Some Enchanted Evening by Brian Jackson

Henry was drunk, again. Only this time he had at least waited for evening to fall, and incidentally for the rain to begin, before starting in on the Jim Beam. Of course, that soon lead to the first dead soldier of the night, and then it was time to start in on the Stoli. No matter how bad things got, Henry always managed to get wasted on the good stuff, this thanks to parents still guilt ridden over having thrown him out of their house. And this was a good thing, considering that wasted had become Henry's steady state, the state to which he returned for comfort and peace of mind; hell, to discover himself anew. The in-between time was spent vomiting, sleeping, and trying to keep the dicks of the world from hassling him.

All in all, Henry led a pretty shitty life. Except when he was drunk. Then he was transformed beyond humanity, transported beyond the mundane, to a world of infinite possibilities. Take this evening for example.

Henry was drunk, again, and playing one of his favorite dance albums, Commodores Live. He was grooving to the heavy base rhythms of the likes of Brick House and Slippery When It's Wet when his favorite slow dance tune came on, Zoom. Zoom was breezy, it had a groove but it was mellow and passionate at the same time. Zoom made you want to dance, but you had to do it slow.

So, Henry being the creative inebriate he was, grabbed the light stand that stood in the corner of the room, draped his favorite heavy, white, cable-knit sweater over it, and started to dance with it.

You see, the lamp stand was yet another thing Henry's parents didn't understand, especially when he made an extra effort to take it with him while moving out. The lamp stand stood about five foot tall upon ornate, clawed, cast iron feet. It was topped by a matching ornate, cast iron arm from which a lamp shade and light should have been hung. But this lamp had no such accoutrements, thus making it the perfect platform for building piñatas - hollow paper machete animals that you beat with a stick to get at their candy innards. He and his parents used to build piñatas on strings hung from that lamp stand every year for Christmas, and each year the piñatas became more elaborate. Then on Christmas Eve, after caroling, all the kids in the neighborhood would meet at Henry's house, in the garage, to whack the piñatas. Dad worked the rope from which each piñata was suspended, sending them up and down causing each child to miss with the stick at the last second, until one finally got lucky. All the time he bellowed with laughter in his deep, throaty bark. No child who experienced these events ever forgot them, especially not Henry. But I guess Henry's parents forgot judging by their reaction when he made one last trip into the house to grab the light stand and stuff it into the back of his AMC Pacer amid his meager pile of possessions.

Of course, his parents were in no mood for reminiscing the night they threw Henry out of the house. The bad scene that night should be considered their fault since they had returned two days early from their trip to Hawaii due to bad weather. Actually, it may have been Henry's fault for being too stoned to pay attention to the weather reports. In any case, his friend's dash to hide the stash merely put a dent in the beer bottles, pot, bongs, whipped cream cans, dusty mirrors, pill bottles, and TV dinner trays strewn across the house. And his friends were gone over the back fence by the time his parents walked in to their home to find their son standing in the foyer holding a bong in one hand and his dad's favorite ash tray in the other, filled to the brim with Acapulco Gold.

He really couldn't blame his parents for the way they reacted. He had after all been expelled from school for drug possession and absenteeism so many times he'd lost count. He had run away from two drug rehab programs promising that he could clean up his own act, and hadn't. He also had his stomach pumped twice. After all, his parents still had to be concerned about the impact all Henry's crap was having on Cheryl, his kid sister.

So, out he went. Amid a lot of hollering and finger pointing from the old man, and a lot of crying from both Mom and Cheryl, Henry made trip after trip, lugging crap between his parent's spacious home and his cramped Pacer. Of course, Mom slipped him some dough on his last trip out the door and after a cold night spent sleeping in his car he called from a pay phone to arrange his move back home. But apparently this time it wasn't going to be that easy. His parents both agreed that they'd had enough. Having just turned eighteen, Henry was being sent into the cold, cruel world to, as his dad put it, kill himself. But at least he'd be working on his death amid life's basic necessities.

Enter Mom. After only a few phone calls, Mom had arranged for a cheep studio apartment in a sleazy part of town. This had the unanticipated upside of making it easier to score dope and placed his domicile a mere two blocks from the local liquor store. A few meetings at the Goodwill store and Mom had addressed his basic furniture needs as well. Some cinder blocks and pine boards were all that needed adding to support the stereo and Henry's most recent Christmas present, a 15 inch black and white RCA television. Hell, Henry even managed to scrounge a telephone line spool to serve as a coffee table.

Apartment paid for and furnished, son deposited, and weekly stipend arranged, Henry was left to kill himself at what ever pace he chose. And so far, as with so much of his life, Henry had chosen slow and steady as his preferred pace.

Like the dancing he was doing now, to Zoom, his favorite slow dance tune by the Commodores. Slow and steady. Yeah, one would think that a simple light stand draped in a sweater would make for a lousy dance partner. But given the right circumstances, the right balance of intoxication, a Quaalude or two, and horniness, it can be a dream. And with your eyes closed, the world begins to fade away and all that's left is the music, the floor, and the women in your arms.

And just like that, you're gone.

* * *

Commodore Henry Roberts stood at the head of a sweeping flight of stairs surveying the scene before him. In particular, he was looking for one face, that radiant light that he had lived to experience anew during so many secret liaisons; the hostess of the evening's Christmas gala, Mrs. Catherine Edberg. Eyes still sharp from having been spared undue battle fatigue, Henry was able to spot his quarry amongst a throng of elderly gentlemen gathered in the middle of the dance floor. Assessing the milling crowd, Henry recognized that he had timed his arrival to perfection, arriving during the mid-dance recess during which weary dancers dispersed in search of refreshment.

Stepping forward, Henry handed his forged invitation to the headman who turned to introduce him to those in attendance.

"Sir Commodore Henry Michael Roberts, Esquire," the voice rang through the hall.

With the announcement of his attendance, the low murmur that had dominated the hall upon his arrival ceased and all eyes turned his way. Apparently the rumors of my involvement with the mistress of the house had spread as anticipated, Henry thought as he surveyed the crowd. Good, perhaps this will bring things to a head.

All began to speak at once at his descent; all but one, Catherine. She stood her ground, but those who dared look her way could see as her cheeks change first to ashen white, then to crimson red that she was deeply affected by this late arrival. Their eyes remained locked, hers and the commodore's, as he stepped from the foot of the stairs. Then the crowd on the dance floor parted providing an aisle to the center of the floor where his true love remained standing, but Catherine could do no more than look away in shame at the desire writ heavy upon her ruby cheeks.

Striding across the dance floor, the sea of guests continued to part before Henry until all who remained standing upon the stage were a man and a woman, no longer separated by distance, nonetheless set a world apart by circumstance.

He took her hand, she looked into his eyes, and the band began to play. It was a waltz to which Henry whisked his beloved across the floor. The feel of Catherine in his arms, his breast pressed to hers, was almost too much for Henry's frantically beating heart to bear; for instead, he wanted to cast this vixen to the floor and make violent love to her, right here, to expose the fullness of his passion for all to see. Instead, she laid her head upon his chest and he his head upon her own, they closed their eyes, and they danced. One dance led to another as they twirled and sashayed the night away. The soft swish of silk and brocade and gentle clanking of Henry's sword at his hip were the only sounds they heard as the even sound of their footsteps merged with the beat of the music to become mute. Some songs were slow and wistful while others proved to be fast and joyous. But still they danced, Henry with his one true love keeping step with him, kneading small gasps of pleasure from the woman in his arms with is hands, feeling a building desire to have her, they remained clinging so tightly together, eyes closed, as they flew across the floor.

Holding her tight in his arms, Henry came to realize that this was the woman who could save him from the tortured, self-destructive nightmare that had become his life outside her influence.

Then, all at once, the hall became silent. The music stopped as did the shuffling of dancing feet. Happy banter was replaced by a collective gasp as all looked to the head of the stairs to find that Baron Richard Edberg had returned from his rounds with the dogs in tow. Handing the beasts off to an underling, he descended the stairs in a flash. Once more the dance floor cleared leaving but two standing in each other's arms at its center.

"So, it is you," the baron uttered with contempt as he approached the couple. "I thought I had made it clear that you are no longer welcome in this house," he challenged, as if slapping Henry to the face with his words.

The two lovers stood huddled together in the center of the floor each thinking only of protecting the other. Henry could feel Catherine shaking in his arms as she started to cry from the terror of this ordeal. Henry released her to step forward in her defense only to brought up short by her sudden outcry.

"Oh Richard, why can't you let me go?" she pleaded.

"Over my dead body," was his treacherous reply.

With this exchange, Catherine burst into tears and bolted across the floor toward the doorway to the terrace. Henry and Richard exchanged glances, each considering ending the drama right here on the dance floor, then as if of one mind they burst forward giving chase to the fleeing lady.

All arrived on the terrace at once. Catherine stopped and turned to face her pursuers. Henry felt his heart break at the sight of the tears streaming down her face. He turned to the cause of her unhappiness and found the baron glaring at him with hate filled eyes.

"Prepare to die, you cur," Richard snarled to the metallic ring of his sword clearing its scabbard. Henry too loosed his weapon and the fight was on.

Richard proved to be an adept opponent with a sword, taking his time to size up Henry before pushing the attack. But Henry proved to be the more clever one by withholding the truth of his abilities until Richard rushed forward to find his attack easily thwarted and Henry's blade protruding from his belly.

"You have killed me," is all the baron had time to say before keeling over upon the veranda.

Too late, Henry noticed that Richard was falling back into Catherine in his death throes. Striking her midsection with the bulk of his weight, his momentum sent her hurtling toward the railing of the veranda. Henry jumped over the railing himself, risking his life in a futile effort to save his love. Hanging on to the railing with one hand, he was just able to stretch the other far enough to brush the fingers of his love before she was gone. Watching her fall to her death, Henry saw Catherine mouth the words "I love you" before her body was crumpled upon the cobbled drive below.

Pulling his shaken body back over the railing, Henry stood upon the veranda looking down upon his true love's broken body. At this sight he sank to his knees and began to cry.

* * *

Henry crouched on the walkway outside the front door of his third story apartment looking through the railing into the rain swept parking lot below. There in the drive, beyond a row of parked cars lay the lamp stand, broken beyond repair from the fall. The cast iron base had shattered upon impact, the slender shaft of the stand snapped in half, and the elegant arm was unrecognizable amid the pieces strewn across the asphalt.

Reaching into his pocket, he produced a cell phone, now only used to order fast food and make drug deals, to manually enter a vaguely remembered number which had been removed from speed dial.

The person answering the phone barked an incoherent greeting, obviously awakened from a deep sleep.

"Mom, Dad," Henry began, "I need help. I don't want to die."