Don't Stop Dancin'

By Seth Coggeshall

I woke up—again.

Damn it, that meant I survived another night.

Last night, I pulled the sheets over myself and thought: Please let this be the final night I’ll have to pray like this. Please let me not wake up in the morning. Please, God, if You’re out there, answer my prayers. You’ve answered so many people’s; why can’t You answer mine, for fuck’s sake? And when I woke up, touching my bed and walls, remembering where I was, unfortunately, I thought once again: I didn’t die. Another day of going through this shit is ahead of me. It won’t ever end, will it? No, it won’t.

Hanging around my neck was my cross. I rubbed my finger against it while the cold metal continued to thump against my naked chest. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, thinking about my prayer the night before.

How many times have I prayed at night?

Even though it was a rhetorical question, the literal answer was on the wall across my bed: I decorated it with chalk marks that I put down after each day. A piece of chalk was one of the few things I could have, along with a Bible, because it was almost impossible to weaponize chalk; even if it were, I was not smart enough to figure it out.

It still boggled my mind why I was here.

I knew the man who wanted to keep me locked up (I still wasn’t sure if it was all his idea, but the more I thought about it, the likelier it seemed). I couldn’t remember his name; I never remembered it when I worked with him. I did, however, give him a nickname years ago. I remembered it immediately when I saw him: Ranger Woody, which originated from how he walked like he had an erection (the boner walk, as my friends and I would’ve called it back in high school) and looked like a park ranger I knew a long time ago. I worked with Ranger Woody many years ago, early in my professional dancing career. He thought highly of me and often wanted me to stick around with his business. There was a point where he slid a contract my way. He told me it would be worth my time.

We all want you to stick around, he told me months ago. I think you want to stick around. Think about our offer and come back tomorrow with an answer. How does that sound? You’re a valuable dancer, one of the best I’ve ever worked with, and I can’t afford to lose you. I’ll pay you anything you want.

I went home with the contract, called my agent because he was more literate with contracts, and had him look at it. He noticed after reading only two pages Ranger Woody was attempting to screw me over and lock me down with his business for years, prohibiting me from taking jobs wherever I wanted—that did not fly with me. More than anything, I wanted to be an independent dancer, moving from job to job. Yes, Ranger Woody wanted to pay me a handsome pay, which most dancers wouldn’t turn down; the pay was attractive. But, even if I did sign it, I knew I would get bored of working for him within a few weeks. What could I do then? Nothing. Plain and simple. On top of that, my agent noticed a loophole Woody put in: he would take a decent chunk out of my paychecks; I would make less money working for him than if I worked independently—avaricious bastard.

Of course, I told Ranger Woody I wouldn’t take it. I walked into his office the next day and threw the contract back on his desk, my hands on my hips, staring him in the eyes. He saw the red X scrawled across the front. After he saw it, he glared at me. We made eye contact; neither of us broke it.

I’m sorry, I finally said. I’m not taking it. This isn’t for me. But there are far better dancers than me who would take this offer. I can pass it along if you want.

But I want you! You’re one of the finest there is, and we’ve already worked together for years. Why don’t you want to take it?

Me: Because I don’t want to! Why can’t you understand that? Yes, I like working for you, I’m telling the truth, but I want to work with other people, too. I don’t want you treating me like that guitar you have locked in a case and never play, because the guitar’s so damn expensive. I don’t want you to own me and treat me like nobody else can have me. Hell, I don’t want anyone to have me. Treat me like the professional I am. That’s all I ask.

Him: But aren’t I giving you that? You can do whatever you want if you stay with me.

Me: Not really. You won’t let me work with other people, will you?

Him: No. Why would I? You would be working for me. Once you sign that, you’re no longer an independent contractor. You don’t run your own gig anymore. I’ll be in control, whether you like that or not.

Me: That’s all I need to hear. If there was any doubt about my decision, you solidified it. Thank you for that. Now, I’ll see you later. Maybe I’ll see you later down the road when I’m doing one of my jobs. You’ll remember me as the dancer you let go because you wouldn’t let them do what they wanted to do. Nice work.

That was when I walked out of his office like a badass (because I was, wasn’t I?), slamming the door behind me, my shoes clicking down the hall.

Despite all that, I didn’t plan on it being the last time I saw the man: if he gave me a decent offer later on and still gave me my independence, I would take it. The truth was Ranger Woody was good to work with; he only had high expectations and didn’t like it when people rubbed him the wrong way. I knew I’d done the latter; I also didn’t care, because I had bills to pay and a job to do.

About a week later, after performing in a theater production, I went to the bar with a few of my co-workers. We sat there, enjoyed our drinks, and had a good night. Then, a man started talking to me. We had a casual conversation before we started talking about work: he was a risk analyst; he also seemed impressed when I told him I was a professional dancer and even raised his eyebrows. I finished my drink. He told me he would buy me another one because I was good company. I didn’t think much of it at the time, of course.

When I had my back turned, and nobody was watching this strange man, he put something in my drink. Either that or he and the bartender had a routine; he gave the bartender a devious look when he told the bartender to make me another gin and tonic.

I didn’t remember much after I took a few sips. I don’t know how this guy got me out of there without my co-workers wondering what was happening. Whenever I’ve asked Ranger Woody about it, he always gave me the same bullshit answer: Don’t worry about it.

Now, here I am, rotting in this cell.

I looked down at the bottom of the wall. The chalk sat on the floor at the bottom of the wall. After rubbing my eyes, attempting to wake up, and struggling to accept the reality of where I was, even though I didn’t want to accept it, I finally stretched my legs out from under the bed and headed to the wall. I reached down and grabbed the chalk. It left dust on my hand; the dust covered burns and scars. I held the chalk in my hand. I stared at it, a reminder of the world I was missing. My grip on the chalk was tight. I held my breath as I took the chalk and dragged it against the wall, decorating it with another tick.

SCRATCH!

I stared at the white mark. I sighed as I dropped the chalk. It went THUNK against the cement floor. It stayed in one piece. I studied the white mark, then stared at the rest of them. Again, how many did I have at that point? Far too many, that was for sure. If you looked up and down the wall, the marks of five—four individual marks with the fifth slash through the middle—filled the first third of the wall, going from top to bottom in small print. The marks continued onto the middle third, but it was only a quarter of the way down the wall. It was a good thing I made them all in small print; when I started, I had no idea how long I would be in this cell.

Until my captors got bored—that I knew for certain; the timetable remained unknown.

I sat on the ground, resting my back against the cement wall. It was as cold as the floor. There was a pain in my side. There was no questioning what caused it. I wasn’t wearing a shirt; my last one got destroyed three days ago, and my captors hadn’t provided a new one yet. I wondered if that was intentional because, since my upper body became exposed, I saw the damage they’d done to me already: scars along my stomach and arms, burn marks on my back—and the stitching by my left kidney.

Did I even still have that thing?

Oh, I didn’t care about that anymore.

What I did care about was what they put in there.

They told me they stitched an explosive to my insides. I didn’t know if they were bluffing. I thought about it every day, wondering if they were fucking with me and put something else in there. I often felt the area: it seemed like there was an explosive sewn into my side.

But I also didn’t want to gamble on that. Who would’ve? I didn’t want to cross the line and call their bluff, only for them to set off that damn thing, that incessant ticking going off in my side, a counter leading to a gruesome death.

TICK…

Despite the malaise, which anyone would’ve experienced if they were in my situation, I didn’t want to die—yet. Even though I had no pictures in my cell (how would my captors even get pictures I would request when they were holding me prisoner?), I had the mental image of my family: my partner, child, and the rest of my immediate family. I knew they were all worried sick about my absence, especially my partner. They had to be doing everything they could to find me. My family was tenacious, which was one of the things I loved about them. Even though the chalk showed I’d been in this cell for far too long, that didn’t mean they weren’t looking for me. I figured that if the media reported me dead, my captors would’ve told me that.

They will find me one day, won’t they?

Yes, they will. I want to kiss my partner again, hold my kid again, and get a hug from the rest of my family, even if it’s painful, because of what these bastards have done to me. My family will give me the affection I’ve been missing. It’ll be the greatest thing I’ve felt in a long time.

And that was the only thing that prevented me from committing suicide at that point.

Speculation was speculation until proven otherwise; I also wasn’t a soothsayer, so I didn’t know if I would get out of this alive. What if I killed myself too soon when I could’ve waited a little longer—anywhere from a few months or one day—and would finally be able to hold my family again after what’d felt like forever since I last laid my eyes on them?

Despite how bare my room was, I didn’t feel alone.

My cross touched my chest again. Like I did when I woke up, I ran my finger across the metal, feeling it against my skin again. That meant it was time for me to do the second thing in my morning routine: praying, the first of my many prayers throughout the day. I always did it after I put that next chalk mark on my wall. If there was anything that didn’t make me feel alone, it was thinking about God and that He should be looking down on me.

I sat with my legs crossed, my breathing deep and controlled.

I’ve been told my entire life that He’s up there, looking down on us, protecting us, but why hasn’t He protected me? And why has He made these people? I know my grandmother would tell me the world needs evil to balance out the good—and I believed it at the time, back when I was naïve—but now I’m in their clutches, their grip tighter on me than how tight they shut my mouth with that tape. God, it was painful when they finally ripped it off, but not as painful as the mental pain these guys are dragging me through.

Fucking bastards.

I apologize for my language; it’s pertinent right now. I’ll still be waiting for the day You get me out of here and let me see my family again. Will it be today or tomorrow, or will it be in a few weeks? I guess You’re the only one who knows, but I’m okay with that. They’ll be horrified to see what has happened to me, but that’s how I know they love me—and that’s what I care about more than anything. You know that. If I can get out of here alive and make my family happy again, I will do it without hesitation—

Someone knocked on my door. Damn it, I knew who it was. There weren’t many people who knocked on my door. There was always the guy who brought me food; he wouldn’t be this early, though. That meant it had to be the other guy who needed a shower and had a hoary mullet (Nasty Cowboy, as I liked to call him because I couldn’t remember his name).

When I opened my eyes and looked to my right, there was Nasty Cowboy. His outfit changed daily: today, he wore a weathered leather jacket, ripped jeans, a tattered red bandana around his neck, and was shirtless, exposing the iota of hair he had on the anterior of his body. “Get up,” he said. “No more sitting around. You have plenty of time to do that later in the day.”

I said, “After you guys torture me once again? Making me do things because you can?”

Nasty Cowboy glared at me. “You know how we feel about that word. Torture. Such a strong word. But anyone in your situation would think that. Honestly, if it were anyone else, they would use the same word as you.”

“Which means it’s pertinent and true.”

“Shut up! I didn’t ask for your opinion, little bitch! Now, get off your ass, dust yourself off, and get out here so we can get things going today. I know you would rather get it done sooner than later. I would if I were in your position.”

And if you were, you would want to kill yourself daily, I thought. But I don’t know what you have in your life. Unlike me, you might not have any incentives to keep living—any hope that keeps you going longer than you know you should be running. But what do I know? Here I am, a prisoner, something I know I could’ve avoided if I hadn’t gone to the bar that night.

No, I shouldn’t think about that right now.

Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I still did it.

I knew I should’ve listened to my partner, who wanted me to come home immediately after the performance. They knew how strenuous being a professional dancer was. They knew my body and mind needed breaks. They tried very hard to convince me to come home that night. Since I was stubborn, I fought back, telling them I needed a drink with the crew. Besides, it was only supposed to be one night. When I last saw my partner, before I gave them one final kiss (what I thought was our final kiss), I told them things would be okay and that I would come home alive.

Boy, I was wrong, wasn’t I?

Look where I am now. Look what you’ve gotten into. All because you took a drink from a stranger who ordered it for you and acted like he knew the bartender a little too well. Didn’t you learn from a young age not to do that? You shouldn’t take things from strangers. I thought Mom and Dad taught me better. Or I grew to not listen to their lessons anymore as I got older, even though I was teaching my kid the same things.

Nasty Cowboy shouted, “Get up, motherfucker!”

I was still on the floor. Nasty Cowboy sounded like he was getting angrier every second. If I sat for a little longer, I figured he would beat me in the groin with a chain.

“I’m not going to ask you again! Stand up! You have something to do! You better do it, or your head is going to be his! You know it!” I said, “I’m still calling his bluff about that one. With how much I’ve fought back for as long as I’ve been here, I’m surprised I’m still alive.”

“So am I. And I’m surprised you haven’t tried to escape.”

Believe me, I’ve thought about it. But nothing has seemed practical—so far.

“But who cares?” Nasty Cowboy continued. “Get up. I’m not going to ask again. I get tired of doing that. You dumb fucking dancers. No wonder you’re a professional dancer. Probably the only instructions you know how to take are the ones from your instructor.”

I got up. I dusted myself off. I headed to the door. Nasty Cowboy slid it open. He already had a pair of handcuffs in his hand, dangling them. The CLINK, as they hit the cell door, reverberated through the silent room. When I stopped before him, he clicked the cuffs around my wrists. Once again, I didn’t fight back.

Nasty Cowboy led me out of the room and through a dark hallway. He held a flashlight in one hand, the other clutching and guiding me. He was so close behind me that I felt him breathing down my neck. It made my skin crawl; there were a few times when a shiver went down my spine, causing me to flinch as he walked. When that happened, his grip on me got tighter, like he was attempting to assert his dominance.

Finally, we were out of the hallway. We were in a commodious room I’d been in before. There was a stage in the middle, covered in white paint chipping away in various spots, as well as other stains decorating it, including what I speculated were blood stains; as for why they were there, I thought better about asking. On the other side of the stage, there were three fancy chairs with fancier cushions. Men usually sat in them. I didn’t usually know two of the men who sat there, but one of them I always knew.

Ranger Woody.

This room was the only place I saw Ranger Woody. I always wanted to question him, still wondering if he had me locked up because I didn’t accept his contract.

But could I still consider him Ranger Woody at this point? In a way, he felt more like a stranger; this was a side of him I didn’t know existed: if I questioned anything or gave what Ranger Woody would consider a dissatisfying performance (I still couldn’t figure out what was considered dissatisfying, because of how subjective it was), Nasty Cowboy put a bag over my head and took me to another room where I got chained to the wall and whipped, or Nasty Cowboy would shove my head in a bucket of cold or hot water, depending on everyone’s mood. Ranger Woody was always present, too, smiling whenever Nasty Cowboy put me through this hell.

It felt like, almost every day, he threw me in that room.

Almost like he felt like nothing I performed was adequate…

(Do it again, but slower this time. And remember what happens if you don’t do what I tell you to do? Your insides will go BOOM. That doesn’t sound fun, doesn’t it? Actually, it would be good for the guys that clean around here. They might learn how to clean for a change. Cleaning out human guts isn’t the most fun thing to do.)

Nasty Cowboy and I stood there for a few minutes until ten. Right there on the dot, the doors in the back opened. Out came three men. Ranger Woody was one of them; of course, I didn’t recognize the others. Ranger Woody took the middle chair and gestured for Nasty Cowboy to remove the handcuffs. Nasty Cowboy did so without question and left me alone on the stage.

I stood before the three men. They stared at me. I knew what they wanted but always waited until Ranger Woody said something.

Finally, he said, “Well, aren’t you going to do something? You know what happens when you don’t.”

“Yes. I understand.”

He cocked his head. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

That made him smile. “Very good. Now, get back to it. You have a show to be putting on for us.”

I thought about what to do. Improvisation was always hard, especially without music, but I knew how to do it. I usually played something in my head while I danced, usually something I’d done more than a few times, so the routine was second nature by then.

My performance ended when one of two things happened: the trio got bored, or I became injured for some reason. Usually, it was the former; sometimes, the latter happened; this time, it was the former.

Ranger Woody got up, yawned, and gestured for me to stop. He gestured for Nasty Cowboy to cuff me again. “I’ve had enough of that,” Ranger Woody said. He clapped. “You did well this time. Better than you’ve been doing. I’m glad. You should know what I like, but you almost always disappoint. Glad you didn’t do it this time. You’re still showing me what you can do. Good work.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I guess you live one more day. Tomorrow, if I think your performance is mediocre, you might not be so lucky. Enjoy the rest of your day. Now, get the hell out of here.”

Nasty Cowboy took me back to my cell, uncuffed me, and left me behind.

I sat there, my ankles hurting and my emotional state still damaged. At least I’m here one more day, I thought. That’s one more day until my family finds me, and they can finally get me out of here. Out of this place I’m trapped in, forced to dance for these fuckers.

When it was three in the afternoon, I went to the bed and lay down. I thought about my family, imagining again what it was like to hold them. I began to cry. It intensified as I ran my hand along the scar over my kidney, feeling whatever the hell it was protruding through my skin.

(A reminder I can’t fight back.)

(Locked in to dance for this guy forever.)

I opened my eyes, sat on the edge, and exhaled.

“I need to practice,” I said to myself.

So I stood in the middle of the room and danced.