The Rome of Fall by Chad Alan Gibbs

Author:Chad Alan Gibbs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chad Alan Gibbs
Published: 2020-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen (1994)

During the tenth month of the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-four, as foretold in the book of Garth, the gods unleashed a plague upon Rome. Not a plague of frogs, or lice, or locusts—those would’ve been fine. The Coosa River did not run red with blood—that would’ve been okay too. No, the gods were not messing around that October, and they blighted our fair town with a pestilence of heel, toe, do-se-dos that seemingly afflicted everyone in school but Jackson and me. Like a zit, Dixie Dancehall & Taxidermy materialized overnight, filling the void of Main Street cruising with, perhaps, the worst recreational activity in the history of human recreation: Country. Line. Dancing.

“Should we check out Dixie Dancehall?” Silas asked Jackson and me through a mouthful of French fries.

It was Saturday night, and we were eating dinner on a picnic table outside the WigWam, two weeks after what I’m loosely calling my fight with Deacon at the raceway. My mom grounded me that night, mostly for coming home with alcohol on my breath, but also for refusing to discuss the origins of my swollen black eyes. I missed the Riverton game, a 63-7 shellacking (yes, Jackson gave up the only touchdown), and the succeeding Saturday night, in which Silas and Jackson spent six straight hours playing NBA Jam in the garage.

“Hell no,” Jackson said. He was in a pissy mood because Rome played a close game the night before, a 17-7 win over Koch, and he never saw the field after warmups.

“Well, I’m open to suggestions if you’ve got better plans,” Silas said, “but I’m not spending another Saturday night in the garage beating y’alls asses at Sega. Brinks, you up for some country line dancing?”

I took a sip of my grape milkshake (it tastes better than it sounds) and said, “Sounds bitchin’.” But when Silas didn’t laugh in reply, I said, “No, wait, for real?”

“Everyone from school will be there tonight,” Silas said. “A lot of people went last weekend and said it was fun.”

“Country line dancing?” I asked. “The only one of those three words that sounds fun is ‘line.’”

“Like I said,” Silas said, “I’m open to suggestions.”

Jackson and I looked at each other then back at Silas, who shrugged and said, “Dixie Dancehall it is.”

Dixie Dancehall & Taxidermy was in an old tire warehouse on the outskirts of Riverton. Most people just called it Dixie Dancehall, but Monday through Friday, they’d gladly stuff any dead animal you brought in. Silas told me it’s now a CrossFit gym. That night, the parking lot was full, so we parked next door at a carpet factory and joined the short line at the door, where a man in overalls took our five dollars and said, if he caught us with alcohol or “tobaccy” on the premises, he’d never let us come back.

“You promise?” Jackson asked, but the overalled man just glared at us, so we quickly went inside.

Dixie Dancehall was a bit Spartan in decor. A few deer heads hung from the walls but not much else.

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