An essay I just read mentioned the writer's habit of wearing T-shirts carrying messages that raise eyebrows wherever she goes. I have some T-shirts, too, though they're not quite as impressive as the ones she described. In fact, only one of mine is worth keeping--it has a picture of a palm tree and "It's better in the Bahamas!" on it. I hardly ever put it on, both because it's old and thin--plenty cheap to begin with--and because I seldom wear T-shirts of any kind. But I'll never throw it away.  

Some years ago my wife Lucy and I went on vacation in the Bahamas for a few days and stayed at Lucaya, which was then the big tourist place. We swam, we sat around and drank things that came in frosted glasses with green stuff coming out the top; we went on a nature tour and saw a kind of lizard we'd never seen before. Sweated half-gallons, too, of course. We checked out the souvenir shops, and took the regular bus to see the village where the locals lived. All good stuff.  

Every night there was something going on in the not-very-rustic "village square," and usually some kind of band played island music or put on line dances. One evening, there was a contest, with the crowd for judges. Couples were invited to show off their dancing, and the winners got T-shirts. After the couples contest, they had one for women alone, and some flamboyantly-dressed babe in very high patent-leather heels took the trophy. Then they called for just men to come out. Slowly, after quite a bit of coaxing, about five guys sloped onto the floor, looking sheepish.  

Screw this, I thought, and bumped my way through the crowd to become number six. I mean, you gotta be a good sport, right? Besides, compared to me, these guys looked scruffy--T-shirts, short pants down to their knees, messy hair; one even had a little beard. Another was, I'll admit, young and pretty, but I couldn't let that stop me. What the hell, I was only 57, and I had on a nice polo shirt and a pair of clean white long pants.  

I don't dance much--haven't since high school, which was some time ago. Even then I was no great champion, though I could fox trot, waltz, and even cut a rug when it came time to jitterbug. I'd watched Carmen Miranda movies, but anything remotely Latin was way beyond me. Still, Lucy urged me to get out in the middle and show these folks how it was done. Didn't take much urging, actually.  

So there I was, lined up under bright lights on a tropical night with five reluctant contestants, ready to go. Just to warm up, I wiggled my butt and threw my hands up in the air while the bandleader was giving us directions, whatever they were.  

"You any good at this?" The next man, maybe 35, looked me up and down and curled his lip.  

"Damn right I am," I said, and then I gave him my best fierce expression. My wife says I look mean when I get annoyed; no telling what I look like when I really try.  

And then the music started.  

I wriggled. I squatted down and kind of duck-walked. Then I stood up, raised one arm and put the other behind my back, and started truckin' on down. If you don't know what that is, you're too young to be good for anything, anyhow. I did a shoulder shake. Put on a Groucho act. Twirled a non-existent cane, took big drafts on a cigar that wasn't there. All this, and I never lost the beat. The other guys were moving around, too, but they didn't look like much to me. And then the music stopped.  

The major domo lined us up. I looked over and grinned at my supercilious friend--and he smiled back. Then came the votes. At the far end of the line, the director put his hand over the head of one of the nondescripts. A few people clapped, but obviously he was nowhere. Down the line went the vote. The pretty boy got a nice hand, but nobody howled. My friend the wisecracker didn't do any better than the first guy, which pleased me no end.

My turn. Of course, I wouldn't win--I'd just come out to swell the numbers, to make it look like a real contest. But heck, one never knows, do one? There might have been a tendril of hope floating around somewhere in my daze. Certainly the other guys had gotten nothing more than a tepid welcome.  

I could feel the man behind me with his hand over my head. I just stood there, waiting. And then . . . . Well, I wouldn't call it a roar, exactly, but they began to clap. Pretty soon, the volume increased. First thing you knew, it got really noisy. A few people yelled, they really did. Ever been surprised? Let me tell you--I was.  

Later we talked to one of the other contestants and his wife. He told us he was in the New York cast of "A Chorus Line." I think he was telling the truth. That kind of stuff just didn't cut it with the Lucaya crowd.  

That's how I got my Bahamas T-shirt, the one I'll always treasure. Once in a while I clean out my clothes drawers and there it is. I remember--and smile.

Author's Biography

Carter Jefferson, a former naval officer, journalist, history professor, and psychotherapist, lives in Massachusetts and teaches writing to the senior set at U.Mass./Boston. Most of his students want to write memoirs, so he figured he'd better learn how to do it himself. 

His stories have appeared in a literary magazine and in e-zines, and he even sold one, hand-bound and illustrated, in an art gallery. He also published a political biography, but that was a while back. His book reviews have appeared in the Washington Post and the Chicago Tribune. More fascinating details are available at his Web site.

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