Just a little something I've been working on. . . I hope you all enjoy.
COMPASSION FOR THE LION
A balmy night in a local night club somewhere in Fiji. . .
A young testosterone charged twenty-something slicked up and scantily clad is ready for a night of action and dancing. All he wants to do is find a young person to dance with. He is not desperate, just not gender specific. He has spent hours upon hours watching Bollywood films whilst practicing all of the latest moves. He aims to impress. It doesn’t matter that he is only 5’1. It doesn’t matter that he only weighs 90 pounds soaking wet. It doesn’t even matter that he is wearing a very expensive Fijian version of Old Spice. All that matters is that he looks great on the dance floor wearing his perfectly tailored, perfectly pressed, perfectly perfect outfit.
He comes here every Friday with hopes of filling that nothingness that is slowly sucking the life out of his small body. He knows that everyone is mystified and intimidated by his slick moves and smooth style and that’s why they choose not to dance with him. But that is going to change tonight, this is his territory and tonight is the night this lone lion finds love.
He scans the club with desire, his loneliness disguised by his imitation Oakley sunglasses. Maybe, just maybe, someone will join him. He arrived tonight as soon as the doors opened to ensure a prime table location right in front of the dance floor. He made sure it was the largest table with the most chairs. . . Just in case.
He strolls up to the bar and buys a pitcher of beer with five glasses. . . to signify his willingness to share. He pours the frosty Fiji Gold into his glass and coyly sneaks a peek at the girls that are starting to filter into the club. His foot slowly begins to tap with the beat of the music.
Not yet. Wait for it. Wait. for. it.
Suddenly the music changes and the undeniable ching-ching a ling ching-ching of a Bollywood song is pumped through the smoke laden air. This is it, his moment to shine. It doesn’t matter that there is no one else on the dance floor. It doesn’t matter that everyone is staring at him. He sets down his pitcher and coolly slides to the dance floor and with an explosion of raw emotion, passion, and two left feet, he makes his usual Friday night debut. Nothing else exists for the next two minutes, thirty-two seconds except him, the dance floor and his favorite music. Alas, the song is over and a terrible mash-up of Beyonce’s “ All the single ladies” blasts through the air.
Dripping with sweat, smelling of an intense mixture of curry, beer, and stale cigarettes, he makes his way back to his table. Giggles from around the club, whispers and stares from the cute girls, fat guys, and even the lady boys. They all want me, there are just intimidated, he reminds himself. He notices a table of six young locals sitting next to him. Maybe they will ask me to join tem. He looks around and then suddenly meets the pretty one’s eyes. The hair on the back of his neck stands straight up and his already clammy hands turn into showers. She smiles and gets out of her seat. She is coming over! Be cool. Be cool.
“Bula”, she sweetly says.
“Bula”, he says with a shred of confidence.
“Do you mind if we take a few chairs from you? We have a couple more people joining us.”
He tries to hide his disappointment, “Sure, I have some friends coming too, but we’ll probably be on the dance floor most of the night”.
“Vinaka.”
“Your welcome. Have fun.”
What’s a few chairs to him? Those girls were too old for him anyway, plus, they were probably Kalavos.
Boom boom da da deedeedee. .
Wait, there it is again. That pulse that turns him into a maniac on the dance floor. He’s off again, body convulsing to the beat of the music. His eyes wild and his body monster like, with legs and arms flailing in every direction, scaring the shit out of everyone who is watching. Then suddenly he catches a glimpse of someone at his table. Like a lion on the prowl he stalks his prey, then instantly realizes that this beautiful lioness is taking the remainder of the chairs at HIS table. ROAR!!!!
“Excuse me darling, what are you doing?”
And with the most conieving and delicious grin she replies “All of my super hot girlfriends need a place to sit, I hope you don’t mind. You’re a really good dancer by the way.”
“Sure, um take the chairs, maybe we can, um, dance later?”
“Yeeaaah, no. But thanks for the chairs!” she laughs and practically runs away.
She was messing with me about the good dancer thing.
He is left standing alone at his table. No chairs. No friends joining him. Just him, his pitcher of beer and the extra glasses. . . and just then the bus boy walks by and removes all of the empty glasses from his table.
Feeling defeated but not allowing his embarrassment percolate to the surface, he decides to pound the rest of his pitcher and hit the dance floor once again. Remember, this is his night and nothing will let him down. He knows he is an amazing guy, they are just intimidated, remember?
Hopefully the beer will give him some liquid courage. . .
Slightly rejuvenated and certainly still hopeful about the evening, he optimistically floats to the dance floor, and with an heir of confidence he glances back at his table. . the one that is now being taken by the bouncer to be used for a large party at the other side of the club.
Alone in the night, depression sinking in once again, he sighs to himself. . . Maybe next Friday.
Samantha Scholl
November 23, 2009
COMPASSION FOR THE LION
A balmy night in a local night club somewhere in Fiji. . .
A young testosterone charged twenty-something slicked up and scantily clad is ready for a night of action and dancing. All he wants to do is find a young person to dance with. He is not desperate, just not gender specific. He has spent hours upon hours watching Bollywood films whilst practicing all of the latest moves. He aims to impress. It doesn’t matter that he is only 5’1. It doesn’t matter that he only weighs 90 pounds soaking wet. It doesn’t even matter that he is wearing a very expensive Fijian version of Old Spice. All that matters is that he looks great on the dance floor wearing his perfectly tailored, perfectly pressed, perfectly perfect outfit.
He comes here every Friday with hopes of filling that nothingness that is slowly sucking the life out of his small body. He knows that everyone is mystified and intimidated by his slick moves and smooth style and that’s why they choose not to dance with him. But that is going to change tonight, this is his territory and tonight is the night this lone lion finds love.
He scans the club with desire, his loneliness disguised by his imitation Oakley sunglasses. Maybe, just maybe, someone will join him. He arrived tonight as soon as the doors opened to ensure a prime table location right in front of the dance floor. He made sure it was the largest table with the most chairs. . . Just in case.
He strolls up to the bar and buys a pitcher of beer with five glasses. . . to signify his willingness to share. He pours the frosty Fiji Gold into his glass and coyly sneaks a peek at the girls that are starting to filter into the club. His foot slowly begins to tap with the beat of the music.
Not yet. Wait for it. Wait. for. it.
Suddenly the music changes and the undeniable ching-ching a ling ching-ching of a Bollywood song is pumped through the smoke laden air. This is it, his moment to shine. It doesn’t matter that there is no one else on the dance floor. It doesn’t matter that everyone is staring at him. He sets down his pitcher and coolly slides to the dance floor and with an explosion of raw emotion, passion, and two left feet, he makes his usual Friday night debut. Nothing else exists for the next two minutes, thirty-two seconds except him, the dance floor and his favorite music. Alas, the song is over and a terrible mash-up of Beyonce’s “ All the single ladies” blasts through the air.
Dripping with sweat, smelling of an intense mixture of curry, beer, and stale cigarettes, he makes his way back to his table. Giggles from around the club, whispers and stares from the cute girls, fat guys, and even the lady boys. They all want me, there are just intimidated, he reminds himself. He notices a table of six young locals sitting next to him. Maybe they will ask me to join tem. He looks around and then suddenly meets the pretty one’s eyes. The hair on the back of his neck stands straight up and his already clammy hands turn into showers. She smiles and gets out of her seat. She is coming over! Be cool. Be cool.
“Bula”, she sweetly says.
“Bula”, he says with a shred of confidence.
“Do you mind if we take a few chairs from you? We have a couple more people joining us.”
He tries to hide his disappointment, “Sure, I have some friends coming too, but we’ll probably be on the dance floor most of the night”.
“Vinaka.”
“Your welcome. Have fun.”
What’s a few chairs to him? Those girls were too old for him anyway, plus, they were probably Kalavos.
Boom boom da da deedeedee. .
Wait, there it is again. That pulse that turns him into a maniac on the dance floor. He’s off again, body convulsing to the beat of the music. His eyes wild and his body monster like, with legs and arms flailing in every direction, scaring the shit out of everyone who is watching. Then suddenly he catches a glimpse of someone at his table. Like a lion on the prowl he stalks his prey, then instantly realizes that this beautiful lioness is taking the remainder of the chairs at HIS table. ROAR!!!!
“Excuse me darling, what are you doing?”
And with the most conieving and delicious grin she replies “All of my super hot girlfriends need a place to sit, I hope you don’t mind. You’re a really good dancer by the way.”
“Sure, um take the chairs, maybe we can, um, dance later?”
“Yeeaaah, no. But thanks for the chairs!” she laughs and practically runs away.
She was messing with me about the good dancer thing.
He is left standing alone at his table. No chairs. No friends joining him. Just him, his pitcher of beer and the extra glasses. . . and just then the bus boy walks by and removes all of the empty glasses from his table.
Feeling defeated but not allowing his embarrassment percolate to the surface, he decides to pound the rest of his pitcher and hit the dance floor once again. Remember, this is his night and nothing will let him down. He knows he is an amazing guy, they are just intimidated, remember?
Hopefully the beer will give him some liquid courage. . .
Slightly rejuvenated and certainly still hopeful about the evening, he optimistically floats to the dance floor, and with an heir of confidence he glances back at his table. . the one that is now being taken by the bouncer to be used for a large party at the other side of the club.
Alone in the night, depression sinking in once again, he sighs to himself. . . Maybe next Friday.
Samantha Scholl
November 23, 2009
posted by Sam Scholl/Brad Macpherson at 11:27 PM
4 Comments:
Where in the world do you come up with this stuff!!!!. Amazing truly amazing.
Samantha you are a unreal writer....go for it. This should be published!!! I want to know what happens next!!!
Love you
Love mom xoxoxoxoxo
Ahhhhh, the poor guy...Chapter 2, Chapter 2!!
The poor sap.. I agree with mom, You should be a writer. So was this character someone that you saw personally at a club or is he fictional?? Either way, he reminds me a little of myself on Friday's. J/K..lol
Brother Scholl
Sam
I truely understand this guy, Who cares if alone. at least he's out and about, and not just siting in a room somewhere waiting for a call. He's living the life.
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