“I tell ya, man. You were a sad sight down there, flailing about,” said Jerry.
“You could have helped me.”
“Nah,” he replied with a laugh. “What are you drinking?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
He held his tumbler of chunky pink liquid up for me to see. “I doubt you’d like it. It’s fermented bacon fat. An acquired taste.”
I snatched the tumbler from his hand and took a sip. The revolting slush clung to my throat, inviting vomit. My whole body cringed. “Perfect,” I said. “I’ll have one.”
“Whatever you say, man.”
He gestured toward the barman, then toward his tumbler and then toward me. The barman nodded and made his way over to something resembling a clothesline from which hung strips of vulgar bacon. He milked the bacon strips into an empty tumbler, which filled gradually with liquid ipecac.
It was placed in front of me with nonchalance. I gave a nod and shuddered a mouthful down, making strangled duck noises all the while.
“Do you remember that girl I was talking to last time we were here?” I asked Jerry.
“Which girl?”
“I scratched an itch she had. Ring any bells?”
“Vaguely, man… I think she took you into the backroom after your little ‘incident’”
My eyed bulged. “That’s it! So I did go out back with her?”
“More like you were carried, ya drunk fuck.”
“What did we do while out back?”
He shotgunned the remaining bacon broth and wiped his lip. “I dunno, man. I figured you were taken care of, and if I remember correctly, I hooked up with a couple of midget chicks in a long trench coat.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were pretending to be one person, man!”
The chances of me gleaning anymore information from Jerry were unlikely. I needed to speak to her. I gestured toward a barman. He made his way slowly toward me.
“What’ll be?” he asked, clearly uninterested.
“Do I look familiar to you?”
“Nope.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and pressed on. “Does a lady work here?”
“Yep. You after any lady in particular?”
The only reference point I had was someone dressed in a tent. Given everyone behind the bar was dressed the same, I doubted it would help.
“She had an itchy nose when I was here last time.”
“You mean Becky?”
“Maybe…” I replied. “Is Becky prone to getting an itchy nose?”
“You could say that. We all get itchy, but she’s the only one I’ve ever seen ask a customer to scratch her.”
“Do you know when she works next?” I asked with desperation that made my voice squeak.
He glanced at the fluorescent blue clock behind him. “She starts in just over an hour. Now are you ordering anything or what?”
I lifted my arms triumphantly like I’d just won a Winter Olympic curling event. The barman shook his head and walked away.
“What are you so happy about?” asked Jerry.
“Looks like I found her.”
“Found who?”
I shot him a dismissive glance. “That tent girl I was telling you about. She starts her shift in an hour.”
Jerry chuckled. “Well you’ve got an hour. Build up some courage.”
He passed me another tumbler of bacon muck, which I choked down against anything resembling better judgment. I felt a tap on my shoulder.
It took me a good 20 minutes to turn myself around. When I did, a woman was staring at me. She looked… okay. Her teeth bore evidence of lifelong chain smoking. What looked to me like labia swung like bulldog cheeks beneath her micro mini skirt. The skin around her cleavage looked like an aged map, and the breasts themselves seeped through the arm holes of her singlet.
“Hey, don’t I know you?” she asked. Her voice sounded like liposuction.
“Umm… I don’t think so.”
With an exploratory finger excavating the innermost recesses of her nostril, the woman cocked her head and gave me a squint. She withdrew her finger and pointed toward the ceiling when recognition hit — a worm of blood drizzling from her nose. “I know! You’re the tumour guy!”
I was stunned. It was like how Casper Van Dien must feel — occasionally recognised. This woman suddenly appeared more attractive to me. Her labia retreated. The skin on her cleavage whitened (as did her teeth).
“Yes, that’s me,” I said with attempted suave, even twirling at a non-existent moustache. “Are you a fan?”
The woman placed a clammy hand on my shoulder and nodded. “I’ve got all the videos. You have fucking hot tumours.”
I could feel my cheeks burning with blush. “Thank you.”
“You have to dance with me. It would be such a trip.”
I didn’t know what to do. I had never been asked to dance before. I had never danced before. Even at the height of health, it would be a problematic exercise. Right now, with my legs like they were, I had my doubts that standing up would be possible.
“I don’t know. I’m having trouble standing,” I confided.
“You won’t have to do a thing. I promise.”
Her eyes pleaded. Jerry nudged me and threw a revolting wink. Get in there, he mouthed. He followed this with pelvic thrusts and clenched fists. I looked back at the woman. An errant eyeball hair was swaying in the breeze kicked up by the ceiling fan.
“Let’s dance!” I said.
I tried to stand up, but couldn’t. I stretched my arms toward the woman for assistance. She leant into me and helped me up, then dragged me toward the centre of the dance floor by my armpits. Her arms wrapped around my body in a tight bear hug to the point where my feet lifted from the ground. I convulsed gently in her grip. Hazy Fantazy’s ‘Shiny’ came through the speakers.
"I love this song," the woman whispered before shaking my body around spasmodically.
I could feel the displacement of everything inside my body as she intensified her frenzied shake. Flashes of environment bounced around in a blur and the smell wafting from the woman was profound. I burped a splash of vomit down her back, which she either ignored or failed to notice. The contents of my bowel were slowly being milked out into my diaper. For the briefest moment, I thought this would be the end. My body attained ever greater levels of flaccidity until I spilled through her arms like pancake batter. While on the ground, I could feel the vibration of other dancers massaging me through the floorboards.
The woman knelt down beside me. “Are you alright? The song isn’t even over.”