He’s been staying at Crash Palace, which is a dive, the kind of place that could go up in flames, but you know, losers can’t be beggars. Tara, if she heard, would flick his arm with her fingernail and say, beggars can’t be choosers, but he only ever feels like a loser.
He darts inside the theatre and slinks into a corner to recce the place. There’s an art exhibition in the foyer and a table with pamphlets about suicide, depression and all that shit. A woman with a lanyard takes a step towards him like she’s spotted somebody she can “help”.
But there is no help. Somebody should tell her.
He skirts round the edges, avoiding the people hovering near their artworks like hungry ghosts. There’s a face with portholes for eyes, writing inside, obviously meant to be thoughts. He knows all about that.
Through open doors, people are finding seats, chatting and churning, or maybe it’s him who’s churning. The level of insincerity makes his eyes water. Yet he gathers himself to head inside, into the darkened room of chairs, a snaking line of lights on the floor lighting his way.
Finding a quiet spot up the side, he presses hands together between his knees and waits to see Tara. She’s gonna be the star of this show, no question. She is his star already. Has been since they bumped into each other at Crash Palace. She was wearing a lacy dress with black Docs like she was going to a party, though it was six in the morning, sun just lifting above the hills, and she was on her way out, like him, in his brown coat and cap.
You’re that guy, she said.
He stuttered back, unable to respond.
Yet she smiled, and the dingy hallway lit up. The guy who dances.
You saw me? He always has his eyes closed.
The girl winked at him, actually winked. I see all sorts of things, she said, and sailed out of the building on a sudden gust of wind.
So, smitten he was. Abso-f---en-lutely.
Then he found out about the show: “Sweet Selection”. A series of monologues – talking – about “mental health”. Something he’d normally steer completely clear of, the word “manic” like the trigger on a gun. Triggering, in fact. Yep, people who didn’t know what it was really like, people wearing lanyards, and people who were acting. She was in it – there was a photo in the local paper of the actors and her name was Tara.
Despite all that, he bought a ticket, using two-dollar coins.
They met for coffee at a place where the staff seemed to know her. Was this a good thing or bad? If people knew her at this place, then they will see him with her and ask questions. Who is this guy? Maybe they will track him down to Crash Palace, asking their questions, and he’ll get in trouble with the management. Management always have it in for him, even though he keeps to himself.
I’m buying, she said, her gleaming eyes looking inside his head and seeing all the hidden stuff. What would you like?
Latte. Please.
Tara was buying him a drink: she had to be the most amazing person in the world.
At the table, she propped her chin on her hand and gazed at him. Tell me about yourself, she said, like it was totally normal. It made him feel flustered – where to start? – and he was mesmerised by her thickly mascara-ed eyelashes and creamy throat. So he said the first thing that popped into his head.
There are no second acts in American lives.
She smiled largely, lips plush and ruby-red, and he felt like he’d won a prize.
Tell me about that.
So he talked about how sometimes he feels like the Florida guy. The one who got his hand bitten off by a croc. Or the one who fell off the back of a moving truck. Though not the one who stood for president. How it might seem like it, but America gives no second chances. Things are cut and thrust, dog eat dog. It’s something he thinks about a lot. If he lived in America, he probably wouldn’t even be alive; he’d have run out of second chances. Least here, in Aotearoa, a person can have a go, can be accepted for who they are, they can do something again and again until they get it right – the way he will set up his spot in the street and start dancing and people will sometimes give him money, gold coins, once a $5 note. He dances on a square of carpet, feet shuffling to the jagged tune that’s always in his head, one-two, one-two.
Where did the dancing come from? Tara asked.
He blinked at her creamy throat, taken aback, why did she want to know about that? Never mind.
When I was a little kid, he told her, the house was real noisy, so I used to dance in a corner and it made me feel better.
There was a day of overcast shivering and he’d been walking the streets for hours when he spied the square of carpet in the dumpster. He remembered the dancing as a little kid. It was like a portal opening up. So he found the exact corner on the street that felt right, put down the carpet and, eyes closed, simply started the dance he used to do.
It kind of works, he admitted.
Brilliant, she said.
The coffees were gone, an echo of cinnamon on his lips. Tara was standing up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Gotta shoot, she said and left, just like that, no looking back.
So when he saw in the paper about Tara he knew he had to go. It wasn’t hard when you broke it down: you bought a ticket and went to the place at the right time.
In the dim room, he watches as one actor after another strides out and starts talking. It’s nearly real. They stride off again, through the curtains on the other side.
But where is Tara? His knee jiggles as he waits, he can’t stop it, barely listening to the actors who come and go.
Then suddenly, there she is. Black Docs, though no lacy dress, wearing a familiar brown coat and man’s cap. He nearly doesn’t recognise her. His breath stutters: she will see him, even though he’s perched at the edge, she will know he’s there to watch her. Maybe they will go for coffee again after the show.
Tara puts down a square of carpet and starts to talk, in a rush, and his world jumps slantways, like an aftershock. He is looking through a porthole, a portal, seeing himself doing the shuffle-dance. He hears himself speaking. When I was a little kid …
Her gaze scans the room, then finds him, eyes widening in shock.
He doesn’t quail … stays staunch in the moment.
Tara nods a decision, and holds out her hand. People will think it’s part of the show.
Dry mouth, hot face – feeling the fear, but doing it anyway – he stumbles down to her and over the snaking line of lights to take her hand. He shuts his eyes and dances to the jangle in his head.
Tina Shaw is a novelist and editor based in Taupō. She won the 2023 Michael Gifkins Text Prize for her unpublished manuscript, A House Built on Sand.
