“No, wait!” he said, as she pulled him toward the floor. “I slept in the car last night, my back …”
“All the more reason to shake youself loose,” she said.
She held his hand and whipped her hard lean body through the Dog and the Frug and the Pony and the Swim. As Hard Candy crossed the dance floor for more beer, she pinched Poncy’s old flabby ass. He tried to turn around but Susan Gender held his hands tight.
“Please,” said Poncy, but a little jolt of pleasure had moved on his spine.
“I’m gone give you a goose ever time I catch you not shaking it,” yelled Hard Candy Sweet.
Poncy saw the farmer slowly lift his eyes under the brim of the felt hat and look at them steadily, with no expression at all on his face. His eyes looked like nailheads over his wind-burned cheeks. Poncy started moving his hips and shoulders and hands. He had no idea if what he was doing was right. There did not seem to be a right or wrong way, since Susan Gender wasn’t doing anything the same way twice.
Joe Lon and Willard came wandering over from the pool table to the dance floor. Behind them Duffy Deeter still leaned on the green velvet table under the swinging overhead light.
“Come on back over here,” he called.
“What did he win off you?” Hard Candy asked.
“Couple dollars,” said Joe Lon.
“You could train a goddam monkey to shoot pool,” Willard said.
They stood at the edge of the dance floor watching Poncy jump awkwardly about, hobbling after the spinning, stroking Susan Gender.
“Susan’s teaching Poncy to dance,” Hard Candy said. “Ain’t he just the ugliest fucking thing you ever seen?”
“Well, shit,” said Joe Lon, “if Enreeker wants to dance, we’ll hep’m. Git us another pitcher, Hard Candy.”
Joe Lon walked out onto the floor. Willard turned a chair around, sat down, and put his arms on the back of it. Hard Candy went to the bar for a pitcher and stood looking at Willard while it was drawn from the tap. Joe Lon stopped alongside Poncy and Susan. Poncy was concentrating on his broken little dance when Joe Lon picked him off his feet. He caught Poncy’s belt on each hip and lifted him as if he’d been a child. Poncy’s feet kept moving while Joe Lon turned him through the air and set him down in front of Willard’s chair.
“We don’t allow nothing half-ass around here, Enreeker,” said Joe Lon bitterly. “You gone dance, goddammit, you got to dance.”
Hard Candy came back with the beer. Duffy Deeter had strolled out onto the rough wooden floor in front of the jukebox and pumped in some more quarters. Susan Gender had sweated through her blouse and the farmer’s nailhead eyes watched her little hard-nosed titties plunge against the fabric as she jacked around to the music while James Brown screamed: “I don’t know karate but I know kaRAZOR.”
“I had to sleep in the car last night,” Poncy was trying to say. “My back hurts like a … like a …” But he couldn’t get it out because Joe Lon had him by the seat of the pants and Willard had him by the belt buckle and they were punching his hips back and forth between them.
“Basic move,” shouted Joe Lon right into Poncy’s face. “It’s you stroke. You cain’t stroke, you cain’t dance.”
“Oh, God, God,” said Poncy, his eyes round, his lips gray. They were hurting him. But if either of them knew it they didn’t show it. Their own faces were flushed, their lips peeled back in what was alternately snarl and laughter.
“Watch her,” cried Willard, still seated, still holding Poncy by his double knits, punching him in the ass counterpoint to the punch Joe Lon gave him in his old melon belly. Poncy was beginning to hunch and stroke as best he could to avoid being hurt but he couldn’t do it very well because there was a stick of pure fire standing in his lower back. He was terrified that he would either cry or shit on himself. The punches in the belly had made him flatulent but thank God, thank God the music was loud enough to cover him. “Watch her,” Willard was screaming in his ear.
“Wave you goddam hands, Enreeker,” said Joe Lon.
Poncy waved his hands.
“Watch’r feet,” said Joe Lon.
Poncy could only roll his eyes at them and wave his hands and arms.
Duffy had been leaning against the slot, where he was feeding quarters into the jukebox. His eyes and Willard’s happened to meet briefly and when they did Duffy came bucking across the floor to Hard Candy. His hands moved in one direction, his feet in another, his body in still another, all of it synchronized with the music and all of it at blinding speed. His head stayed rock still, his eyes fixed on Hard Candy. She’d stopped pouring beer and set the pitcher down. Her eyes were shiny, her lips swollen. Her body started to pulse, then pump, and they moved out onto the dance floor, separate, no longer even looking at each other, but absolutely together.
“Jesus,” said Willard to Joe Lon, “ain’t it nothing that little sucker cain’t do?”
They held Poncy tight between them, and since they had stopped making him hunch and flap his arms he thought they were through with him. He took a deep breath and just to keep things nice and easy and conversational so they wouldn’t think of punching him again, Poncy said: “He’s quite something, isn’t he?” He’d made it as formal as he could because he didn’t ever want them to think he was mocking the way they talked again, but Joe Lon turned on him anyway, jerking as if he had been burned. His nostrils flared. His head seemed to tremble, and his staring blue eyes were intense enough to look crossed.
“Quite something?” Joe Lon demanded. “Willard, is he gone stand around saying shit like quite something or not?”
Willard popped out of his chair, raising Poncy about six inches off the floor by the belt when he did. Poncy got one quick glimpse and closed his eyes. Willard looked completely nuts. Willard and Joe Lon, shouting quite something, quite quite something, dragged Poncy toward the center of the dance floor. Once they had him out in front of the jukebox, each of them took one of his hands and started going round and round him as if he was a maypole and each of his arms were streamers. They held tight and skipped in a little dance step to the music. Hard Candy stopped dancing and took hold of Poncy too. Hard Candy had him by the tail of his Banlon shirt and Susan Gender, unable to find anything better to hold on to, caught Poncy by a roll of fat on his hip. They were laughing and singing and Poncy was screaming but the music was so loud it sounded like they were all having just the best time. Poncy was very dizzy and very sick to his stomach and a thin stream of shit had slipped down his leg. He tried to fall down but Joe Lon and Willard wouldn’t let him. The farmer in the overalls slowly turned his back on them and sat staring down into his glass of whiskey.
Poncy was too weak to scream by the time the record finally ended. He was soaked with sweat and his nostrils were full of the thick smell of himself. They leaned inward on him, hanging to his arms and clothing, their hot beery breaths churning his stomach.
“Let’s go to your place and eat snake,” Willard finally yelled at Joe Lon.
“He got snake?” said Duffy Deeter.
“He ain’t got but about twenty,” said Willard.
They’d turned Poncy loose and left him where he stood in the middle of the dance floor, panting and sweating. It was almost as if they had forgotten he was there now that they had quit playing with him.
“I’ll get us a little beer to ride on,” said Duffy.
They were already heading for the door when Willard stopped and went back to where Poncy was. He took him by the shoulder and led him toward the door.
Joe Lon said: “Damn if I don’t believe Enreeker’s shit on his sef.”