How Would Jesus Dance?

Ah, found piece from November, '08. I'm gonna miss that place.)


You can't miss Sky Bar. It's the only mid-rise on Montrose with the top floor wrapped in pink and blue neon. It glows like a beacon, calling dancers from across Houston. At eleven p.m. on Thursday nights, salseros, salseras, wannabes and a variety of those who simply want to be in attendance stand in a line that winds around the building waiting for the elevator to take them up to the tenth floor. There always seems to more of a crowd wanting in than the building can accommodate and the bouncers are kept busy holding the line, letting in only a few at a time.



It's a dress-to-be-seen scene. High heels reign, as long as they're dance-worthy and there are more skirts than not. Real salsa, serious salsa, makes for great legs and they are shown at Sky Bar. It's an exotic blend of shoulders, hoop earrings and ruffles. The men can get in wearing jeans, if the jeans are without tatters, chains and aren't sagging. There's a no tennis shoes rule, but I doubt that anyone would wear them if they could. How could you spin in tennis shoes, anyway? The spins and turns are important in salsa dancing, almost as important as being caught to turn again. Salsa is sexy, hot, primitive. I think it's the dancer's dance.



Last Thursday the drink special was a goldfish bowl-sized mojito. For five dollars. Yummy! And too much booze to make salsa dancing workable, enjoyable or anything close to recognizable. I ordered one, had a few sips, recognized the high octane level and decided it was worth the five dollars to let the glass globe of peril serve as a signal to others that our table was occupied.



I danced a bit, watched people a bit more. After a particularly fast-paced merengue, I was standing in front of one of the massive fans, cooling down, when my friend nudged me in the ribs.



"Oh, My God! Look who's here!"



Those words are never good at a club, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, there are about half a dozen old boyfriend/stalker types that could be "here". The elevator at Sky Bar doesn't provide a quick enough escape. I know. I've tried and failed. I started to scan the room as inconspicuously as possible. Then I saw him.



It was Jesus. You know, Jesus. The guy in the paintings. The one that looks up into the light. Brown hair, brown beard, beatific. That Jesus.



He was on the dance floor. He was good. The guy could lead with strength and confidence. He was putting his partner through triple spins. He even threw in a slide. Who knew Jesus could dance?



Now before you go all fire and brimstone on me, please understand that I understand that it wasn't really Jesus, but he really did look like the guy who hung over Mrs. Brandon's piano in my choir room at the First United Methodist Church. I got in trouble at that church for asking how he could possibly be that white. I always pictured him with much darker skin. That's a whole other story, I guess.



At the end of the night, I said my goodbyes and left, just a little disappointed. I didn't dance with Jesus Thursday night. He had so many partners lined up that I didn't get a chance. I descended out of Sky Bar and onto the streets of Houston, left to wonder what the real Jesus would think about dancing.



There is another place I know, the Big Easy. They play the blues. It's grimy, dark and also sexy. It's about the lindy and west-coast swing. I may go there next week. I can say I'm looking for Jesus.


©Michelle Scofield, July 14, 2010 All Rights Reserved