“This reminds me of that time at the dance club with Dennis Rodman,” I said. My date looked at me in complete surprise as I watched people scramble on the dance floor for about twenty to fifty dollars’ worth of single dollar bills. We were at a wedding reception.
“Wait, what?! You never told me this story. You and Dennis Rodman?”
“Well, we were at the dance club at the same time, yeah. It was a long time ago, back when I was in college.”
“You have to tell me this story,” my friend insisted over the loud thumping music and squeals of cash catchers. Our voices were not going to last the night. Water was served in the tiniest cups. We had already passionately danced to “I Wanna Dance,” “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and many other pop songs we never would normally play in our private lives.
“It’s really not that big of a deal,” I told him. “Back in my senior year of college, I liked being the designated driver because I just wanted to dance. So I would drive my friends to The Crowbar, a dance club in Chicago, and they would go get Long Island Iced Teas and I would dance. This one time I was just dancing and dancing and then suddenly the crowd backed away from me. I knew I wasn’t that good of a dancer so I turned around. There was Dennis Rodman, about to grind me from behind, and I backed away. I didn’t want to have anything to do with that.”
My friend looked at me in shock, his mouth wide open. “THE Dennis Rodman. Dennis Rodman?!”
“Well yeah, we were in Chicago, and he was playing for the Bulls at the time. Anyway, so I backed away, and he started to throw fists full of one dollar bills onto the dance floor. I mean, hundreds if not thousands of dollars’ worth of one dollar bills. And all these people immediately started screaming and diving for the cash. One dollar bills. People were on all fours for one dollar bills. I just stood there watching. I wanted nothing to do with that. I just wanted to dance. But you could tell Dennis Rodman was getting a total kick out of this. All these white people scrambling for George Washingtons.”
My friend took a step back and took a huge chesty breath to exclaim, “Laura, you’re a badass!”
I was confused. “You call that badass? I don’t get it.”
He smiled and said, “Let me repeat the story back to you, just to make sure I got it right.”
He pretty much got the story right. Let’s face it, it’s a short story. But then he stood tall with his hands on his hips and said, “And there you were, standing there, only feet away from Dennis Rodman, as other people are grabbing dollar bills tossed around your feet. That’s totally badASS, Laura!”
“Well it’s not like they were hundred dollar bills,” I said. “And I didn’t ever think of it like that before.” Huh. Me. A badass?
“Wow, Laura, just the fact that you don’t think it’s badass is even more badass,” he said. “My brother is going to love this story! Come on!” The story was repeated for about three other brothers that night. They all agreed with their brother, my friend. I just shrugged and smiled. I guess I’m kind of cool.
Every once and a while, on the drive home, the next day on the drive to brunch, and on the drive back to Madison, the silence was broken with a chuckle and his shaking head. “I still can’t believe what a badass you are, Laura Paisley Beck. What a story!“
So there you have it. A story from my past that I didn’t think was that big of a deal but apparently is totally badass, which is why I am putting it out here.
Have you had any badass experiences on the dance floor? If you have, it would be great to hear them. I know I’m not the only one.
Thank you for reading,
Wa’am Laura Paisley Beck