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| "Untamed Rhythms" An Alaskan Short Story Adventure by Alaskan Artist Dianne Roberson |
Darkness slammed at my eyes hard as a concrete wall, and then slowly eased into a grey haze as the smothering fire in
a far corner of the smoky room returned limited vision to me. I followed the sound of popping corks to the log bar and felt
for a seat. As my eyes adjusted, I could see a pillar of smoke which let out a burp on my left. A strong smell of fish came
from a large form on my right. I could hear it arguing with the puffs of smoke about the impending storm threating the
Alaska coast. Behind them the door opened briefly and I glimpsed two enormous, hairy males chasing shots of whiskey
with gulps of beer. Both were dressed partly in animal skins, and partly in blood stained cotton. I caught the eye of one
looking me over. Tobacco dribbled from the gap in his stained teeth and slid down his scarred chin. The left side of his
face was completely covered with a black birth mark that circled one eye like a mask. Just inside the black circle I could
see an outline of pink skin. He would make an interesting portrait for my art gallery. I must have stared too long, for he
winked at me. Startled, I turned away.
In the darkness, I could feel someone approaching me, and the fish odor getting stronger. His brittle voice broke the
silence with a silly joke. I smiled with relief, as the huge ugly Alaskan man roared with laughter. He was full of
adolescent jokes which entertained me and his buddies for hours.
Four men appeared on the small stage. A jovial Puerto Rican speaking with a heavy accent and waving a saxophone
gave instructions to an Alaskan native playing a guitar; a replica of Jimi Hendrix eased down at the keyboard, and a
Jackie Chan duplicate claimed the drums. Each musician sported a cowboy hat hanging from a loosely tied strap, which
looked like recently added props. Their jeans and faded shirts were comfortably worn, but their cowboy boots had the
stiff, shiny appearance of newly acquired leather. The band attempted to play country music as I danced with the pillar
of smoke. My request for rock and roll brought out their talent. Feisty customers responded to “Bad to the Bone” by
filling the dance floor. As I remained the only woman alone, I had many dancing partners.
One young man began to stand out from the crowd. His curly red hair was wet on his forehead. Sparkling blue eyes
shined over a thick golden-red beard, which was broken by a laughing mouth that uttered words of praise for everyone.
Dancing like a wild animal on a bed of hot coals, he pulled me toward him and spun me around the room. My left boot
caught on his shoe and I hit the floor flat on my bottom. To my embarrassment, the music stopped. The crowd surprised
me with a loud round of applause. They continued to clap as the red-haired man pulled me to my feet and escorted me
off the dance floor.
“No!” Yelled the crowd of friendly Alaskans, “Don’t go!”
A young woman ran over and grabbed my hand. “You must sign the dance floor,” she smiled. “It is our rule. You must
sign the floor exactly where you fell.”
A man appeared with a flash light and a big black pen. Cheered on by the crowd, I wrote my name on the dance floor.
Returning to the bar, I gulped down a whole pitcher of ice water. I bade them good night and went out the door alone. I
was sucking in the fresh air and letting my eyes adjust to the street lights when the red-haired man touched my shoulder.
“Don’t go yet,” he pleaded.
We stood and enjoyed the informative kind of conservation a traveler has with a local. His name was Ed, and he was a
fisherman. I told him I wanted to see some of the real Alaska, to meet local people. Then he challenged me to see a real
Alaska bar.
“I tell you it’s something to see. You don’t have to drink a beer, just hold one. We won’t stay long and I’ll take care of
you, I promise.”
We walked down the street toward the water front and entered a door to an oriental restaurant. Ed was greeted warmly,
but I was frowned upon. After an exchange of money we were taken through another door; down a hall which opened
into a dark room. When I stepped into that room in 1995, I went back in time a hundred years. The black room was
broken by one single spotlight shining on a female figure dancing with grace and abandonment to exotic sounds softly
flowing from a single mandolin. Her hair was white, not blond or even the platinum that was popular long ago, but the
white of cotton. Her pale nude body had a damp pink glow. She swayed between long transparent veils of silk which she
whirled around her. At her feet sat the mesmerized fishermen.
Slowly my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I began to see other women dancing with men, maybe six couples. The
men all looked dark and menacing, wearing heavy boots and black hats or knotted scarves on their heads. Heavy
smoke filled the air, irritating my eyes. Occasionally a flicker of light would reflect on a gun or a knife strapped to the side
of the men. Gold coins and tattoos were flaunted. A couple of card games were being played at the tables along the
walls. “Don’t look any men in the eye,” Ed warned.
All the women in the room, except the white exotic dancer and me, were oriental. Each woman had long black hair piled
high on her head with ribbons and jewels woven through curls or falling in teased spirals to her waist. All of the women
wore high heel shoes with black fishnet stockings. Their enormous breasts were loosely clad with men’s shirts. Faces
painted with dark, bright colors complete with a beauty mark on the cheek gave the women a doll-like appearance. Each
woman moved to the music as if in a trance; some had tense smiles, others pursed lips.
No one seemed to notice us. We stood at the bar by the wall farthest from the action which was also a stagnant pit of
lingering smoke. By now my irritated eyes were watering. The silent tears not only decreased my limited vision but also
subtracted from my attempt to emanate a calm detachment. I noticed a spiral stair case rising to a second story. At the
bottom of the stairs sat an old woman stroking a cat in her lap. One gloved hand darted out for payment before a couple
could climb the stairs.
Ed pulled me closer to him and whispered in my ear, “Well, Dianne is this far enough away from Main Street, Alaska?”
“A bit too far,” I retorted.
The scene was unbelievable; it was like I was watching an old western movie. I expected a villain to start shooting any
minute. Not wanting to fill my bladder and necessitate a trip to the restroom, I placed the full, but warm, beer bottle on
the bar.
Slamming his fist on the bar, a stranger signaled for two beers. With a twinkle in his only eye, he pushed an icy bottle of
beer in my direction before turning his back to empty his mouth in a spittoon. I took a sip and pressed the cold bottle to
my face as if to hide behind it so I could look him over. His black, silky hair loosely secured by the jaw bone of a mammal
hung down his spine flowing over his tight ass. Tattered ropes circled one shoulder then trailed to his gun belt which was
carrying a large supply of bullets along with a .357 magnum revolver. The thick black leather of his pants dug into his
muscular thighs. Thighs which seemed to have changed their position. I abruptly ceased my artistic inspection of this
Alaskan character, turned around and moved closer to Ed. Rough, calloused hands reached out from behind me to
gently touch both my hands and lead me to the dance floor. He never spoke. His appearance was so intimidating, so
utterly magnetic that it never occurred to me not to follow him. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach as he slowly
guided me around the other dancing couples. Every move was powered by sexual tension. His leather garments clung
to my clothes as his hard body moved freely inside the leather to the rhythm of the music. Well, I was certainly feeling
young urges now! Fear that I would respond to his seduction overwhelmed me. I commanded my body to pull slightly
away while maintaining a pleasant smile. As soon as the music ended, I slid into Ed’s outstretched arms.
“Let’s Go, I pleaded.
Ed was very pleased he had shown me something different. “I told you not to stare,” he laughed. We talked and joked
like two old friends while walking back up the street to my jeep.
“Thanks for a great time, you are really a fun guy,” I replied as I took Ed’s hand and shook it hard. Before he could
react, I was in my jeep with the door locked. Reluctantly, I drove away.
Safe at my camp site, my lustful thoughts were soon over powered by my physical exhaustion. I don’t think morning ever
came. Or at least I didn’t see it. When I woke, the sky was just as gray, dark and rainy as it had been before I slept.
Tomato juice and caned meat on crackers satisfied my hunger pains. Comfortable but not yet recovered from my night
out, I dozed off again.
A moose, chewing on the leaves around my tent, woke me up. He moved to the jeep and peered at me through the
window before tasting the antenna. I was relieved when he spit the antenna out and moved on to consume a bush. With
dry wood from the jeep that I had hoarded, I started a fire and soon stood on the edge of the cliff with a hot cup of coffee
and watched the fishing boats head out to sea. As the majestic sunrise traveled over Resurrection Bay, I began to paint.
Dianne Roberson is a free-lance artist, writer, and photographer works from her studio in Palmer, Alaska and her
online art gallery at: http://www.artworldplus.com where you can view her prints and all her original paintings.
a far corner of the smoky room returned limited vision to me. I followed the sound of popping corks to the log bar and felt
for a seat. As my eyes adjusted, I could see a pillar of smoke which let out a burp on my left. A strong smell of fish came
from a large form on my right. I could hear it arguing with the puffs of smoke about the impending storm threating the
Alaska coast. Behind them the door opened briefly and I glimpsed two enormous, hairy males chasing shots of whiskey
with gulps of beer. Both were dressed partly in animal skins, and partly in blood stained cotton. I caught the eye of one
looking me over. Tobacco dribbled from the gap in his stained teeth and slid down his scarred chin. The left side of his
face was completely covered with a black birth mark that circled one eye like a mask. Just inside the black circle I could
see an outline of pink skin. He would make an interesting portrait for my art gallery. I must have stared too long, for he
winked at me. Startled, I turned away.
In the darkness, I could feel someone approaching me, and the fish odor getting stronger. His brittle voice broke the
silence with a silly joke. I smiled with relief, as the huge ugly Alaskan man roared with laughter. He was full of
adolescent jokes which entertained me and his buddies for hours.
Four men appeared on the small stage. A jovial Puerto Rican speaking with a heavy accent and waving a saxophone
gave instructions to an Alaskan native playing a guitar; a replica of Jimi Hendrix eased down at the keyboard, and a
Jackie Chan duplicate claimed the drums. Each musician sported a cowboy hat hanging from a loosely tied strap, which
looked like recently added props. Their jeans and faded shirts were comfortably worn, but their cowboy boots had the
stiff, shiny appearance of newly acquired leather. The band attempted to play country music as I danced with the pillar
of smoke. My request for rock and roll brought out their talent. Feisty customers responded to “Bad to the Bone” by
filling the dance floor. As I remained the only woman alone, I had many dancing partners.
One young man began to stand out from the crowd. His curly red hair was wet on his forehead. Sparkling blue eyes
shined over a thick golden-red beard, which was broken by a laughing mouth that uttered words of praise for everyone.
Dancing like a wild animal on a bed of hot coals, he pulled me toward him and spun me around the room. My left boot
caught on his shoe and I hit the floor flat on my bottom. To my embarrassment, the music stopped. The crowd surprised
me with a loud round of applause. They continued to clap as the red-haired man pulled me to my feet and escorted me
off the dance floor.
“No!” Yelled the crowd of friendly Alaskans, “Don’t go!”
A young woman ran over and grabbed my hand. “You must sign the dance floor,” she smiled. “It is our rule. You must
sign the floor exactly where you fell.”
A man appeared with a flash light and a big black pen. Cheered on by the crowd, I wrote my name on the dance floor.
Returning to the bar, I gulped down a whole pitcher of ice water. I bade them good night and went out the door alone. I
was sucking in the fresh air and letting my eyes adjust to the street lights when the red-haired man touched my shoulder.
“Don’t go yet,” he pleaded.
We stood and enjoyed the informative kind of conservation a traveler has with a local. His name was Ed, and he was a
fisherman. I told him I wanted to see some of the real Alaska, to meet local people. Then he challenged me to see a real
Alaska bar.
“I tell you it’s something to see. You don’t have to drink a beer, just hold one. We won’t stay long and I’ll take care of
you, I promise.”
We walked down the street toward the water front and entered a door to an oriental restaurant. Ed was greeted warmly,
but I was frowned upon. After an exchange of money we were taken through another door; down a hall which opened
into a dark room. When I stepped into that room in 1995, I went back in time a hundred years. The black room was
broken by one single spotlight shining on a female figure dancing with grace and abandonment to exotic sounds softly
flowing from a single mandolin. Her hair was white, not blond or even the platinum that was popular long ago, but the
white of cotton. Her pale nude body had a damp pink glow. She swayed between long transparent veils of silk which she
whirled around her. At her feet sat the mesmerized fishermen.
Slowly my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I began to see other women dancing with men, maybe six couples. The
men all looked dark and menacing, wearing heavy boots and black hats or knotted scarves on their heads. Heavy
smoke filled the air, irritating my eyes. Occasionally a flicker of light would reflect on a gun or a knife strapped to the side
of the men. Gold coins and tattoos were flaunted. A couple of card games were being played at the tables along the
walls. “Don’t look any men in the eye,” Ed warned.
All the women in the room, except the white exotic dancer and me, were oriental. Each woman had long black hair piled
high on her head with ribbons and jewels woven through curls or falling in teased spirals to her waist. All of the women
wore high heel shoes with black fishnet stockings. Their enormous breasts were loosely clad with men’s shirts. Faces
painted with dark, bright colors complete with a beauty mark on the cheek gave the women a doll-like appearance. Each
woman moved to the music as if in a trance; some had tense smiles, others pursed lips.
No one seemed to notice us. We stood at the bar by the wall farthest from the action which was also a stagnant pit of
lingering smoke. By now my irritated eyes were watering. The silent tears not only decreased my limited vision but also
subtracted from my attempt to emanate a calm detachment. I noticed a spiral stair case rising to a second story. At the
bottom of the stairs sat an old woman stroking a cat in her lap. One gloved hand darted out for payment before a couple
could climb the stairs.
Ed pulled me closer to him and whispered in my ear, “Well, Dianne is this far enough away from Main Street, Alaska?”
“A bit too far,” I retorted.
The scene was unbelievable; it was like I was watching an old western movie. I expected a villain to start shooting any
minute. Not wanting to fill my bladder and necessitate a trip to the restroom, I placed the full, but warm, beer bottle on
the bar.
Slamming his fist on the bar, a stranger signaled for two beers. With a twinkle in his only eye, he pushed an icy bottle of
beer in my direction before turning his back to empty his mouth in a spittoon. I took a sip and pressed the cold bottle to
my face as if to hide behind it so I could look him over. His black, silky hair loosely secured by the jaw bone of a mammal
hung down his spine flowing over his tight ass. Tattered ropes circled one shoulder then trailed to his gun belt which was
carrying a large supply of bullets along with a .357 magnum revolver. The thick black leather of his pants dug into his
muscular thighs. Thighs which seemed to have changed their position. I abruptly ceased my artistic inspection of this
Alaskan character, turned around and moved closer to Ed. Rough, calloused hands reached out from behind me to
gently touch both my hands and lead me to the dance floor. He never spoke. His appearance was so intimidating, so
utterly magnetic that it never occurred to me not to follow him. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach as he slowly
guided me around the other dancing couples. Every move was powered by sexual tension. His leather garments clung
to my clothes as his hard body moved freely inside the leather to the rhythm of the music. Well, I was certainly feeling
young urges now! Fear that I would respond to his seduction overwhelmed me. I commanded my body to pull slightly
away while maintaining a pleasant smile. As soon as the music ended, I slid into Ed’s outstretched arms.
“Let’s Go, I pleaded.
Ed was very pleased he had shown me something different. “I told you not to stare,” he laughed. We talked and joked
like two old friends while walking back up the street to my jeep.
“Thanks for a great time, you are really a fun guy,” I replied as I took Ed’s hand and shook it hard. Before he could
react, I was in my jeep with the door locked. Reluctantly, I drove away.
Safe at my camp site, my lustful thoughts were soon over powered by my physical exhaustion. I don’t think morning ever
came. Or at least I didn’t see it. When I woke, the sky was just as gray, dark and rainy as it had been before I slept.
Tomato juice and caned meat on crackers satisfied my hunger pains. Comfortable but not yet recovered from my night
out, I dozed off again.
A moose, chewing on the leaves around my tent, woke me up. He moved to the jeep and peered at me through the
window before tasting the antenna. I was relieved when he spit the antenna out and moved on to consume a bush. With
dry wood from the jeep that I had hoarded, I started a fire and soon stood on the edge of the cliff with a hot cup of coffee
and watched the fishing boats head out to sea. As the majestic sunrise traveled over Resurrection Bay, I began to paint.
Dianne Roberson is a free-lance artist, writer, and photographer works from her studio in Palmer, Alaska and her
online art gallery at: http://www.artworldplus.com where you can view her prints and all her original paintings.
| Alaska |
| Art World Plus | Short Stories Alaskan Art by Alaskan Artist Dianne Roberson |
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| Copyright 1995 © Dianne Roberson All rights reserved. |