There is this middle-aged dude in my dorm. Six-four, probably 240 pounds, mean as a snake and nuttier than squirrel shit. You know those articles in the paper about mentally ill inmates falling through the cracks in the system? This guy is Exhibit A. He rarely speaks, just grunts and mean mugs. Occasionally he’ll howl. But the most noteworthy thing about him is that every day when the mid-day mix comes on the local R&B station, he stands up and begins to dance. Totally oblivious to the cat-calls and laughter from the rest of the dorm, he busts all the old-school moves: the Cabbagepatch, the Wop, the Running Man, even the Roger Rabbit.
While I watch him gyrate from the corner of my eye, a part of me thinks “what a psycho.” I mean, who does that? But deep down, there’s another part of me that kinda respects his crazy, his utter indifference to what anyone thinks about him. A part of me that secretly thinks “I wish I could dance.”