Dancing Eddie
The band was like syphilis in the 19th century, enjoying widespread popularity in the hearts and pants of the upper crust but suffering very slow penetration amongst the great unwashed. They played for the cocaine-infested custard layer in the sponge cake of society, being paid outrageously to play for an audience of not more than fifty people who wore thirty pairs of underpants between them and spent the entire gig as high as the ceiling in skyscraper heaven.

Eddie posed as a bassist. While the chic chicks flirted with the band, he got to spend hours at the bar with a slightly plainer alternative, who spoke when spoken to and wore underpants.

Gigs followed a pattern. The band executed number after number while fifty pretty boys and girls danced to their private, internal rhythms.

Eddie used a tiny, little portion of his brain to play his bass on automatic, with the rest of his powers of concentration devoted to examining the audience, picking the wheat from the chaff, and making a mental note of the most likely source of female companionship. He had enough experience to determine the shy from the daring, the talkative from the introspective and, more importantly, the ability to gauge the size of a girl’s backside from a quick look at her exposed shoulders.

Tonight Eddie catches the eyes of his carefully selected prey. A grimace shows that the sheer physical effort of playing the bass has exhausted him. A little smile in return for his herculean acting skills is all he needs. Done.

An hour later Eddie is feigning interest in her conversation, politely nodding and smiling without listening too hard, when a phrase penetrates his thespian abilities. “So, do you believe in God?” she asks.

“I know one who lives close. Come with me.”