I agree with your assessment that the story may lag in a few places. I have a tendency to get a little over-descriptive. But I disagree with your idea to “shave off” the introduction as I feel that in its present form it really sets the stage for the narration and lets the reader know my feelings on the subject. I think, if anything, I need to iron out the entire piece and makes sure that it flows well, as you said, and is consistent throughout. The last time I edited this, I added the intro, expanded and clarified the story a little bit, and changed the ending. Now I think I need to go back and tighten everything up so I can really get my point across. That’s what I’m going to try to do next. You may be right about the intro, we’ll see how it works after this next version.
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Non-fiction / The Raleigh School of Dance
Part I: The Roadhouse
I’ve never claimed to have much worldly experience. I know that I am grossly naïve. Out of this ignorance I had mistakenly assumed that a “Roadhouse” was something only seen in the slick, blow-dried eighties movie starring Patrick Swayze.
But this morning I am here to tell you that the tradition of the Roadhouse is alive and well, thriving here at the outskirts of Raleigh at a club called the Longbranch.
When we walk in, the entrance is quiet and subdued. We pass a couple stumbling out, the sour scent of vomit on the cool breeze of this unseasonably chilly March night. He heads for his gigantic white rounded truck and she, in her leopard print dress and white cowboy boots, hangs on to him for dear life.
Inside, a smoky haze fills the open vestibule, staining the glass with a slick film – mucus from the sickly lungs that heave and cough the muffled music from behind chipped wooden doors.
The lobby has a neon afterglow to it, a black light ambience mixed with the harsher, colder, matter-of-fact light emanating from the fluorescent lights mounted high up in the corkboard ceiling. Here, in the antechamber, the two fronts meet; sweaty rowdy alcohol fueled bodies husking hot breath touch the cold and spacious darkness outside confusing the already dizzy barometric pressure of spring. A small ATM stands far off in the lonely corner, charging outrageous service fees for cash that must be hastily withdrawn in order to purchase sweetened shots of liquid courage.
Throughout the high-ceilinged foyer a handful of random characters are scattered. A sheriff’s deputy stands a few not-so-innocent feet from a scantily clad young woman. The doorman sits on a bar stool, he is unnaturally tan and his outfit and youthful attire belie a carefully orchestrated attempt to cover some inner wrinkly sleaziness. His teeth are very white and I am temporarily blinded when I pay my cover charge.
We enter and collect ourselves; a few of our group go to use the restroom. I stand, conspicuously alone, next to a vacant table near the front of the concert hall. I look around and see that the club is divided into two parts; one being a country music hall, complete with raised stage and wooden dance floor, the other being a “Top-40” section located in the dimly lit cave of a corner. Current music seems to halt abruptly at the threshold, afraid to discover what might happen if it dared to trespass. There are multiple bars spread throughout the place, each one conveniently numbered. Throughout the course of our night we get most of our drinks from “Bar Number 5”, tended to by a buxom brunette cowgirl who seems to be in some pain due to the considerable size of her endowments. I must admit that I found myself becoming mildly obsessed with her hind end.
When everyone returns from their bathroom breaks we purchase beers and head to the Top-40 section, carefully traversing a trail through the ten-gallon hats. We stand around and sip, tapping our feet and nodding our heads to the beat. A girl in a dark coat comes by with a satchel full of Camel cigarettes and asks us if we would like any. Not fully aware of what I’m about to get us into I say “yes”. She whips out some sort of contraption, asks for my driver’s license, and begins rapidly entering information into her machine. Somewhat alarmed, but remaining composed, I deftly request that she send whatever offers or coupons (to include the receipt for the sale of my soul) to my P.O. Box in Jacksonville and not to my parent’s house.
After a time I begin to feel sufficiently drunk to succumb to the part of me that is moved by the music and I step onto the dance floor. I have a hard time getting any girls to dance with me. I would start strutting my stuff to an eligible candidate and she would turn to one of her girlfriends and whisper, “I don’t want to dance with that guy.” So I became “that guy”. Oh well. I found myself wishing for a girl with a sense of humor.
Meanwhile, oily well-dressed and groomed men, pushing middle age with full heads of grey hair, were dancing with young attractive girls who seemed to be yapping at their presumably well-endowed wallets attracted by the faint smell of success and stability emanating from their starched layers of artifice.
I was particularly intrigued by one of these gentlemen. I would guess his age to be forty-three. He had the build of a high-school athlete and was dressed and coiffed like a twenty something. His grey hair was gelled and meticulously mussed; his jowls sported the hint of stubble. He was flirting with a girl who was easily half his age and size. He would slap her ass, throw his head back and laugh. He seemed like the star quarterback for the local big school, his juvenile spirit frozen in time while his body was left to age. I found myself both reviling and admiring him. His youthful exuberance and daring was more than I could muster at twenty-one years of age. The way he handled this young woman was unprecedented in my eyes. It left me wondering what other respectable men and women had been up to throughout my life when it had been past my bedtime.
White phosphorescent moving walls emblazoned with the word “security” patrolled slowly through the club, lumbering and floating, the bulk and bright garb parting the seas of partiers as black radios crackled and shrank in their meaty, swollen hands.
I’ve only been friends with two white guys who can dance in my life. One is my friend Jonas and the other is my friend Austin. Having Austin and his girlfriend Emily there was an immense comfort as I tried to navigate the seas of rejection. Despite their encouragement and my game hopefulness, my attempts to engage a partner in dance never came to fruition.
I left the club that night with a new goal in mind: to learn how to dance.
Part II: Class is in Session
To that end, I sat down to watch the movie Step Up, “a heartwarming tale…” Judging by the first strains of Hip-Hop at the opening credits I thought I would just use the movie to pick up a few pointers. However, after watching it for a while I surprised myself by actually getting into the story. I found myself being emotionally stirred by this movie that I had expected to be superficial lite-entertainment.
Instead, I found the characters to be genuine and the story to be touching and rather compelling, the further I was drawn into the movie the more my notions about dancing and clubbing began to change.
During one of the dance scenes I found myself pondering the very nature of the beast. The scene takes place during the rising action of the movie. The main characters are at a club to hear some of their friends perform. As the performance begins, they begin to dance, the music swells and passions rise; something is definitely going on between these characters. Something brought about by, expounded upon, and elevated by dance. The characters had a touching and rather beautiful connection and their dance came from a place of promise.
Thus moved, I reflected on my night at the Longbranch and the dancing that I both observed and perpetrated there. I found myself thinking, as I watched this movie on my friend’s luxurious couch in the clean, clear light of day, that the raunchy, sloppy bump and grind of the sweaty alcoholic atmosphere of the club was a serious perversion of what is best about dancing.
Dancing, at its best, is about jubilant expression and catharsis. The body becomes one with the music and the all the tedious self-consciousness of everyday life is released and discarded, worked off, pumped into the air with the bass line to the place where it is allowed to dissolve back into the areas of life where tension is needed and useful.
I resolved to bring my dancing to a place that was pure. Unfortunately, being a white guy with no rhythm, I think that’s the place it will have to stay.
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This is an interesting piece, and with some editing it could become great. The begining was a little bit hard for me to get into. I thought having the definition was interesting, but the explanation of it sort of dragged on a little.
YOu need to work on word cutting, generally the more you can say in as few words the more vivid the imagery is. Also I realize it might be hard to remember but I would love to have more of a visual of the actual dance you were doing at the club. Knowing that it was sloppy and people were backing away from you really does not tell me much.
As far as the minor movie plot summery, you really do not need it, because that is not really important to the story you are writing, but rather the place in which you are finding an understanding.
I would really appriciate more of the reaction your friend have, if anyone made any good comments during the film, what you were doing (did u actually attempt any of the dance moves?)
I feel like you have glossed over things that would make this piece more interesting and would help the reader to understand the eventual epiphany
Good luck with this piece and any other writing that you are working on.
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i think that throughout the story there are a lot of details that you should dig in deeper for them to be interesting, because like this they just slow down the narration, and make it boring sometimes (in my eyes that s, of course..). for example the bit where you talk about the meeting with your friends parents and the quick drink. as it is, you could easily cut it much shorter and the story with flow the same. but if you described the scene more intimately, than it would actually bring something new to the whole picture.
the introduction, including the part where you talk about your sister’s dancing abilities, i think you cut shave that bit off..
hope this is of any help
This is really good. You have a lot of details and the description of things in the story are very in depth and real. Dancing is something that a lot of people are into whether it be hip hop, tap, etc. SO I think a lot of people would read this just because it has something to do with dancing.
Not bad at all, of course this piece is very original and its bloody awesome to read something real and human for once on here. So two thumbs up from me mate. I think it was awesome its different, its unique and based a real-life experience I too write from real life experience well its based around true events anyways.
I gave you a 10 for your goal because you so deserve it.
Keep up the great work man your definitely onto it =)
Amy
this story touched me it goes to show that guys can be as sensitive has women and that they think about and feel almost the same way we do. I myself thought when I saw the title “Roadhouse’ it was a tribute to the movie with patrick swayze but this story was good it touched me and i am surprised because normally i do not read non-fiction. Hopefully the writer of this story did manage to try to work on his dancing it sad to sit on the side lines all your life weither you have rhythym or not.
Your work is good. Definitely a work in progress.
Always start with the positivies, right?
I think you do a great job of painting a very clear picture. Your voice through out the story is great. You do have some progress to make in tenses, but altogether it is a good piece.
As far as things that I struggled with:
First and foremost, your story borders a little on the wordy side. There are times when your descriptions are so detailed that I got distracted and had a hard time focusing on what it was that you were trying to tell the reader. My other issue is with transitions…there are times when your transitions between concepts are pretty abrupt.
On the whole a great piece!
Your narrative style is easy reading. That most important! I enjoyed the colourful sleezy bar, clients & staff. The name ‘Roadhouse,’ passing traffic is about right. Not a place to go & see quality dancing. Just a pick up joint, where the girls are after the fat wallets not the handsome young bucks. I was expecting part 2 to be about going along to a real dance class & getting formal instruction though. I wonder how far anyone can get learning as skill from a movie, or even an instructional video. Yes, there are some people who do. They are naturals. The rest of us can learn to dance well with the proper correction.
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