Salsa

I was drinking again. It was in control but the amount would still shock my mother. I’d reached a healthy balance of one day on and one day off. I would not exceed 5 pints on a weekday so that the weekend’s session still felt like a reward. On the weekend all bets were off. I found that this is what made small town living bearable. When living in London I probably drank the same amount, however, it didn’t feel as desperate or necessary. We would always be celebrating something or socialising in a big group. The conversation, mixed with the fact that everyone did it, made drinking less of a focal point. You were there to laugh and flirt. However, when you’re alone, drinking is a different matter. You are purely in the pub to free yourself from isolation. Those are the two faces of alcohol. You use it to heighten joy or to lighten sorrow. With no one but my mother and father within walking distance, I definitely had no joy. When a man is truly at the barrels base he looks for no one. He sits in the bar and focuses on his pint. I was him.

The bar was a fairly unfriendly place, not in the traditional sense; the punters weren’t violent or impolite. It was just unfriendly as no one wanted to make friends. It felt like there had been an agreement made that all of us should keep our distance from one another. Although we saw each other most days, none of us acknowledged the fact. The most hospitality you ever received was a nod from the barman. Even when drunk, you felt that it was impolite to break the silence. If you wanted to talk, you needed to look elsewhere. That’s why the bar was empty and that’s why I chose to sit there. In a world of pretence and upselling, I was proud to walk into a place which did the opposite. It rewrote the rule book and only four patrons and a barman bought into it.

On this Wednesday evening, however, a woman walked in. It was about 9.30 and starting to rain. She jogged through the door, stopping when she felt the atmosphere. Realising that ‘The Jolly Sailor’ was clearly an ironic name, she began to blush.

‘Oh, sorry… Is it alright if I get a gin and tonic?’

She announced this to the whole bar, her embarrassment distorting her ability to act normally. This perpetuated the embarrassment and she started aggressively fiddling with her purse for the correct change. The barman didn’t flinch, poured the drink, took the change and gave the glass to the woman. When she realised that we all sat alone, she came and sat about a yard from me. I sat in an alcove, closest to the door. A pillar blocked the view to the rest of the bar. I used to like this as it allowed me to get drunk in peace. All I had to do was make it to the bar and back and then the rest of the night I could feel free. I never took advantage of this, I would just drink like the rest of them. However, I valued the option to rest my head on the table or reposition my bollocks.

‘Hi, is it ok if I sit here?’

‘Yeah, go ahead.’

Now whispering.

‘I’d never noticed this place before. Why is it so quiet?’

Any response I gave wouldn’t sound good. I could answer that it’s full of lonely bastards who have few or no friends and have therefore found alcohol and silence to be the antidote. This would then put me in their boat, a boat which I had sat in for months. The alternative was to say it was just a quiet night and it’s normally a lot busier. This was clearly a lie as the woman could see. She would also question why I was here. I chose the alternative as it gave me more leverage.

‘Oh, I see, so on the weekend it’s better?’

‘Yeah, it’s got a lot more going for it.’

Meaning one more person.

‘So what do you do?’

I’d never liked this question. Mainly because it didn’t do me any favours and also wasn’t really the question asked. Really people are saying, ‘sell yourself to me whilst I analyse your response and make up my own mind’. I could discuss hundreds of things. I could tell her that I drink a lot but in an ideal world would drink every day. That I often walk the streets at night overwhelmed by the amount of houses and cars, feeling completely and utterly impoverished. That I spend the majority of my time trying to avoid working, have been sacked from most jobs and have an unbelievably small group of friends. However, I could also explain that I am close with my family, work in the catering industry and that I am trying to live a healthier lifestyle.

‘Oh, I see, yeah, I’m trying to be healthier too. Cut down on the drinking, but here we are!’

‘Yeah, it’s tough but someone has to keep the pot wash busy in the week.’

Awful, alcoholic’s joke.

‘So what do you do?’

‘I’m a nurse. I work shifts. I’ve just come off the back of 4 night shifts so I’m a bit of a night owl… Sorry, as I’ve just come off the back of these long shifts, would you like to join me?’

‘Tonight?’

‘Well, obviously, but join me somewhere else?’

She raised her eyebrows and headed for the door. Her damp dress had stuck to her arse and was revealing a descent shape. I drained my pint and when she was firmly out of view drained the rest of her gin. I didn’t look at the rest of the bar as I left, feeling guilty that I left Sergeant Pepper’s band to play its tune. I made a mental note to avoid that place for a week or so as I’d clearly broken multiple sections of the code.’ Talking… talking to a woman… allowing the bar to make me happier…’, the list was endless.

I winced at the sun ungratefully when I returned to the street. It was a summers evening and the air was damp and hot.

‘So where are we going?’

‘Salsa.’

‘Salsa? You can’t take a man from there to salsa, it’s too much of an emotional jump.’

She laughed, her wide smile advertising her agreeable face. I decided I wouldn’t protest too much.

‘It’s great! Honestly, you’ll love it.’

‘How do you know? You’ve just scraped me up from in there. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed but it’s not a show bar.’

She laughed again.

‘Because, you seem sad and when I seem sad… I SALSA!’

She then rolled her hips a little. No more fake protest. Tonight I would dance.

When we arrived at the bar, it had the same desperate air as the Sailor’s. The only difference here was that the clientele wanted to do something about it. All of the women were mid thirties, looking over their shoulder at anyone who walked through door. This was flattering when I walked through; however, witnessing it happen over and over eroded the pride. Me and my girlfriend, according to the obviously single room, approached the bar and ordered. She offered to pay and I was given a chance to look at the people. The men appeared to be unlike the women. Where the women were all hunting for a child, smiling at anyone who caught their eye and laughing loudly to show they were having a great time, the men were varied. Some of the men were clearly attempting to relive time spent abroad, long haired and knowing a couple more moves than the novices. They salsa’d around the room, pretending that they were as outgoing and as liberated as the continent they’d spent 6 months on. There were then men who were like the women. Having been told by another lonely mate that, ‘there are loads of women at salsa, you should come, honestly.’ My appearance definitely put me into this category. The final group, and by group, I mean one man, was strictly there for the salsa. Anthony spent his entire time trying to dance with the instructor, in a red low cut shirt and black, slightly flared trousers, you could see that this was no act.

‘Come on, let’s dance!’

I was pulled into the dance floor and spent the next 60 minutes moving. After it was over and everyone stopped pretending that they were enjoying themselves, each couple found an area of the bar to sit and repress what had gone on.

‘It was great wasn’t it!’

‘Yeah, I didn’t think that I would be doing that tonight!’

She then finished her drink purposefully.

‘Right, I’m going home.’

‘What? Why? I thought we’d be just getting started. We’ve barely said a word to each other.’

‘I know, but I’m really tired, all that salsa has ruined me.’

‘But why did you come and get me from the bar?’

‘I went in there because it was raining and I was early to salsa. I saw you and thought you needed a bit of cheering up. It’s 11.30 and it’s a Wednesday night. I want to sort my body clock out after these night shifts as well.’

There were too many reasonable excuses in there for me to protest without appearing lecherous.

‘Oh, well, ok then. It was good meeting you anyway. Have a good night.’

‘I’m going out with my friends on Saturday night, we’ll check out the pub and see what it’s like on the weekend. Bring some of your mates along.’ That sealed the deal. Your mother and father couldn’t be masked as mates and I didn’t want her to see that the pub never got busier. Later on in the week I had a change of heart and tried to summon a group of ‘mates’ together. Everyone was busy and so I spent a night in with my parents watching enthusiastic presenters on the television. Something had gone badly wrong but with no formula to hand, I returned to the pub the following week. No one said a word and time went on.