I’m Kevin Davey and I’m the author of
Playing Possum. Has to. Wants to. Six years later, in a
confession of sorts, Thomas will say that any man might kill
his wife. That will be long after his blooding tonight. – Flicks or skitter? Screen or skank? – Both I think, don’t you? He and Fanny visit a newly opened
picture house in Chelsea. They spend an hour in Hammersmith’s Palais de Danse. Cajoled to the sprung floor by the jabbling horns of a jazzboat orchestra, the couple shimmy through chinoiserie. Blasts of negro trombone assault the
lacquered pillars. Paper lanterns glim to ragtime sax. Table candles glow in
southern scat. A hot-head camera tracks their onestep lap by lap. Don’t give the rhythm meaning, she laughs. We’re here to get away from that. The clarinet percolates in copperplate, copulates in puckered bass. Let’s dance perk perk, all night purple perk, our last purple erkle, not so
fast pokle okle. In truth it is fanny who frisks: with powdered and fawning instructors, with captains stalking bored spouses, with bachelors foraging for solvent quiff. In fact with any floorflusher who is bold enough to ask for a caper. Of which there are many. – They’re decent men Tom. In the main. Decent men who enjoy dancing.