Howdy, a comedy piece for you, creative nonfiction, from the archives...
Hippie Living: Free Dance!
Back
in 1998-9, I worked at a health food store in Virginia. It was a
privately owned, high maintenance, cultish, superbly organized place,
and I have no idea how I got the job because I had no experience, and I
was newly sober, and I wasn’t feeling well in the head at all I might
add, which made it a true adventure, since I suddenly morphed into a
wild hippie – not shaving, all natural everything, very high
maintenance. Anyway, being the extremist that I was, I got so obsessed
with ingredients that it took me all fucking day to shop. Suddenly, when
it came to food and cleaners and detergent, I had to be 100% pure.
Sure, I have always had trouble with the “happy medium” idea, but at
that time, it was extreme. And then I created an entire recycling center
inside my one bedroom apartment. I had so much recycling that I had
room for nothing else in the apartment except for an egg crate cushion,
one chair, and a small desk. That’s it. Anyway, I got so obsessed and
spent so much time studying labels while shopping that even though I
became an absolute expert, I got fired.
Actually, I
probably got fired because one day at work I asked my coworker this:
“Hey, do you know of some kind of aromatherapy that helps out with crazy
racing thoughts? My mind is in fuckin’ overdrive!” That’s right, I
really said that. In front of customers. So my coworker just looked at
me weirdly, shook her head, and picked up the phone, and in case you
were wondering, yes, the call was about me.
After my
short adventure at the health food store, I became so excited and
intrigued when I met this medicine woman who only had one name, like
Madonna. She was rad, and she loved my “quirky” personality, so she
introduced me to her secret society of “Free Dance.” On Friday nights, a
group of strangers got together at some vacant house, and she turned
some music on, and we “danced out” the way we felt. Like therapeutic
movement, only there was no real therapist there. Just a bunch of wild
hippies dancing out feelings. We were ultra-serious about it at the
time, but thinking back, I’m sure it looked like a circus. Actually, it
was fun as hell…for most of us…
See, there was this one
chick who was kinda down I guess, because she spent the whole dance
night curled up in a little ball on the floor. That was her dance – some
kind of never-ending, weird, slow-mo somersault. Every single week, she
curled up in this ball, so I’m not sure if the Free Dance was helping
her. My dance was pretty intriguing. Kind of a mix between some
stoned-out hippie crossed with a hip hop act crossed with a kangaroo
crossed with a spider crossed with someone who just got electrocuted.
Really, my Free Dance was no different than my regular dancing, to tell
the truth.
Maybe I’ll start a Free Dance class around
here. You know, get a boom box and some old used CDs, and find some
warehouse. I might be the only one attending. Just me, some Dead Can
Dance, a candle, some incense, hells yeah. I’d write more, but I have to
Free Dance to the kitchen. I may return, I may not.
C.A. MacConnell
