Liza raised her eyebrows, annoyed by Jake’s eavesdropping. Mindlessly and without any care she made the introduction, “Jake, this is Neil and Audrey. They have been staying with us since the Great Manhattan Exodus. Neil used to be the leader of the famous rock band, Yellow Snow. Audrey was a model slash actress slash humanitarian. You may remember her from the Feed the Chilean Children commercials.”

“Hello,” greeted Jake modestly, stepping outside onto the porch. “The Great Manhattan Exodus?”

Neil strummed a chord on his guitar and looked up curiously at Jake. “You’ve never heard of the Great Manhattan Exodus? Where are you from?”

“Wis . . . Queens,” Jake replied, a little too quickly.

“Wisteria, Queens,” interjected Liza.

Neil sat upright. “If you lived in Queens, how could you not have heard of the Great Manhattan Exodus?”

Liza spun toward Jake and gave him a serious look to play along. “You remember—after Spade bought Manhattan, he evicted all the citizens to the outer boroughs.”

Jake stared at Liza. I have never heard such a story, he thought, but he didn’t dare contradict Liza in front of the guests. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “All I know is, Spade may not be the most virtuous of men, but you have to give him credit for all his accomplishments. All I’m saying is that Spade, whether you like him or not, is a very successful man. Take his Chincoteague Beachside resorts. Who doesn’t like a good pony parade?”

“Those ponies once ran free before Spade got there,” argued Audrey. “Now Spade houses them in tiny stables and feeds them corn chips that are delivered straight from the Spade corn chip factory.”
Jake laughed and then looked around to see that no one was laughing. “You don’t actually believe . . . I mean look at the financial incentive there is in having such a magnificent place across the river, not counting the jobs he creates.”

Neil glared harshly at Jake. “You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, do you?” Jake swallowed and said nothing. “I think somebody here needs a history lesson,” said Neil. He leaned forward and sat up to fully face Jake. “Spade slowly evicted all the residents by raising rents so high, no one could afford to live there. Businesses could not afford to operate. And for those who still didn’t leave, he turned off all their utilities and set rats free in all the buildings. You should have heard about this from your parents, unless you’re a Spade spy—or are you one of those Spade wannabees?”

“He lived in a very reclusive part of Queens, protected by the harsh realities of Spade’s real world,” explained Liza. She rose and took Jake by the arm. “We’d better be going now, pal.”  She turned back to Neil and Audrey. “I’ll talk to you guys later.”

“I’m playing tonight. You and your pal should come,” Neil called to her as they left.

“Sure,” said Liza. She led Jake through the back door of the Esposito’s house and took him outside to the front stoop, where she gave him a good reprimanding. “You’re gonna have to shut your trap about Spade!”

“What was all that talk back there?” questioned Jake.

Liza strode quickly up the cracked sidewalk, not allowing Jake to catch up. “What—about the Great Manhattan Exodus?”

He quickened his pace. “No, about you giving up singing!”

She shrugged casually, continuing to walk at a brisk pace. “I was fired. No more streetwalker for me.”

Jake picked up speed. “But that shouldn’t mean you have to give up singing.”

Liza marched onward. “You tourists . . . you all think this is just fun and games—making fun of our lives for your entertainment. You think it’s so easy to come here and pretend to be something for a day or a week, but it’s hard work!”

“I never pretended to be anyone. Heck, I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be.” He stopped, not being able to keep up with her. “Liza, I just don’t see what the big deal is. I don’t see the issue of me going back and saying I made a mistake.”

Liza stopped abruptly and sighed. She turned to Jake, discouraged. “You don’t get it. Your little mistake will affect a big investment made by a really powerful jerk. What’s going to happen when you go back to Wasteland, USA and tell people that Spade’s Manhattan isn’t a magical place where dreams come true in a heartbeat?” Liza looked deeply into Jake’s eyes with earnest sincerity. “What will people say when they find out real dreams take a lot of blood, sweat, and tears? What will they do, once they learn that they can’t buy their dreams? What will happen when everyone finds out Spade’s Manhattan is a crock of shit and lies?”

Tuesdays Frieda took the later bus with no desire to see her fantasy man Wilhelm. Tonight, it was gym night and her bus took her straight to the corner of her neighborhood gym, Fawkes’ Fitness. It wasn’t the typical singles pick-up gym where women wore makeup and men flexed their muscles before mirrors hoping to attract a mate. No. Fawkes was for those serious about fitness.

After changing in the locker room, Frieda entered the main floor. Darn it. An elderly man was on her elliptical machine. She walked before him and smiled prettily beckoning his attention. When he removed his earbuds she said, “Excuse me, sir, this is my machine.”

He gazed at her in disbelief. “I don’t see your name on it.”

“It’s reserved for me. Every Tuesday and Thursday at 6:00.”

“I didn’t see a reserve sign.”

Frieda leaned forward laying her hand on his. “Please. There are other machines available.”

“I’m in the middle of my workout,” he argued.

She gave a doe-eyed stare he couldn’t resist. “Pleeeaaase.”

“Alright,” he said giving in, yet letting his disgust be known.

Frieda didn’t care. All she cared about what was going to happen in three…two…one… She sighed heavily as he strode across the gym and onto the mat where several boxing pummel bags hung from the ceiling. Her spot was the best in the gym to watch him lead that evening’s kickboxing class, as she admired every inch of the 6’2” slender muscular dreamboat with long dark hair pulled back in a loose manbun and his light-colored eyes highlighted by the black t-shirt he wore. She plugged earbuds into her ears and played, Bonnie Tyler’s “I Need a Hero,” as she peddled the elliptical.

She knew little about him, only that his name was Sergei Masing and he was Estonia’s middleweight boxing champion, which she read in the gym’s teacher guide. That was enough for her. She didn’t need to know more to cement Sergei as a fantasy icon and twice a week she sought her favorite elliptical machine to watch him bark commands and demonstrate moves to those taking his class. Actually, taking his class, she never dared.  She had herself on a self-administered restraining order. She wasn’t allowed within twenty feet of him because she was sure she would make an absolute fool of herself.

After swooning and drooling from her water bottle for an hour, she didn’t bother showering or changing in the gym. She grabbed her bag containing her work clothes and laptop and headed outside, carelessly strutting her sweaty self.

Outside, a light rain fell and it suited her just fine. A quick stop at Tesco’s grocery store and then home. However, week nights at the grocery story often came with its own kind of stress – people not paying attention and having little consideration for others.

Frieda picked up her basket, took a deep breath and went into her shopping zone.
 
He followed her into the store, providing her necessary back up. Nearing the bin of tomatoes, Frieda grew annoyed by two gossiping ladies. Sergei stepped up and knocked the ladies’ heads together and smashed their faces into the heirloom tomatoes.

When they fell to the floor, Frieda stepped up to pick her produce. “Roma’s or Heirloom?” she asked Sergei.
“Are you making sauce or salads?”

“Salad,” she responded.

“Then you’re going to have to go with heirloom. They are delicious with just a touch of oil, vinegar and a touch of salt. That’s how my mother used to make it in the old country. Anyone else I need to rough up?” he asked in a deep, sexy Eastern European accent.

Freida surveyed the produce section. “I’m going to need some mushrooms.”

“On it!”  He removed the AK47 he had strapped to his back and used the butt of the rifle to knock people down who got in his way. Once he cleared the aisle, he reached for a package of mushrooms. “Button or cremini!” he shouted to Frieda.

“Button!” she yelled across the produce section.

 Once they conquered the produce section, they headed down the other aisles. Sergei shoving people into shelves when their carts who got in Frieda’s way. She was making record time when she reached the register.

Behind her, a customer shoved his purchase on the conveyor, causing hers to collapse before the belt. “That’s it!” Sergei replied and beat the crap out of the customer until he bled on the floor.

The store clerk looked over the belt and then at Sergei. She snapped her gum and rolled her eyes. “Now I’m going to have to call someone to clean that up. If you’re going to beat people up, do it outside.”

Frieda shrugged, admiring Sergei’s machismo. “He can’t help it. It’s what he does.” She grabbed her grocery bags and headed out of the store followed by Sergei. With him behind her, she felt empowered and she could take on any foe.

Alex bolted upright in bed, dripping in a cold sweat. He ran his hands over the sheets and gazed
around the darkness of the room. Through the window, he could see dark palms waving in the breeze and
tapping lightly on the window.

He stood from the bed and opened the sliding door to the patio. He felt free and natural
like one of the tribal Aborigine, but his mind was reeling of his attachments to the material world— the
band, Robbie, Sarah, and of course, Frankie. Looking out of the dark night horizon, Alex focused on only
one word: Dreamtime. He was smack dab in the middle of his.

Stepping back inside, Alex took a seat at the desk and stared at his reflection in the
mirror. In the new light of dawn, Alex’s face was bluish gray and haggard from a hangover. He resembled
a ghost. In this strange land, he was non-existent. He reached for a pen and hotel stationary and began to
write:

I closed my eyes to see
Transient beings beneath me.
Fluidly I emerge from the earth
Taking this shape I had since birth
This Dreamtime seems to be,
Seems to be me, shaping me.

Alex paused with his head in his palm staring at his words. His head ached, and his
stomach gnawed with nausea. His mouth felt filled with cotton balls. He rose from the chair to fetch
himself a glass of water and returned to his writing.

Deep murmurs ring through my soul
Filling my being until I’m whole
The slapping claps jumpstart my heart
That pumps the life I need to start
This Dreamtime seems to be,
Seems to be me, creating me.

He reclined in his seat and reached for his cigarettes. Sitting there in nothing but his
underwear, Alex puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette as he thought of the next verse.
Vibrating reeds resonate in my nerves

Charges the life I am here to serve
Roaring thunder provokes my mind
And clears the path I am sure to find
Dreamtime seems to be,
seems to be me, defining me
Dreamtime seems to be,
seems to be me, making me.

When he was through, he folded the paper in half and placed it in his bag. As the rising
sun started to illuminate the sky, Alex had no desire to sleep; he was far too alive. He stood from his chair
and walked back outside with a cigarette in one hand and the glass of water in the other. Relaxing in a
patio chair, he savored the dawning of a new day, his Dreamtime and his creation.

In the short time Marsha knew Deni. She realized he was saying a lot more than his words indicated. The trick was finding the key that would unlock the puzzle to his mind. She did however have an idea that might give her some insight.
 
Marsha handed him a composition notebook. “As a journalism major, you should know the pen was always thought to be mightier than the sword.”
           
Deni handled the cheap composition notebook in his hands and then flipped through the blank pages. “Is it, or does the pen simply inspire the sword?”
           
“Writing is liberating. You can be anywhere and anything you want inside this book. Let it go,” she said.
           
Deni did feel a sense of liberation despite his imprisonment. Even though his body was in captivity, his mind was free to wonder. As Marsha and Viktor were getting ready to leave, Marsha had a prison guard release Deni’s right hand from restraints so he could write. Once again alone, Deni stared at the composition book and wondered where to begin. The first word he wrote on the first page of the book was freedom:
 
Freedom: My father always said freedom was for fools who didn’t know what to do with it, yet for ages so many people fought and died for freedom. Slaves were locked in cages and shackles--their physical presence a threat to their masters. Artists, writers and poets were ousted from society--their visions, thoughts and musings a threat to kings and leaders.
 
Deni paused for a moment, staring at the page and then wrote:
 
Lovers kept apart--their hearts a threat to families and society. If freedom is such a great thing, why are so many people afraid of it, afraid to give it, afraid to fight for it and truly afraid to believe in it? If there was true freedom in the world, we would all be without shackles.
             
He closed his composition book and rested his head on the pillow. We are all slaves of some kind, to our families, to our country, to our masters and mostly to our minds.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Morehead’s voice boomed over the audience.
 
Shelby’s attention flitted to her father taking the stage—a man with a flair for the dramatic, dressed in a suit jacket and kilt, a man proud of his Scottish ancestry fully on display. She couldn’t help but release a soft chuckle at his expense. He definitely milked the attention from all who attended.
 
“Now I have the pleasure of introducing not just a brilliant young man, but he just happens to be my son-in-law. Please welcome Dr. Kyle Locke, who will discuss the importance of aiding the world’s food supply through the power of genetics.”
 
A healthy applause greeted Kyle as he strode onto the stage and stood behind the podium. He adjusted the microphone toward his mouth, scanning the audience of fellow scientists from around the world. A proud smile crossed his lips seeing his beautiful wife in the back row. He took a deep breath and began, “We have come a long way since Dolly. We have learned not merely how to replicate DNA, but advances in technology have given us the tools to avoid genetic defects by monitoring chromosome sequencing. The benefits of these advances can be used globally to combat the pandemic of starvation.”
 
The lights dimmed. On a large screen the sun rose over the Serengeti with the long necks of giraffes shadowed against the sky. “Africa, still an unchartered frontier even after hundreds of years, and so many have yet to see the progress of the modern world. They are experiencing the worst of climate change, diminishing their natural recourses,” Kyle spoke over the video.
 
Healthy African children run alongside with Ankole-Watusi cattle on the screen, as Kyle continued his speech. The video cuts to the children eating steaks and drinking large glasses of milk. “The Morehead Bovine Genome Project has saved the lives of thousands, whether providing milk or meat.”
 
Dr. Vasily Apostol Khmelnytsky, a sharply-dressed scientist wearing wire-framed spectacles raised his hand.
 
Kyle paused his speech to accept his question. “Yes.”
 
“Genetically cloned cattle, how can you be sure it will be safe for human consumption?” Apostol asked.

Pressing his glasses to his face, Kyle released a soft smile. “Whether conceived in a womb or petri dish, it is the same natural cellular reproduction. As mentioned, with the modern technology we can monitor the health of the product we are creating.”
 
“Product?” Apostol questioned with a laugh.
 
“Why yes, product. Product: food to save humanity from the most dreadful disease called starvation. Perhaps you are not aware of this problem in Southeast Europe, but around the world in Africa, the Middle East, Asia and South America are finding it difficult to have any agriculture due to extremes in temperature. If our species is to survive, we have to make calculating decisions about producing food.”
 
“That so-called-product could be latent with tumors and diseases bought on by genetic defect. Are you telling us that human progress is supplying the world with sick beef?” Apostol continued.
 
“Our product meets with all government regulations,” Kyle assured.
 
Apostol swayed his arms in a dramatic gesture. “Oh, if the government says so, then it must be safe!” he exclaimed with booming sarcasm. “Exactly which government deemed this safe for human consumption?”
 
Morehead rose from his seat and addressed the adverse doctor. “Apostol, are you discouraged that you were not given the opportunity to speak at the symposium? Perhaps you should return to Odessa and continue your studies on the importance of designer babies. Ukraine is becoming dreadfully short of real-life Barbie dolls,” he said, followed by a round of snickers.
 
Gazing around at the audience, Apostol took the jest with a good-hearted grin. He spotted Shelby seated in the back row. He studied her intently for a moment and when she met his eye contact, he gave her a pleasant smile. Instinctively, she returned the gesture, sensing a strange affinity to the man.
 
Morehead took the stage beside Kyle at the podium. “Thank you, Dr. Locke.” He addressed his peers. “There is no doubt, our work can be considered controversial to some people. We scientists must balance the limit of what is beneficial to society and not cross the lines of legality. Now, I would like to introduce one of my most respected colleagues, Dr. Rebecca Kinnaird, senior research geneticist at the Morehead Institute.
 
Dr. Rebecca Kinnaird, an attractive blonde-haired woman in her mid-fifties rose from her seat and gracefully took the stage. She gave Kyle a handshake and Morehead a hug and kiss on each cheek. She turned to the audience. “Thank you, Ian, for the lovely introduction. Today, peers, I would like to elaborate on Dr. Locke’s speech. Yes, we have made great technological advances in genetics. It is more than just DNA and more than just the 30,000 chromosomes in the human genome. It is the environment that switches our chromosomes on and off. Many can share the same DNA, but have completely different experiences as a human being based on environment. Manipulating environmental switches, we can rid the world of diseases. We can create stronger species of plants and animals that can withstand climate changes and diseases that affect the world. Although the world is facing dramatic crises, we scientists are at the helm to not only save humanity, but strengthen it.”
 
The scientists applauded Dr. Kinnaird’s words and once again, Morehead stood before the podium. “I would like to remind my colleagues the addresses you heard here today may bring concern to the masses who do not understand our work. I trust you will all use discretion. Scientists must often work in secret for fear of their progress being destroyed by the unknowing proletariat. We also must be mindful not to use our knowledge for superficial and mainly financial means,” he said, his eyes landing on Apostol. “As I know some of your work involves working with families who lost loved ones. Death is a part of life. We must resist the temptation of playing God for the hopeless.
 
Morehead’s words brought silence to the room. They all knew they had the understanding and the power, the common man couldn’t fathom. They had the capacity to make God irrelevant.

Early the next morning, before the sun rose fully in the sky, Duchess’s ladies gathered in a cramped racing office with tiled floors and pale yellow painted walls. Dressed in their best jockey silk dresses — patterned in polka dots, squares diamonds and crosses — the ladies waited nervously.

Many hoped to be contenders and dreamed that this day would be the day they would meet their match. For others the race grew tiresome and they showed signs of fatigue and sadness. The glass door opened. The ladies reacted in frenzy of excitement, as Duchess, the woman responsible for their romantic future entered.

Duchess waved her hands in the air to halt the commotion and there was silence. “Ladies, please!” She separated a path through the sea of ladies, as they beseeched her with pleading eyes and begging hands.

She took a seat at a wobbly table in a wobbly chair at the far end of the room. She paused for dramatic effect and then surveyed all her contenders. “I have been watching your performances. I have inspected your grooming. Although many are making magnificent strides, only a selection of you will be racing today. If your name is not called, do not despair. Many future races lie ahead.”

A slender, red-haired woman stepped forward. “What if I don’t make the cut and my match wins another?”

“Then he is not your match.” Duchess noticed the crushed woman drop her head. She decided to address this one woman’s worry to the whole crowd. “Ladies, there is no need for desperation. The day will come and your match will be there at the finish line. One of the most dangerous things any contender can do is to assume to be a winner before the race is run.” She looked at the woman intently. “Honey, what is your name?”

“Desperately Devoted.”

“Desperately Devoted, if love makes you feel desperate then it is not your love. You cannot mourn for something you do not have.” Duchess checked her race list. “You are not racing today, so I suggest you spend the day reading my book Desperation and Doubt, the Lover’s Dilemma.”

The woman bowed her head before Duchess and tearfully backed away. “Yes, Duchess.”

“Ladies,” Duchess surveyed the rest of the ladies. “Here are contenders for today’s races. In the Bad Biker Babe division we have Hell on Wheels, Dating Terrorist, Medusa’s Touch, Witches Brew and Black Widow. In the Tomboy division the contenders are Babe Ruthie, Surfer Girl, Derby Queen, and Judy Jock.”

Many ladies left the racing office excited to prepare for their race. Not hearing her name called in the Tomboy class, Janey was certain she would not be racing today. She just figured that would be her race.
She waited in the room to show her support for her friends, who most likely would be racing.

Duchess looked around the room at the remaining ladies. “Here are your Hopeless Romantic contenders: Saving for a Soul Mate, Bucking Bronte, Dare to Dream, Wuthering Willamena, Once in a Lifetime, Saddle Up Sal, and Weak in the Knees.”

She skimmed the faces in the crowd. “Saddle Up Sal, please step forward.” Keri made her way through the ladies and stood politely before Duchess. “Saddle Up Sal, are you going to actually saddle up? Because if not I’m not even going to put you down.”

“Yes,” Keri responded, uncertain of her own actions.

“I see fear in your eyes. Where there is fear, there is weakness and insecurity. A contender in a race will lose at the first emergence of weakness. Are you weak, Saddle Up Sal?”

Keri squared her shoulders and lifted her head. “No, ma’am.”

“All right, I’m putting you down.” She pointed her pencil at Keri. “You better race.”

Duchess glanced down at her racing sheet. “In the Nice Girl division the contenders are Mama’s Choice, Suzy Q, Pocketful of Posies, Girly Girl, Everything Nice, and rounding out the competition Spoonful of Sugar.”

Amy shoved to the front of the crowd. “Excuse me, Duchess, but I am able and willing to race today.”

“My Little Pony, you raced six times last week and in three separate classes. Are you sure you’re up for another?”

Amy squared her shoulders and lifted her head. “I am.”

“Honey, you are going to wear yourself out, and honestly I don’t think you are conditioned to handle too many races at a time. You’re going to have to sit this one out.”

“But...”

“My Little Pony doesn’t mean everyone’s little pony.” Amy dropped her head in shame as Duchess continued. “What kind of man is going wager on a woman who has been over-played? You’re going to wear yourself out and then you will appeal to no one.” Duchess nodded Amy away. “You will have your day in the Winner’s Circle, I can assure you.”

Amy sighed deeply and shrugged her shoulders as she headed for the door. She was so close to victory she could sense it, just hated all the delays.

Keri rested her arm around Amy’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll be a winner soon.”

Amy smiled. “I trust Duchess’ judgment. I’m sure a day of rest will get me in tip top shape for the next day.”

“Come on, guys.” Janey urged her friends to leave.

“She has one more race to announce,” Liz stated firmly.

“For the prime race of the day, the Hot Chick division, here are the contenders: Gold Digging Hussy, Hot to Trot, Hot Legs, Teeny Weeny Bikini, Porn Star Body, and Spirited Sister. For the rest of you ladies, take this opportunity to study and prepare for your next race. There is always an opportunity.”

“What?” Janey turned back toward Duchess. “There has been some mistake.”

The crowd of ladies dispersed, some excited by the opportunity and some disappointed. The ladies in the Hot Chick class grinned, hearing Janey was in their competition. “Good luck,” Hot to Trot snickered to Janey as she left the room to prepare.

Liz stood before Duchess. She had been training so hard, and doing well, or so she thought. She couldn’t understand why she wasn’t getting called to race.

Duchess looked past Liz for Janey. “Spirited Sister. May I have a moment?”

“Duchess,” Liz addressed carefully. “I have been training for a while but I still have not made the cut.”

Duchess folded her hands before her and gazed at Liz. “Too Much for Naught, in order to make the grade you need to learn the rules of competition and playing fair. You need to go back to your stall and read my book Mean Girls Finish Last.”

Liz lowered her head shamefully. She had spent much of her effort criticizing other ladies without giving a hard look to herself. She was frozen by Duchess’s cold words. It made it difficult for her to leave.
Duchess turned her attention to Janey. “Spirited Sister.”

“Hot Chick division? This is my first race. Gold Digging Hussy and Hot to Trot — how can I compete with them?”

“I don’t know. How will you?” Duchess questioned daringly. “Now go get suited up. Your race is last. You have plenty of time to watch the other races to get a feel for the action.”

It was a short walk back to the shed row. Janey had to admit she felt better than she had in years. Could years of dirty cells wash away all my tensions and anxieties? She tested her hypothesis by purposely thinking of Dwayne. She felt very little pain or suffering. “Huh. It worked. Go figure.”

Dressed in her pink French terry sweat suit, Janey entered the shed row and heard screams. Now today, it was her turn for grooming torture. She glanced at the paper, which read stall eight. She passed other stalls where ladies screamed while hair waxed, unsightly moles lasered and fat vacuumed.
Finally, she came to the door marked eight, opened it and found a black leather chair behind a vanity mirror.

A strange man in white coveralls and a black pompadour hairstyle greeted her. He spun the chair in her direction. “Hello. I’m Todd. I will be grooming your mane.”

Todd studied her mangy, filthy mane, which had been so neglected, her hair dreaded into locks “Oh my,” Todd declared trying to run his fingers painted with black polish through her tangled hair. “Dear girl. Condition much?”

Janey looked at her reflection in the mirror. “I usually use a two in one.”

“Honey, never go cheap on conditioner.”

Using a large, horse curry comb, Todd tugged at the knots in Janey’s hair so hard that he pulled her neck in every direction. Large chucks of mud flew from Janey’s hair, making dents in the stall walls.

Janey reared her head. “Ouch! Do you have to pull so hard?”

“You can’t blame me for this disaster.”

Todd squeezed a large heap of pink gel onto the top of Janey’s head. He massaged hard into her scalp, twisting and turning her head with every motion. The white foam turned black from the mud in her hair. He dropped the back of the chair and hosed water over her head to rinse away the dirty foam. Once Janey’s hair was rinsed clean of filth, Todd flipped the back of the chair upright. Roughly, he toweled her head dry and then brushed her head with a horse soft bristle, dandy brush.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair fell into a full manageable mane like that of a top model. She did not remember her hair ever looking so healthy. It was an amazing transformation.

From the palm of his hand Todd offered Janey a sugar cube. “You deserve a little treat.” Todd patted her on the head. “Now, isn’t that better?”

She ate the cube from Todd’s palm and allowed the sweet treat to dissolve in her mouth.
He checked his clipboard that showed a very detailed schedule of contenders. “You are to go stall number fifteen.”

Janey slid off the leather seat, wondering what agony in the name of beauty awaited her in the confines of stall fifteen. It wasn’t a long trip, which was a good thing because it didn’t give her imagination time to ruminate. But then, perhaps, she would not have imagined something so horrific.

        The entrance to the ballroom was through a pair or large white lacquered doors. Inside, New York’s affluent citizens socialized with five working-class lads from England. Frankie was well aware of the irony, and so was Alex. It was still the biggest inside joke the band shared ever since they had made it big—the fact that people who would normally turn down their noses at them were now paying big bucks just to be in the same room. Ironically, the music played during the ball was a series of square old-school waltzes. Everyone had dressed in their finest gowns in tuxedos to hear a rock concert and were now winding down the evening with the Blue Danube.

            Never having had a dance lesson in his life, Alex allowed Frankie to move him around the dance floor. Occasionally he stepped on her foot or bumped into some fat lady behind him. He planted his focus on his feet to make sure he was in line with Frankie.

            “Look at me,” said Frankie, “and don’t worry about your footsteps.”

            “How can I be sure I won’t step on you?”

            “You don’t have to worry about a thing as long as you follow my lead,” she said with a cocky smile.

            “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

            Thankfully there were no prying eyes of gossip journalists or photographers. The wealthy were able to pay to have their privacy protected.

             Frankie was sure to keep Alex away from any wayward middle-aged socialite looking for a score. She witnessed a few eyes on him—a few women brushed by, trying to gain his attention—but Frankie proved to be the best deterrent a young man could have in such an occasion. She was beautiful, and if any woman crossed the line, Frankie would rip off her face. Alex, keenly aware, was loving every minute of it.

            She guided Alex away from the dance floor to a buffet table where appetizers were served. Frankie and Alex shared a plate and prowled the circumference of the ballroom together, watching the crowd like patrons at a zoo.
           
           “See that woman there with the exposed cleavage?” asked Frankie as she popped a stuffed mushroom in her mouth.
           
            “No, where?” Alex asked with a laugh, seeing the woman standing directly before them.
           
            Frankie smacked in his arm. “The one who has been eyeing you all night.”
           
            “Hmm . . . really?”
           
            “She’s screwing her shrink,” Frankie said. “She’s a crazy; I wouldn’t go near her if I were you.” She then pulled Alex’s attention toward a debonair older man. “That’s her husband. He was an actor for many years; now he’s a director on Broadway.” She stood on her toes to whisper in Alex’s ear, “There is always a hot, new actor on his casting couch. I’d stay away from him, too.”
            
             Alex bit into a cheese puff and then said with his mouth full, “Thanks for the heads-up.”
           
             Frankie put her arm around Alex’s waist and led him around the party while she sipped champagne. “See that fat guy talking up that woman?” she asked. “He’s one of the biggest producers in the city—a real hotshot.” She then whispered, “Rumor has it he’s got a tiny pecker.”
            
             “That’s always the case,” said Alex and then stuffed two more cheese puffs into his mouth. “What about the tall, pretty guy who looking around to see who’s looking at him?” asked Alex.
            
              “That’s Robbie, your band mate,” Frankie joked.
            
               Alex laughed, “No, the other tall, pretty guy.”
           
              “Tad Benedict,” Frankie said. “He’s a Broadway actor, singer, and dancer; and he’s completely queer although he hides it really well. Most girls become discouraged when they find out he’s more interested in their dates than them.” Frankie gave Alex a gentle push. “Let’s move along.”
           
               They stopped back at the buffet table to refill their plate and champagne glasses. Frankie sipped from her glass, making sure she had Alex’s back in case any women decided to wander over. None did. Feeling confident that she had the situation secured, Frankie led Alex back to the ball.
           
               “You see,” she said, “everyone here has an image they’re trying to sell, and most people see what they want to see. Lonely rich women pretend to be faithful wives while, on the side, they’re hooking up with the gardener or their tennis instructor. Industry men constantly find new ways to promote their power and influence in order to attract naive young actresses. And then, saddest of all, there are those ‘aspiring individuals’ who have no game to play or image to sell. They are hopeless in this arena,” explained Frankie.
          
                “Where do we fit in?” asked Alex.
            
               Frankie looked up at him. “We don’t.” Tugging at his arm, she led him to the door and out into the hallway.

             “Johnny B. Goode” spun on the record player as Alex found an open space on the dance floor and turned to face Frankie.  She had always felt confident dancing before strangers—it was her best method of self-expression—but standing before Alex, she couldn’t help believing herself a novice with two left feet. Looking at Alex, she noticed he reacted the same way. She saw him move much better in performances; now, he looked as awkward as she felt.

            “Loosen up a little bit,” she said, playfully punching his chest.

            Alex grabbed Frankie around her waist and moved a little faster to the music.

            “See? There it is. I knew it—you have a dancer’s soul,” she said.
            “Yeah, I was thinking I should give up the gee-tar and take up the ba-LET.” He gazed down at her. “What do you think?”

            Frankie laughed. “It would be interesting to see you in a tutu.”

            He roughly spun her around. “I never show a girl my tutu on the first date.”

            Frankie purposely slammed hard up against him. “Somehow I doubt that. I think you and your tutu have made quite a few debut performances.”

            As Alex danced slower, sensations ran through Frankie’s body, which she wasn’t quite ready for. She had just met him not ten minutes ago, so to offer any suggestions would be rather dangerous. The moment grew a little too intense in a room full of dancing, sweaty bodies. She pulled back from him a bit to give herself some distance. As soon as she did, the lights in the room went out, and everyone was left in darkness.

            Hoots and hollers erupted from the darkness as “Under the Boardwalk” by the Drifters played. Alex pulled Frankie closer to him and held her tightly, just short of pressing too far. Alex had the play down to a science. He instinctively knew the exact limit to stir Frankie up without scaring her away. She had experienced everything from men who couldn’t entice any sensation, to those who pushed and pressed to the point of near disgust. She sensed Alex knew the perfect combination and didn’t resist.
        
           Alex leaned toward Frankie as if to kiss her and whispered, “Do yeh want to get out of here?”

            Frankie looked up at him. “Where do you want to go?”
       
          “Outside,” he said. “It’s getting too hot in here.”
     
            “All right,” said Frankie.