I stood with my back against the makeshift bar. The bass pulsated, slithered, rolled. The walls shook. The entire room was an echo, the bodies on the dance floor swayed like lazy palms, limbs intertwined like roots.

The toaster on the mic exclaimed “Rent-A-Tile!!!” as the selectah maintained a steady rockin’ tempo.

The flash of lighters, cigarettes and spliffs streaked through the darkness like peenie wallies signalling the crowds intent, its desire to the selectah.

Puuuuuuull-up my selectah….chune so nice, we mus’ play it twice…

With one voice the crowd gave their approval. Men held their women closer. Those without partners brought their drinks to their lips.

Dis-ya chune is strictly for the la-dies!…

The smell of the roasted peanut man’s wares preceded him onto the dance floor. I watched him navigate the crowd like water rushing through rapids, maintaining his balance like a ballerina on point. A ballerina clad in red, gold and green.

I turned and signalled the bartender, raising two fingers to point to a bottle of Appleton Special. He nodded warily.

Easy my selectah…tek it down low…

The bartender asked me how I wanted my drink.

Warm’n’easy….strictly warm’n’easy…

For more information about the author, visit www.kevinreigh.com


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