idol dance

by Billy Thrasher

Sandy programmed the jukebox to play “Rock n Roll Forever” by Jill Jackson and the Bloodhearts three times in a row. She danced to the first song, then strutted between the tables and behind the bar to wash beer mugs, while swaying her hips to the beat.

The bar inside Runway Bowl had been her home since before her entry into the half way house as a teen, and ever since her release from the halfway house as an adult. Her sponsor convinced her to look for a rental close to her job and luckily, she found a duplex to rent across the street from the bowling alley.

Sandy moved in and soon after started a short-lived Jill Jackson tribute band. The band broke up after Sandy broke the bass players bass across the bass players nose, breaking her nose and giving her five stitches across each cheek. As a result, Sandy’s focus changed to her nearly complete shrine of Jill Jackson memorabilia in the basement of her rental, though she always had her eye out for that one last missing piece. From the strut to the snarl under jet black hair, Sandy lived rock-n-roll.

“Not that dang song again,” moaned Art before taking a long drag from his cigarette.

“Don’t you dare complain about my idol, Artsy,” Sandy snapped, “I’ll kick you right off that barstool, straight through the window. My bar, my rules, my music.”

“Thought you’d a quit after Ken said you couldn’t take off work and go to the show tonight,” Art said, coughing up a puff of smoke.

“Yeah, well. I oughta’ sneak out the back. She’s playin’ right down the street.”

“Well, ever bodies gotta work,” Art said while putting on his coat, “speakin’ of ‘thority, I gotta go. The boss’ll beat me if I stay past ‘leven. See ya’, Sandy.”

“See ya’,” she said, leaving the sink to clean off the remaining tables.

It was past closing time, the bar was empty, the beer coolers stocked, and Sandy closed the walk-in freezer. “Son of a bitch,” she exclaimed as she noticed a table full of empty bottles and trash she forgot to clear. “Damn it,” she said, yanking the beer tray from behind the bar and briskly walking to the table.

She heard the entrance doors to the bowling alley open and glimpsed a person with mirrored sunglasses and a tightened black hoodie with black hair flowing out all sides strut towards the bar entrance. She thought of dashing for the shortened pool stick hidden behind the near end of the bar. It was too late. They quickly took a seat at the first barstool at the end of the bar.

Jill Jackson tossed her glasses onto the bar and flung back her hoodie, “How about a beer?”

“No way,” Sandy shouted, dropping the beer tray and running to the bar.

“Lame show tonight, man, the crowd just wasn’t into it, so we finished the set early. I just wasn’t ready to crash yet, so I snuck out for some quiet time. Ya’ dig?”

“Shit yeah, I dig!”

Sandy swung open the door to the beer chest and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. After her hysterical fit was over and they had spoken and drank enough that reality set in for Sandy, she begged Jill to dance with her.

So they danced, swayed hips, head-banged, pumped their fists, and jumped till their chests were burning. The song ended, they both let out a sigh as Joan stepped back and slipped on a bottle, fell, and hit her head on the bar railing. Dead.

Sandy let out a deafening cry. She could barely keep her sanity as she took swig after swig from the bottle.

Half a bottle later, and just before dawn began to break, she decided that luck was finally on her side. She took Jill across the street and set her up at the shrine. The final missing piece.

Locking her duplex door behind her, Sandy strutted down the sidewalk, determined to carry on the legacy till she breathed her last breath.

Photo of Billy Thrasher

BIO: Billy Thrasher is a graduate of the MFA program at Lindenwood University. He writes at home, at the coffee shop, at the park, and in his car during lunch breaks. The simple, brief moments in life catch his attention and spark his creativity. He has written works published in Dovecote Magazine, White Wall Review, As You Were: The Military Review, Dunes Review, Rougarou, Outlook Springs, received a Pushcart nominee from Hive Avenue Literary Journal, and published in the Best of BarBar 2024.