A TRUE ACCOUNT OF LINE DANCING IN RURAL MAINE, AS REPORTED BY R. BELLINGER, TRAVELING REPRESENTATIVE OF N------- & CO.
Maine, like America, is now two states: blue and red, east and [mid]west, with I-95 running right down the middle. Bored with the uppity little restaurants in Waterville, I sought salvation in my hotel room Yellow Book and discovered a half-page ad for COYOTES COUNTRY BBQ BAR. Located in the town of Oakland, the restaurant--a single-story wooden box with a tiny sign--stands exactly one half mile west of 95. That's as far west as anyone could ever need to get.
Naively, I expected some uncomplicated brisket and baked beans. But the sight of the bar's exterior made me nervous. In my travels, I always drive by the places where Western Maine nightlife takes place: the empty parking lots and decaying exteriors of places like the MELODY RANCH in Fairfield or the STEPPIN' OUT NIGHT CLUB in Jay warn me to get the hell out of the alfalfa fields while the sun is still up.
Coyotes was a bit more well-maintained other places I'd seen, but just on the outside. When I walked into the place, everyone stared and I stared back. To my left, seven men at the bar (six in cowboy hats, one in checkered ballcap). To my right, a floor full of line dancing trainees, encased by Pre-Vatican II style wooden railings. A ZZ-top looking old man with a footlong beard sat at the opening to the floor, doing nothing. It didn't appear that more than a few lightbulbs were on in the place, and soon all the attention was focused again on the dance floor. I asked the little lady behind the bar if I could take a seat somewhere, and wandered across the room. The only open table was in the poolroom, where anorexic men in Harley t-shirts cursed each other out and swung pool cues at each other as they played.
I sat and looked at the menu. I didn't look up for a while. When I realized that nothing productive would come of my sitting, I approached the bar and asked for a pulled pork plate and a Bud. A table had opened up next to the bar, on a raised platform next to the kitchen door and behind two fat elderly people. I took a seat there and hid myself behind their opulent corpora.
From this new vantage point, I discovered a triangular stage far off in the opposite corner. It too was cut off from the dancefloor by the rectangular wooden railing--no "Blues Brothers"-style chicken wire, though. Big, black amps stood silent and waited for weekend brawls.
Basking in the glow of the resident Jager machine, none of the men at the bar talked to each other. They all did, however, talk to the bartender, who was young and nervous. When she brought my food out, she told me that it was her second day and that she had never seen line dancing before, either. The guys at the bar shot dirty looks at me.
As I ate, I began my attempt to understand the line dancing spectacle. It wasn't hard to count how many bodies were on the floor. 7 rows x 3 bodies per row - 1 = 20.
Ninety percent were women, almost all of whom you'd mistake for one another in a lineup. Middle aged, somewhat chubby and short, with bushybig hair that didn't move when they did, even when they jumped. There was one overweight 20something and one anorexic one, the former with a bad tattoo on her lower back and the latter with long, long curly hair and a body none of the cowboys at the bar would forget for weeks, as evinced by the way they all stared at it. The body's owner was all dolled up and pretending not to enjoy her moment, being the only borderline attractive female in a sea of mostly overage fatties. I wondered how many beginner's nights she could go to before the joke wasn't funny anymore.
There were three men on the floor, too, evidently the most desperate. They all hid from view, dancing next to each other against the wall, farthest from the real men at the bar. They made eye contact with nothing--not each other, not the instructor, not the young girl everyone at the bar was staring at.
The instructor was one of the fifteen bushy-haired ladies, the shortest one, in fact. Every time I looked up from my dinner I had to strain my eyes to find the mouth that her bark was coming from...
"...and HIPS
HIPS TO THE RIGHT
HIPS TO THE LEFT
HIPS TO THE RIGHT
HIPS TO THE LEFT
RIGHT, LEFT
RIGHT, LEFT
HEEL, TOE
STEP, TOUCH
CROSS-TOUCH
CROSS-TWO, THREE...JUMP!"
Everyone followed her orders precisely, except for the fattest fatty, whose body just warbled in place. She only looked briefly embarrassed--with a momentarily excessive tinge of pink in cheek and jowl--each time she stopped moving. For the most part, she was enjoying herself.
At the conclusion of each musicless lesson, a hip-hop-country song would come on ("ho-teyll, mo-teyll, hawliday-iynnnnn") and the drill sergeant would continue to bark repetitively all orders until the final chorus.
Then, at the conclusion of each dance, the men ran to the pool tables and the ladies went outside to smoke and avoid being hit on. The instructor offered photocopied stepsheets to her faithful trainees, and one or two would oblige each time. A tall, older guy in a flannel shirt materialized. He appeared to be in charge, telling the bartender and the kitchen kid what to do. He laughed loudly, clutched a Smirnoff Ice, and continuously danced like the guy Juliette Lewis quickly slaughters in the first scene of "Natural Born Killers."
My beans and fries were gone; some pork and slaw remained on my plate. When the bartender girl came by, I asked for another beer. More dirty looks from the guys at the bar.
"You sher do stand out in a crowd!" one of them was telling the skinny linedancer, back in from a smoke.
As I scraped my plate clean, I realized that these people were attempting to honor a tradition they had probably known about for ages, maybe even practiced in their youth. Here they were, most of them entering the second halves of their lives, and beginning to learn (or perhaps relearning) how to line dance. They could all relate to one another in more ways than that they all had the same awful haircut; other coincidences were obvious as well. What they were doing was more fun than sad; it was recreation and socialization and some badly needed exercise. That much was obvious to an outsider, and it was something they could do every WED THURS SAT NIGHT as the sign out front proclaimed. It wouldn't be outlawed like Fourth of July fireworks, and it wouldn't dissolve in its own hypocrisy like Catholicism.
Behold the mighty, American[ized] tradition of the ritualistic line dance! Any idiot can do it!
It was 8:30, and I didn't want to see what happened in COYOTES when the dance lessons stopped at 9. I cashed out--to my surprise, they took Visa. Then, to the relief of the hat-wearing barflies who had been trying to figure out what I was for over an hour, I walked outside, got in my car (the only vehicle in the lot that was neither a Grand Am nor a pickup) and drove back to the Comfort Inn.
Naively, I expected some uncomplicated brisket and baked beans. But the sight of the bar's exterior made me nervous. In my travels, I always drive by the places where Western Maine nightlife takes place: the empty parking lots and decaying exteriors of places like the MELODY RANCH in Fairfield or the STEPPIN' OUT NIGHT CLUB in Jay warn me to get the hell out of the alfalfa fields while the sun is still up.
Coyotes was a bit more well-maintained other places I'd seen, but just on the outside. When I walked into the place, everyone stared and I stared back. To my left, seven men at the bar (six in cowboy hats, one in checkered ballcap). To my right, a floor full of line dancing trainees, encased by Pre-Vatican II style wooden railings. A ZZ-top looking old man with a footlong beard sat at the opening to the floor, doing nothing. It didn't appear that more than a few lightbulbs were on in the place, and soon all the attention was focused again on the dance floor. I asked the little lady behind the bar if I could take a seat somewhere, and wandered across the room. The only open table was in the poolroom, where anorexic men in Harley t-shirts cursed each other out and swung pool cues at each other as they played.
I sat and looked at the menu. I didn't look up for a while. When I realized that nothing productive would come of my sitting, I approached the bar and asked for a pulled pork plate and a Bud. A table had opened up next to the bar, on a raised platform next to the kitchen door and behind two fat elderly people. I took a seat there and hid myself behind their opulent corpora.
From this new vantage point, I discovered a triangular stage far off in the opposite corner. It too was cut off from the dancefloor by the rectangular wooden railing--no "Blues Brothers"-style chicken wire, though. Big, black amps stood silent and waited for weekend brawls.
Basking in the glow of the resident Jager machine, none of the men at the bar talked to each other. They all did, however, talk to the bartender, who was young and nervous. When she brought my food out, she told me that it was her second day and that she had never seen line dancing before, either. The guys at the bar shot dirty looks at me.
As I ate, I began my attempt to understand the line dancing spectacle. It wasn't hard to count how many bodies were on the floor. 7 rows x 3 bodies per row - 1 = 20.
Ninety percent were women, almost all of whom you'd mistake for one another in a lineup. Middle aged, somewhat chubby and short, with bushybig hair that didn't move when they did, even when they jumped. There was one overweight 20something and one anorexic one, the former with a bad tattoo on her lower back and the latter with long, long curly hair and a body none of the cowboys at the bar would forget for weeks, as evinced by the way they all stared at it. The body's owner was all dolled up and pretending not to enjoy her moment, being the only borderline attractive female in a sea of mostly overage fatties. I wondered how many beginner's nights she could go to before the joke wasn't funny anymore.
There were three men on the floor, too, evidently the most desperate. They all hid from view, dancing next to each other against the wall, farthest from the real men at the bar. They made eye contact with nothing--not each other, not the instructor, not the young girl everyone at the bar was staring at.
The instructor was one of the fifteen bushy-haired ladies, the shortest one, in fact. Every time I looked up from my dinner I had to strain my eyes to find the mouth that her bark was coming from...
"...and HIPS
HIPS TO THE RIGHT
HIPS TO THE LEFT
HIPS TO THE RIGHT
HIPS TO THE LEFT
RIGHT, LEFT
RIGHT, LEFT
HEEL, TOE
STEP, TOUCH
CROSS-TOUCH
CROSS-TWO, THREE...JUMP!"
Everyone followed her orders precisely, except for the fattest fatty, whose body just warbled in place. She only looked briefly embarrassed--with a momentarily excessive tinge of pink in cheek and jowl--each time she stopped moving. For the most part, she was enjoying herself.
At the conclusion of each musicless lesson, a hip-hop-country song would come on ("ho-teyll, mo-teyll, hawliday-iynnnnn") and the drill sergeant would continue to bark repetitively all orders until the final chorus.
Then, at the conclusion of each dance, the men ran to the pool tables and the ladies went outside to smoke and avoid being hit on. The instructor offered photocopied stepsheets to her faithful trainees, and one or two would oblige each time. A tall, older guy in a flannel shirt materialized. He appeared to be in charge, telling the bartender and the kitchen kid what to do. He laughed loudly, clutched a Smirnoff Ice, and continuously danced like the guy Juliette Lewis quickly slaughters in the first scene of "Natural Born Killers."
My beans and fries were gone; some pork and slaw remained on my plate. When the bartender girl came by, I asked for another beer. More dirty looks from the guys at the bar.
"You sher do stand out in a crowd!" one of them was telling the skinny linedancer, back in from a smoke.
As I scraped my plate clean, I realized that these people were attempting to honor a tradition they had probably known about for ages, maybe even practiced in their youth. Here they were, most of them entering the second halves of their lives, and beginning to learn (or perhaps relearning) how to line dance. They could all relate to one another in more ways than that they all had the same awful haircut; other coincidences were obvious as well. What they were doing was more fun than sad; it was recreation and socialization and some badly needed exercise. That much was obvious to an outsider, and it was something they could do every WED THURS SAT NIGHT as the sign out front proclaimed. It wouldn't be outlawed like Fourth of July fireworks, and it wouldn't dissolve in its own hypocrisy like Catholicism.
Behold the mighty, American[ized] tradition of the ritualistic line dance! Any idiot can do it!
It was 8:30, and I didn't want to see what happened in COYOTES when the dance lessons stopped at 9. I cashed out--to my surprise, they took Visa. Then, to the relief of the hat-wearing barflies who had been trying to figure out what I was for over an hour, I walked outside, got in my car (the only vehicle in the lot that was neither a Grand Am nor a pickup) and drove back to the Comfort Inn.
posted by Rob at 10:36 PM
1 Comments:
am impressed by your bravery... and strangely heartened that bars like that exist north of south of the border.
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