72

We’ve been on the road now for three days—hours filled with blaring sun and dry, scorching heat. A thunderstorm loomed overhead in Memphis, but save for a few errant drops that fell on our walk to Beale St., the dark clouds remained a hazy backdrop for the city of blues. We sat at one of the bars, our table extending out onto the brick pavement where hoards of revelers stood in awe of street performers. Front flips, black flips, handsprings and solid dance moves performed by three African American boys held most of the glory, all perfectly timed to the blues music that poured out of the nearest bar. Half-drunk, I took it all in, glorious in the knowledge that at that moment, I could simply be. As a stranger in a strange land, I floated above the concerns of daily interaction.
Just dance, River encouraged when I shied away from joining a group of girls on the dance floor later in the night. It was a 21st birthday party and the girlfriends were having a blast. From our table,my body ached to move like theirs. You’ll never see these people again.
One of the girls noticed me grooving in my seat and threw a welcoming smile in my direction. Without a second's beat, I slid forward in time to the music. He was right. I was whoever I wanted to be, I could do whatever I wanted to. Living had never felt so good.