From 'All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindegarten: Uncommon Thoughts On Common Things'
By: Robert Fulghum ©1986

One such night the Buffalo was invaded by a motorcycle club, trying hard to look like the Hell's Angels and doing a pretty good job at it, too. I don't think these people were in costume for a movie. And neither they nor their ladies smelled like soap-and-water was an important part of their lives on anything like a daily basis. Following along behind them was an Indian - an older man, with braids, beaded vest, army surplus pants, and tennis shoes. He was really ugly. Now I'm fairly resourceful with words, and I would give you a flashy description of this man's face if it would help, but there's no way around it - he looked, in a word, ugly. He sat working on his Budweiser for a long time. When the Dynamic Logs ripped into a scream-out version of "Jailhouse Rock" he moved. Shuffled over to one of the motorcycle mammas and invited her to dance. Most ladies would have refused, but she was amused enough to shrug and get up.

Well, I'll not waste words. This ugly, shuffling Indian ruin could dance. I mean, he had the moves. Nothing wild, just effortless action, subtle rhythm, the cool of the master. He turned his partner every way but loose and made her look good at it. The band wound down and out, but the drummer held the beat. The motorcycle club group rose up and shouted for the band to keep playing. The band kept playing. The Indian kept dancing. The motorcycle momma finally blew a gasket and collapsed in someone's lap. The Indian danced on alone. The crowd clapped up the beat. The Indian danced with a chair. The crowd went crazy. The band faded. The crowd cheered. The Indian held up his hands for silence as if to make a speech. Looking at the band and then the crowd, the Indian said, "Well, what're you wating for? Let's DANCE."

The band and the crowd went off like a bomb. People were dancing all through the tables to the back of the room and behind the bar. People were dancing in the restrooms and around the pool tables. Dancing for themselves, for the Indian, for God and Mammon. Dancing in the face of hospital rooms, mortuaries, funeral services, and cemeteries. And for a while, nobody died. back to index