Panther’s zone now and the Dr’s latest weapon is kicking into my head, helping me adjust slightly. I smarten up, straightening back, wiping nose with back of hand and trying to make it clear that I am a composed and quotidian young man. Mine and the Dr’s big showdown isn’t for another fifty minutes so I decide to grab a coffee. I realise I will have to pay for my coffee. Grabbing doesn’t work out either and I end up holding it carefully with both my hands. I glare intently at the softly rolling meniscus, as if daring it to venture out of the meagre two millimetre safety zone left by the barista. Eyes occupied I edge carefully, using my supernatural powers and occasional upward glances to determine a route to the emptiest part of the restaurant. The majority of people have clustered round the large chairs constructed from stuffed dead cow so I automatically aim for a harsh plastic stool, claiming isolation over comfort.

I wait for my coffee to cool down. I wait for my coffee to cool down and I twitch. I also fret. I have, owing to my lack of Italian, inadvertently ordered something that is not coffee but is instead caffeine infused milk and sugar brew. This isn’t good. No doubt Dr’s got agents here, and agents everywhere. Act casual. Learn how not to get caught. Do not pursue the suspect. I am consulting one of the most valuable documents Panther has given me. He dictated it to me on a stormy night, induced me to dance then got me to write. I am not quite sure what it says but it’s Fucking Goddamn Important -to quote the seventies cop film I watched when I couldn’t sleep after my mother died. I woke up the next day and under Rabbit’s careful instructions daubed a handlebar moustache onto my own bland face. I then sat, cheap pair of aviators clamped over eyes, in quiet meditation until Panther told me to Shut The Fuck Up and Sit The Fuck Down.

I drink my coffee. I drink my coffee and it’s too hot and I burn my tongue. I want to scream but I’m a big boy now so I settle for a soft shite that rests limply on the table after dribbling out my mouth. I can feel other people’s chatter and it comforts me. It’s the sign of the real world, a Sure Fire Can’t Miss Sign that you’ve got here safe. Safe and sound, my mother’s arms swinging me over to my father’s then-loving arms. Mammoth is whispering softly to me from my rucksack. I pull the bag onto my lap and promise to arrange a meeting as soon as I can.

I gently lap coffee from my mug, my tongue still nervous and somewhat rueful after its last encounter. My silver tongue is one of my main weapons against Dr and now it’s damaged, melted, the silver trickling down my oesophagus.  The Dr loves a bit of peristalsis and often I just sit there, feeling sinusoidal waves oscillate through my digestive system. The coffee, such as it is, with cream sadly melting into its over sweetened self, is making me feel sick. It’s quite possible the Dr has poisoned me and I check the barista who served me. He looks incompetent enough for me to feel secure. I choke the last dregs of it down, hoping the two extra shots I asked for will give me ample strength to hold my own.

Before I confront him though I need an escape. I need a portal, and a moment of quiet silence. I head for a church, a retreat from the real world, a place for mystics such as myself. I see a priest and smile sadly, knowing that his gods are long gone (mine are right here with me). I pull Panther out at a pew, keeping him hidden. His flat yellow eyes fill me with pride. Wolf comes out too, I stroke him softly and sit him between my trainers. Mammoth and Rabbit also come out covertly. Thus, with my own gods staring up at me, we begin.

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J.D.A. Winslow is a writer/artist who has appeared on a number of blogs including (most notably) New Wave Vomit and (most frequently) his own (jdawinslow.tumblr.com). He recently got twitter in an attempt to replace his last girlfriend (@jdawinslow)