Last Saturday, I drove to Downtown Sanford, Florida.
First spot I hit was Little Fish-Huge Pond.
The band Eight Stories High played.
I forgot who said this, “I guess the cold weather kept people away tonight.”
“I heard a lot of things were happening in Orlando this evening,” I said.
For non-Floridians, Orlando is a forty-five minute drive away from Sanford.
One of those things happening in Orlando was a Capricorn party. Because I get along with most Capricorns, I wanted to attend. Yet, for business reasons, I had to come to Downtown Sanford.
Chris, the guy in the previous third pic down, told me about a place next door. Recently, Mother Earth closed. If I had it right, I think Mother Earth was a Buddhist place owned by a Brazilian woman. Some of Mother Earth’s stuff still remained.
Because belly dancers frequently performed there, you would think a person like yours truly would attend those nights. Yet, I missed them…unfortunately.
Slated to open next month, our friend Michael owns the spot.
Chris and I headed back to Little Fish.
After another brew, I headed to Fat Rat’s, the real reason I came to Downtown Sanford. Because of a possible future DJ gig there, I had to talk business with one of Fat Rat’s bartenders.
A jukebox played current rock and pop hits.
At the bar counter, I sat next to a bald white guy. I soon learned his name was Eric.
As I conversed with Eric, yuppies were swinging on the bar’s stripper pole. Make-believe-strippers on a drunken Saturday night, but probably boring ass office folks come Monday,
Around 11:30, the yuppies left.
Next, in walks a white woman dressed in a long sleeved, white shirt made from long john’s fabric. Also, she wore blue jeans and a winter hat that almost looked like this:
Except it wasn’t a knit hat. I think the hat was a green or gray fabric.
Any way, Eric and I started talking to her. As the conservation went on, the woman and I began talking more to each other versus talking to Eric.
I found out more about her than she did about me. Hell, I don’t talk much. Her name was “Nancy”. Born in Illinois , she moved backwards and forwards from Florida. Recently, she turned 36…which makes her a Capricorn. Also, she has three kids. As a dude with no kids of his own, women with kids are sometimes a turn off. Yet, because I enjoyed talking to her, I kept quiet about it.
Somewhere during the conservation, I told her about me being a DJ. I wasn’t bragging. I said it as a matter of fact.
“I like to dance,” she said.
After telling her I DJed locally, she told me she wanted to see the place I gigged at.
By this time Eric had already left.
Soon, Nancy and I left.
Okay, this is the moment where the picture-taking stopped. What the reader sees next are past photos of the places Nancy and I visited. In other words, I didn’t take these the same night I was with Nancy.
First place we stopped was Jason’s Martini Club.
The same people who own Fat Rat’s also own Jason’s.
For some reason, Jason’s was damned near dead. As current dance music thumped away, two women grooved on the dance floor. About four other people sat at the bar counter.
“It’s been like this for awhile,” said Nancy. “What do you think the problem is?”
“The DJ,” I said.
Next thing I knew, Nancy went to the DJ room. After a few moments, she called me over.
Because of who I usually see with the gigs, I expected the DJ to be a white guy aged late-twenties to mid-thirties. Yet, I saw a Hispanic kid who looked early twenty-something.
“Tell him,” Nancy said to me.
Oh shit, I thought.
“Don’t pay her no attention,” I told the guy.
I started noticing the guy’s software. He used Virtual DJ like me. Yet, he didn’t have the notes and beats per minute displayed like I usually do. As for equipment, I noticed he had a controller, something I currently wish for. Yet, my ass is always too broke.
I left the room and found Nancy on the dance floor.
We headed towards the exit.
“It might not be him,” I said. Actually, it could be everything but him. My blaming the DJ was ego talking…as if I could have done a better job. For all I know, shitty customer service could have ran people off.
Next, we went to Little Fish, my DJ spot.
There I bought us a brew and talked some more with Nancy. As they read these words, I imagine the questions going through some folks’ mind. What is he doing hanging with a woman with three kids? And shouldn’t she be home instead of barhopping?
I’ll you why I was having a good time. When Nancy talked, she wasn’t running off at the mouth about nothing, something that crawls my skin. I hate folks who talk and talk all the fuckin’ time. Most of the times, it’s always about them too. Because of my quiet nature, Nancy wanted me to talk more.
Another reason why I was having a good time? Being a DJ was all Nancy knew about me. She didn’t know anything about me and poetry When some women learn about my poetry, they act different. All of a sudden, it’s a man of my intellect shouldn’t behave like this or that. Also, it’s a man of my talent shouldn’t write booty poetry. Because I get sick of hearing shit like that, I keep quiet about my poetry.
Also, I cringe when women tell me they saw me reading poetry. If I wasn’t a locally popular poet, would they still like my ass? Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think all relationships start on a bad foot this way. Let’s just say, I’ve had too many shitty situations in which it did. One woman wound up being a mild stalker, mild because she only stalked me after breaking up with her boyfriends.
Compared to all that bullshit, Nancy was a godsend I didn’t mind spending money on.
Next, we went to the Wet Spot.
It kind of sucked. So, we went next door to the Alley.
And sat at the bar counter.
Friends talked to us for a few moments and left.
Next, Nancy and I talked some more…until closing time.
We walked to my car. Nope, nothing happened. Besides, she threw up. At least, she took the common courtesy to throw up outside my car.
After driving her to her car, Nancy and I went our separate ways. I don’t expect to see Mrs. Going-Through-A-Divorce again. No problem. Still, after I thought I missed it, the Capricorn party came to me instead.