Cowboy Hustle

“Fan, fan, fan,” she tells you; you watch her feet carefully. “Then point, point, tap, tap.” Her boots hit the ground with a satisfying click. Your dirty tennis shoes squeak. “A little quicker. Next is point, tap.” You are practicing in the hallway to the bathrooms, someone walks by, and you stop. Your eyes stay locked on the floor. “Point, tap,” she repeats, unfazed by the man who looks at you, confused. You do what she says. 

“Step.” You try to remember why you agreed to this. “Kick.” You can hear the crowd out in the bar growing. “Now back, and tap.” She moves so naturally, not even looking at her feet. It makes sense, she’s been doing line dancing for four years. “Grapevine.” You try to copy what she does, but stumble. “You can just walk if that’s too hard,” she reassures you, “everyone walks their first time.” 

Everyone. “Okay, now kickover,” she shows, swiping her foot in a wide circle around her. You know and copy, but your mind has moved elsewhere. Everyone. “Grapevine back.” There were at least sixty people here when you arrived, and every one of them wanted to talk to her. They were all wearing boots and hats, it would have been a proper Western if we weren’t in the middle of Rhode Island. “Turn.” You jerk back to attention. The man leaves the bathroom and walks past you, shooting her a smile on his way. She doesn’t even notice. “Swipe, and stomp!” 

“There, you’ve got it!” You laugh uncomfortably at that. Got what? “Come on!” She grabs your arm. “I’ll make sure they do that song next.” You go along with her out of the quiet hallway and into the smoke and neon signs. 

They are doing a dance now, about twenty of them all lined up in neat rows. You watch curiously from behind her, trying to imagine being up there in front of all those people, dancing. It’s more than dancing; the way they move across the floor in perfect sync is like planets orbiting around the sun. You guess you’re Pluto. She waves over a man with a dark hat and arms draped in tattoos. The owner, a close family friend. She leaves your side to go talk with him. You look around the room, but there are eyes everywhere. Your phone screen becomes a temporary refuge. 

She gets back, and you stop staring at the weather app. “We should be up front,” she says, pointing to the far right corner of the dance floor. “Less people to bump into.” The song ends, and all the people on the floor clap. One especially drunk girl even whistles. You tap your foot trying to remember what she said. Fan, fan, fan, point, tap. No. Point, point. 

The owner gets on the mic and introduces the next song, “It’s time for ‘Cowboy Hustle!’” She grabs your hand and pulls you onto the floor. Your eyes stay locked on her, your arms tight by your side. You can feel the eyes on you, all of them, wondering who that lanky girl is with her. They whisper about you. “She’s new,” you think they say, “She doesn’t know a single move.” 

“You are going to do great!” You turn around to see the owner’s wife giving you a thumbs up. “If you get lost, just step off the stage; don’t make a fool of yourself like her.” She doesn’t bother to whisper the last part; the drunk girl is still dancing some combination of the Cupid Shuffle and the Sprinkler. Your friend and the owner laugh. Don’t be like her.

The song starts. “Fan, fan, fan.” The dance starts immediately with it. There is no time to back out. You desperately start fanning, but the dance has moved on. “Point, tap, point, tap.” She is trying to guide you like she did in the hallway, but it is no use. Your feet are glued to the floor. A balloon is growing in your chest, creeping up your throat thick as cement. You are suffocating. 

“Turn, swipe, stomp.” You can at least turn, face your body away from the people at the tables. You try to think, but there is no time, you already forgot to fan. You freeze and wait carefully till you hear her say, “Grapevine.” You walk quickly to the side and “kickover, grapevine.” You get it perfectly on time. A smile creeps onto your face. You turn again and look up to her, proud, but there was no time, you needed to fan.  

Fan, fan, fan, point, point, tap, tap, point, tap, point, tap, step, kick, back, tap, grapevine, kickover, grapevine, turn, swipe, stomp. Your head sits at a ninety-degree angle to your neck, your chin tucked in like a turtle, as you watch each kick expectantly. For a second, you forget. The stifling smoke disappears. The chatter of patrons and clinks of drinks all fade away. Your hands drift into your front pockets, and your eyes lift upwards where no one is looking at you. And you remember to fan.  

For a moment, you are in the stars, your movements second nature. The world is bright, the world is soft, and it is only there for you. But you still don’t know how to grapevine. You stumble, locking eyes for just a moment with someone in the crowd. You try to continue, but they’ve already turned. You wait for your chance to jump in, but when you do, your feet have forgotten the way. You look around you, but all you see are eyes watching. All you hear is laughter. 

You pause, then step off the floor. She looks at you, confused, but you smile and wave her off. The song ends shortly after that. 

Later, when you are standing out on the fire escape, watching rats fight over scraps, she will ask you what you thought. You will say you liked it. It’s what she needs to hear. That’s why you say you love her at the end of every phone call; her brain can easily trick her into things that aren’t real. You can see why she likes it, that moment of nothingness, of freedom, but you prefer it out here, in the cold night air, arguing about which rat will win. 

Abigail Lebowitz

Abigail Lebowitz is a junior Creative-Writing major and English Literature major from Cranston, Rhode Island. She is co-managing editor of the Mount Hope literary magazine and arts and culture editor for the Hawks' Herald newspaper. Her first publication was as a 2023 Write RI State Winner. She wishes to thank Professor Delaney, whose non-fiction studio inspired her piece.