First Publication!

The first item of any import (other than 'in-house' columns and articles, etc) that was published was a short article entitled "Dancing Girl". It was given Honorable Mention in the 'Article' catagory in the 1979 Writer's Digest Writing Competition.

The Dancing Girl
by: evvy garrett (not garrett at the time!)

We noticed her as soon as we had sat down in the mock-leather black chairs and ordered our first round of drinks. Her legs and arms were working rhythmically and methodically in the newest dance patterns as she and her current partner moved around the parquet floor, her brown stack-heeled sandals making a clicking sound when­ever they made even slight contact with the waxed wood. It was a week-night, Tuesday, and not crowded, so she had all the room that she needed to do the latest Discos. The four soft pink spot-lights that were supposed to be focused on the tired-looking rock band at the far end of the rectangular room overflowed the small square stage, adding a spectral look to the several dancing couples and to the stale little neighborhood bar itself.
Strangely, we ignored each other and the business that we wanted to discuss, settled back into the tub chairs, and watched. She was fairly pretty, but there was nothing about her features that anyone could call striking. An average type working woman, maybe a secre­tary, in her mid-twenties with tawny in-the-sun-a-lot skin and short dark hair that framed her face with a sweep of soft waves. But it looked like a plastic face that perhaps a make-up artist would de­vise for a stage somewhere; a face that didn't have a laugh or frown line on it, a face that didn't change expressions, a face that didn't smile once all evening. Still, she did dance, and dance well, her slim form moving lithly from one point in space to another, a study in natural untrained grace. And because of that, she was the focal point of attention this cool and rainy spring night. Her partners changed often as different men would approach the high bar stool where she was perched, shyly holding out a hand, asking her to dance with them; tall, short, drunk, sober, young, old, she accepted all offers, never once rejecting a dance. It seemed that it wasn't a particular man that she was looking for, or someone to buy her a­nother Margarita to sip daintily on, but just a warm breathing body to dance another dance with.
It didn't even seem to matter to her if the band played a fast or a slow number; she would slip gracefully off the bar-stool and head for the dance floor, passing our table on the way, with large loop gold earrings swaying as she walked and trailing behind a soft fragrance of soap and a popular perfume. Then stepping onto the dance floor, she stepped into another world, a world that she didn't allow anyone else to enter. Almost magically, she would be under the influence of the throbbing music, her tall body starting to move in time to the bored drummers beat, Ignoring her partner, keeping her gaze fixed just above his head when her almond shaped brown eyes were even open, she could have just as well been dancing alone in the privacy of her own living room to the beat of her own stereo. If it actually happened that she and her partner danced as if they were truly a couple, it was because the man of the moment was fol­lowing her lead, not vice-versa.
The dancing girl was wearing a too-early-for-the-season, summery navy-blue dress of a thin material that looked like it would feel soft to the touch, with small pink flowers scattered randomly over it; and very little, if anything, under it. As the girl moved so did the dress, as if it had a life of its own; first it would wrap itself this way around her curved hips, then the flowing mater­ial of the skirt would silently slide up a few inches to reveal a smooth knee, only to slip back down with the next harsh guitar chord to caress her stockingless calf. It was the same with the bodice of the dress too, which had a low V neck and gathered short cape-like sleeves that on the inside of the dress were cut down almost to her waist, One moment you would be looking at the dress clinging sensously to her small well-formed breasts, the nipples clearly erect as she threw back her shoulders, the next moment a quick flash of cleavage and pink skin as she bent slightly forward from her hips. But it was not lurid or obscene, you could tell that it was unintentional; it was like watching a new kind of art form.
She seemed to be completely unaware of her surroundings; of the cheap tables and chairs, the shadowy corners, the smell of beer, the various people, (among ourselves, we wondered how often she came here), And she was unaware that everyone’s eyes were on her, male and female alike. You got the feeling that she didn't care, that she was here for her own special reasons; to dance, to move her body, to feel at one with the music that she seemed to love, that was all that mattered. If the dancing girl had a job, an apartment, relatives, lovers, or bills to worry about, tonight wasn't the time for it. Right now, this moment, was the time for the thin blue summer dress, green-tinted Margaritas, pink lights, and throbbing music. Tonight was for transforming an everyday working girl into a princess for a night, in a dark and lonely Los Angeles bar.
The hours passed swiftly and our two drink business conversation had been forgotten long ago, but none of us minded, we had seen some­thing special this night. something that we would all remember for a long while. And when it was almost time for the bar to close up for the night, we were sorry that our magical interlude was over. As we were hunting car keys and the old bartender was polishing glasses, we saw the dancing girl leave. Silently, she finished her drink, slipped into her jacket and without saying good-night to anyone, walked slowly out the door. Alone.

It was WEEKS before I came off the ceiling!