With a lit cigarette affixed to the corner of his mouth, he perched on his stool, his legs barely reaching the top rung. He punched the keys on the register and I handed the little person my $5. Knowing what I know about geographical stereotypes, I wondered who let him into Texas.
I followed my cousins into Red River, a slice of authentic Texan nightlife. The twang of country music reverberated around the barn-like venue. A large pole or support beam was in the center of a circular dance floor. The DJ, a man contributing to this, was in a small room high above the two-steppin’ epicenter. A fair amount of people were doing the two step as my cousins sang along from our booth overlooking the floor. With my eyes locked-in on the couples’ feet, I tried to figure out the steps. Some couples spun around quickly, while others mixed in turns and variations. Why is it whenever you’re trying to learn a dance you never see anyone doing the basic?
“Look at that cowboy,” my cousin Emily admiringly remarked while pointing. A tall man with a hat was warming up by dancing around the floor by himself. My cousins also pointed out the other good dancers and I did my best to lift their steps. By this time the dance hall was full-up. I reckon a good 250-300, including some pretty young women that I didn’t ask to dance. It’s the Andrew way.
Emily touted the dirt cheap price of booze at the north Houston hot spot. With credit card in hand, I headed to one of the three bars with her boyfriend. When we returned with a club soda, rum and coke, Bud light and 7&7 (I’ll let you guess which was mine), she asked me the total. She seemed befuddled when I told her the total was $9.50. Coming from Chicago, where I recently spent more than that on one drink in Viagra Triangle—not my scene, I discovered—u was elated.
As our drinks were running low, a waitress walked by asking if we needed another round. Her work attire consisted of the following: jeans and a white button down shirt. She opted to only use two of the buttons near her navel. This exposed what most would deem an ample chest region. Her bright pink push-up bra distracted me from her face. Not sure if she had one. The consensus at the table was D’s. I applaud this girl for the truly creative part of her uniform. Like many of you, I often misplace my pen leaving me sans writing utensil and unable to take down a girl’s number at a club or strike up a game of Tic Tac Toe with strangers on the bus. This girl—I didn’t find a name tag—came up with a solution. Nestle the pen in between your boobs. Brilliant. I tried unsuccessfully when I returned home. I was curious if I paid by credit card where I’d have to swipe.
After she left and I was able to blink again, Emily took me on the floor for a quick lesson. The two step is a lie. It’s really five. Once I got past this, we were steppin’ our way to a cup on Dancing With the Stars. I avoided bumping into anyone for fear of being shot. We returned to our booth and I resumed playing the crowd-pleasing game of “Where’s that waitress?” Later I danced with my cousin Amanda before we all got on the floor for the Cupid Shuffle line dance. I didn’t get a chance to bid adieu to our cocktail waitress.
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