by Sankofa
Their prime real estate is dance floor space. Room to move. A life spent preparing for when the groove hits. Nomads going from club to club searching for friendly space. Manager frowns appear on security team brows. Something about upstaging the booked talent. Others might be mindlessly dancing, but there's an epicentric art to this group. Watch shockwaves of recognition as the inebriated pause. What's going on? Dedicated dancers are getting down. The news calls them break dancers, but they are different. B-boys and b-girls with style their mandate. To witness is to surrender to disbelief. That move two seconds ago is forgotten as the next demands attention.
They're not particular. Suffering pus-seeping carpet burns, concrete induced bruises and tennis elbows swollen to disgusting proportions. They call it swelbow. Don't ask about treatment. Don't tell them you used to break dance. Just watch and appreciate. They don't exist as tickets good for a trip to the land of cool. Far as they're concerned, if you used to, you no longer are. A true street dancer cannot resist.
Tonight is a smoky club populated with families. Their thrum is the backdrop to a local funk band, rocking another tried and true set. Tonight, a ring thickens around the circle. That real estate is paying off. When dancers arrived, there was a seismic shift. Turning heads. Now those strangers are the centerpiece. This-a place of Osama urinal filters and a Marine-affiliated title.
Tables ringed with chairs. Chairs growing empty as tonight's crowd bears witness. Dance like this exists in Indiana? A vortex of b-boys and b-girls. Surrounding citizens swirl in rings 7 deep crane necks, whipping heads back in disbelief. The band notices, taking time to say "thanks to the breakdancers" and "you guys will never have to pay to get into one of our shows again".
Tonight, their drinks are paid for.
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