Turkey Trot
Nelson Lynch
Copyright 2011
He watched the woman out of the corner of his eye. He thought she was moving across the dance floor, table by table. Each time she was one table closer. She would lean over and whisper to the occupants of each table. The people would sneak a glance at him and nod to the woman. At least he thought that was what he was seeing. He couldn't be sure because twice she had moved farther away.
He turned slightly and looked at the band stand. The band members were nowhere to be seen. He sipped on his beer and wondered how long intermission would last.
He sensed movement from his peripheral vision. He turned his head and looked. She was a table closer. This time she was sitting facing him while the couple was sitting at a right angle to his table. The woman was talking to the other woman and nodding her head the whole time.
He wished he could read lips. What was she saying? Was she talking about him? She could be talking about something else and his mind was play tricks.
The other woman turned slowly and stared for two seconds. She rubbed her chin. A faint smile appeared. She turned back to the woman and began talking and nodding.
What should he do? Should he go to another table at the end of the dance hall? Was she really talking about him? People were moving around him. He hurriedly looked at the dance floor. The band was returning and stepping up on the small raised band stand. The tall fiddler was waving his bow at the guitar player.
She moved closer. She was sitting at the very next table, only six feet away. He leaned slightly in her direction hoping to hear her conversation. He grimaced and shut his eyes for an instant. The drums and guitars were drowning out any chance of eavesdropping.
Could she be the one who was suppose to contact him. His mind went back to his contact's description. Tall, long blonde hair, dark eyes and would be wearing a green sweater. He stole another glance. He thought she was tall, but impossible to tell. Besides, just tall doesn't mean anything unless a number for tallness is given. This woman's hair was light brown but not a blonde, at least not to him. Her eyes were dark, but fifty percent of the women in here had dark eyes.
He looked at her sweater. It was mostly green but it also had small yellow triangles. What did that mean? Was she actually his contact? He was very apprehensive. His superiors had said his contact was dangerous. She would be ruthless if she thought something was wrong or just not quite right.
The woman was standing looking at his table. She walked toward him letting her hand trail over the other woman's shoulders. He steeled himself, muscles tense and mind ready. The woman stopped at his table, placed both hands on the edge and leaned over. Her long brown hair dangled around her slender neck and onto the green sweater.
“Can you do the Turkey Trot?”
He blinked, his mind raced, his skin lightened. That was not the correct password. It was close and had the same sound. But it wasn't right. He stared at a spot on her forehead trying to figure what to do.
She leaned a few inches closer. “Can you do the Turkey Trot?”
He tried to lean back farther. What was she asking? Should he give her the correct reply? Maybe she would remember the correct password if she heard the correct countersign.
He smiled, nodded his head ever so slightly and said, “Blue Danube.”
She gave a thumb up sign to the next table. “Well, hell. I suppose there's not much difference between a waltz and the Turkey Trot.” She reached out, grabbed his hand and snatched him to the dance floor. In a split second, she had her arm around his shoulders and spinning him in circles.
He tripped, he stumbled, he spun like a top. She pushed him out into another couple. He tried to say how sorry he was but she snatched him back with such force he bounced off and was slammed back against her body.
What is wrong with her? Is she insane? This is no way for a contact to act.
She swirled them around in a tight embrace five times. The twanging of the banjo was beating into his ears. He pushed her away and moved toward his table. She spun twice, grabbed his hand and pulled. They slammed together on a loud beat from the drums.
She held his hand and moved back and forth. Maybe this is how contacts greet each other here. Possibly I am to move as she is doing. He nodded at her, kept his feet planted but moved his shoulders from side to side. “Blue Danube.” he softly said when her head was close. He watched her smile.
“Turkey Trot.” She said it quickly, spun around and slammed her hip against his. “You are learning. After four or five more dances, you'll have it down pat.”
The song ended with a crashing of drums and banjo. She released his hand. “See you later.” She turned and walked away.
He watched her walk through the tables, nodding at people and trailing her hand over some shoulders. Is she the one I am to meet? She certainly doesn't look or act like any previous contacts. He debated whether to follow and have a more thorough conversation. He couldn't do anything until he was sure of her one way or the other. He pictured her in his mind. Hair was close to blonde. She was taller than average. She was wearing a green sweater even if it did have yellow triangles. When she came again, he would ask her to speak clearly. Maybe the loud band was drowning out her correct password.
A song went by and she did not return. He ordered another beer from the waitress. He began to fidget. He wadded the paper napkin, tore bits of material from the beer coaster and still no woman in green.
The band leader was talking and people were lining up on the dance floor. What were they doing? He tried to understand the band leader over the loud buzz of conversation and background music. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the dance area.
“They are getting ready to do a 'Paul Jones.' The dance part is similar to the Turkey Trot, so you'll be OK.”
He tried to pull back or at least slow her up. She nearly said the password again. Is she my contact? “What is a 'Paul Jones?' Why are all the dancers in a circle?”
She gave him a quizzical look. “What country are you from? Everyone here knows how a 'Paul Jones' goes.” She held his hand and the man's hand on her other side. She nodded at the woman on his other side who was trying to take his hand. “Take her hand. When you hear a whistle, go to your right. All the women are going to the left and coming toward you. When you hear the whistle again, dance with the woman whose hand you are holding.”
Before he could ask or get out of the circle, the whistle blew. She was gone, other woman was holding his hand, He moved forward, prodded by the man behind. He had gone by five women when the whistle sounded. The woman smiled, grabbed him and began doing an up and down dance step. He held on wondering what kind of dance she was doing. It certainly wasn't like the previous dance.
The whistle sounded. She released him quickly and was gone, replaced by another woman. He smiled to himself, realizing he was getting the hang of the Paul Jones and enjoying it. He quickly scanned the circle behind him looking for the woman. The whistle blew before he spotted her. This time the woman was big and heavy. At least two inches taller and quite a few pounds heavier. She pulled him close with such force he bounced back. She pulled him back tightly and began going round and round to the music. He scanned the dance floor over her shoulder as they went round and round. The whistle blew.
He saw her. She was about ten women down and coming his way. He hoped the bandleader would be slow in blowing the whistle. He pulled the women by and was impatient with the man in front. He touched her hand just as the whistle sounded. He had his arm around her waist and slipped into the rhythm of the band.
“Blue Danube.” He spoke softly, his mouth only inches from her ear.
“Yes I know the Blue Danube is a waltz. But since this is the Halloween s
eason, the band is playing the Turkey Trot, the Turkey in the Straw and other songs.” She pulled away a few inches and looked at his face. “How do you like the Paul Jones? It seems like to me you enjoying it.”
He pulled her close without answering. What was he going to do? Her password was not completely right. She was about 90% right in everything: hair color, tallness, green sweater and being here. He needed time to sit and think. To make a mistake would have drastic repercussions. He had to make the correct decision. The band quit playing after a long whistle blast.
She dropped his hand and smiled. “I'll see you later.” He watched her disappear into the crowd going back to tables and some to the bar for liquid refreshment. He decided to take a tour of the dance hall. Where was his contact sitting? Was she with anyone?
He took his time and slowly walked around the dance hall. He sat at the bar for twenty minutes peering through the dim light. He sat with his back to the bar, beer in his hand. Occasionally he took a short sip. He didn't want alcohol clouding his mind. She was nowhere to be seen. But there were cubbyholes and partitions hidden from general view. She was here somewhere.
An hour later he sat down at his table with a near empty bottle of beer. A dance ended and people milled around the dance floor. The drummer did a drum roll, the guitar player hit a few loud notes. The bandleader yelled into the mike. “It's Paul Jones time. Grab your partner and hit the floor.”
Before he could look around, someone was tapping him on the shoulder. “Are you ready? It's time for a Paul Jones.”
He was nodding as she pulled him to the floor. She had her arm on his shoulder holding his hand before he was completely on the dance floor. The danced smoothly and he held her close. The bandleader waited as more people were walking toward the dance floor.
“Blue Danube.” He whispered as he went in a circle.
“Turkey Trot.” She giggled lightly and pressed closer to him.
The password was close. Should he give her the package. He pulled away and looked at her hair. It was light brown. Close enough to be consider blonde. She was wearing a green sweater and she was tall. He made up his mind. He would give her the package. He stopped dancing, reached into coat pocket and retrieved a small package. “Here. This is for you.” He pressed it into her hand. “Put this in your pocket. Quickly. It's from Oliver.”
“What is it? It it for me?” She smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
He started to speak. The whistle blew. She was moving, going in the direction of the other women. He smiled and began taking women's hands going in the opposite direction. He felt better, actually relieved that the package was gone. It was no longer his responsibility. Ten women went by before the whistle sounded. He was paired with a small woman. He danced with a wild enthusiasm, slinging the little woman out and snatching her back to his chest.
“Hey, very good. Why don’t you come over to my table for a drink after this Paul Jones is over? We can do a nice slow dance. I'm not with anyone.”
He nodded, happy with the world. He had gotten rid of the package and this nice -looking woman was picking him up. The whistle sounded. He looked for the woman as he moved along. He stopped. Frozen. Dumbstruck. There was a tall blonde woman with a perfectly solid green sweater coming toward him in the Paul Jones line.
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