The Alley Shuffle

It's late for me these days, 1am. The Alley Cantina on a night with the temperature outside at 6 below zero (right now). My friends' band playing a unique and hypnotic amalgam of afro-coastal-americana-latin-grass. In the french and spanish it's meant to be in, the phrasing and intonation dead on. A bone cold night, but in that post Christmas pre New Years zone , with tourists enthralled at the 7 foot base at the ski mountain, native Taosenos visiting from all over the world reunited with their peeps, and locals just out because they know the Brent Berry Band will cause ass-shaking and indoor humidity. I helped kick off the dancing with an undulating group of voluptuous women I know, while all the men lubricated on the sidelines. We swayed and alternated between samba, two-step, shimmy and hillbilly stomp - sometimes doing all at once. They passed me around like a Gary doll until a new, too country tune fractured the dance floor and sent most of us into the corners. Once I was out of the gyration, it started to feel claustrophobic. The Alley is a much smaller space than anyone thinks. I filled up my cran and soda another time, and talked to a few people I hadn't seen in a while. An energy surge was accompanying the critical mass of people, shots were being downed all around the bar, in the pool room, in the lounge, in the shuffleboard room. I was bearhugged by a burly guy with an Abraham Lincoln beard, a guy I'd partied with a few times over the summer. "Hey, man. Hey, man! It's fucking great to see you, man. Can I buy you a shot? What are you doing later?"
"Nah, man." I couldn't remember his name. "But it's great to see you, too. I have to get going."
"Alright, cool. But next time, man. And happy freakin New Year, too!"
A beautiful, shining woman with dreds and the smile of a biblical prophet, the band leader's girl, whispered in my ear that she respected my non-drinking and that it must be hard in this scene. Also, that taking the time to know myself, as a man, as a person, instead of running away, was what real women noticed. Depth seeks depth, as water will continue to flow into descending space. Her voice was like a massage, bringing me back to my breath. A couple more goodbyes and a short chat about homeopathy with a chef, and I was shuffling across the ice of the parking lot to my CRV.

Now I'm home dipping thin matzo in sundried tomato pesto and getting sleepy. Back to the Mirabal and dreams of warm, moist breezes and floating in turqoise water.