You’Re Never Too Old to Have a Happy Childhood

By Gina C. Moss

Karen Griffith is a smart, independent, creative, passionate, forty seven year old, mountain-climbing grandma. Her business card reads Transformational Technician: Give me a week - Ill give you your life. Her new client, actor/director Sam Hudson, is in crisis and unable to continue working. The novel deals with genuine life-changing issues interspersed with quick-witted dialogue, physical comedy and vivid images of Southern Californias coastline. After several disastrous false starts, Sam and Karen come to acknowledge their true feelings for each other. A midnight escapade on Sams yacht proves the title of the book to be true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477233160

Gina C. Moss

Gina C. Moss holds a degree in Music Therapy from Montclair State University. She is an entertainer and educator specializing in voice and folk music, appearing on several CDs with The Cincinnati Klezmer Project and Mid-Life Crisis. She has extensive experience in self-expression coaching and personal development. She lives in Greensboro, North Carolina where she writes, volunteers as a dramaturge and is the reigning Greensboro Scrabble Champion. She and her husband have two grown children.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

S am Hudson let his eyes slowly close. Dancing, tantalizing bodies were projected on the inside of his eye-lids like an old-fashioned movie. The boom-boom of the bass was deafening, syncopating the pounding of the ocean waves. Momentary dreams snagged him and pull his carcass beneath the surface of the couch. He was bobbing in a sea of alcohol and nausea. The lateness of the hour intensified the beat of the music. The ceiling lights spun in a whirl of color. Sam was having memories of his childhood. He was at the county fair, riding on a tilt-a-whirl after eating too much cotton candy.

Suddenly the ride stopped. Sam opened one eye and realized he was still in the elegant Malibu home of his business partner Jack Corcoran. One of the party guests had stepped out on the patio and mercifully left the sliding glass door open. Damp, salty night air blew off the dunes. For a moment his stomach calmed and his muddled brain brought him back to some sense of the present. The manicured fingers of Sam’s right hand ran absent-mindedly through his smooth sandy-blond hair. The gold pinky ring with the initials SH flashed in the brilliant matrix of strip lights on Jack’s living room ceiling.

Sam perked up a bit. He glanced casually around the room, as was his habit. He wanted to see who was still at his producer’s party. Standing erect, with a bit of effort, he lifted his chin slightly and to the right, a trick from his old modeling days.

He was not thinking clearly. That last gin and tonic had really pushed him into the stupid zone. He began talking to himself. Who is watching me? Someone is always watching. Such is the price of fame; money and fame; looks, money and fame. Let’s see what else… He let his breath out and dropped his shoulders. Even slumped he was five foot eleven and a half. He stopped posing. It was exhausting, and he was weaving.

A shapely flash of blue caught Sam’s eye. Someone was watching. It was her. He had been watching her backside all night. Now he was able to get a good look at the face. How old was she anyway? Twenty? Seventeen? Twelve?! He squinted through the haze of cigarette smoke that was dulling his own blurry vision.

He began speaking out loud. Holy crow! I need glasses! He rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Egads! She is seventeen. The mumbling continued. Wouldn’t it be just like Jack to invite a gorgeous seventeen year old to his party? First he gets us good and drunk, and then he gets us arrested."

The amazing flash of blue walked right into his personal space. He did absolutely nothing. He stood like a sentry as she draped her long, tan arms gently around his muscular neck and played with his tawny hair. Slowly she let her hands drift down Sam’s shoulders and arms. She could feel the results of years of push-ups, pull-ups and weight training. He thought he heard her say something impressive, like, Ooo, yeah. Passing slowly over his broad chest she was now counting his abs. Sam found his breathing getting raspy as he realized exactly where her hands were headed. He felt a sudden pain in his stomach and almost doubled over. Abruptly he sat back down on the couch where he thought he’d be safe; safe from what, he didn’t know.

From this new perspective she was standing in front of him with her legs slightly apart. Sam looked up at her face. She spoke slowly in a hypnotic voice. Hi there. You’re Sam Hudson, right? I loved your last picture. I still have dreams about being trapped in the diamond mine with you. There was a warm sensation growing in the pit of his stomach. Her eyes, her smile, her voice; it was all working to complete his stupidity equation. He couldn’t stop himself from staring straight ahead. The dress was tight and riding up; no underwear line visible. Sam realized that sitting down may not have been his safest choice after all.

The desperate voice in Sam’s head screamed. Oh help, I’ve got to get out of here! He visually swept the room for a buddy but no one was near him. He looked back up at her face.

Hello. He heard his own idiotic voice respond like an out of body experience. She took this as a formal invitation to sit down on Sam’s left side. With her leg pressing against his leg, she let her small, cool hand slide down his inner thigh. Sam’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

When he saw her up close he realized it was one of Jack’s regular girls. His mind searched frantically. What was her name? Sandy? No Cindy? Candy?

After a pause she leaned her face very close to his and purred, Sam, don’t you remember me; Cathy, from Jack’s office? I keep things humming.

Yeah, I’ll bet you do! He thought sarcastically. She smiled and nodded dumbly. At least now he knew she wasn’t underage. She just grinned and shook her hair. Then she let her hand slide a little further down Sam’s inner thigh. He sat up straight and tried to back up into the couch cushions.

She attempted to pick up the conversation. So, Sam, do you do all your own stunts? Sam nodded goofily. You’re so brave. I think it looks so dangerous. I’ve been working for Jack for a year now. I see you and Ed come by from time to time… I heard you three guys started the company. It’s so successful. That is amazing! Sam nodded again. She looked across the room. Do you want a drink or something? Her words were slurred. I left mine in the other room?

Maybe salvation had arrived. Yeah, great! But just a tonic for me. I’m already pickled. Then he pretended to hiccup and he giggled like a school girl.

Yeah, pickled, she giggled back and squeezed his knee as she stood up.

He felt himself respond. Holy smokes, what a machine I am. I didn’t even know her name, but my groin doesn’t care. I’m lucky she’s a knock out. I’m so loaded I’d probably go home with Jack’s grandmother. Good grief my stomach hurts.

Within seconds she was across the room fiddling at the wet bar. She spun around and was returning with two glasses in hand. Sam decided she was most pleasant to watch. Her movements were smooth and even; no wasted effort. She seemed confident and something else, what was it? Oh yes, tempting.

She stopped to talk to Jack. They glanced over to Sam once or twice. Jack smiled and waved. It made Sam nervous to think Jack had sent her over to be his girl. Sam stupidly wondered, What does she want from me? It couldn’t be conversation. So far all I’ve managed to blurt out is ‘Hello’ and ‘Hic.’ But still, I’m doing well with her and she’s no great talker either! She’s trying, I’ll give her that.

While Sam was talking to himself, she had maneuvered her liquid body back in its place and handed him the drink. She was looking at Sam and smiling. As far as Sam could tell she was talking, because her lips were moving. Every few minutes she would giggle and give him a squeeze on his leg or his arm.

Hey! Look at that. Sam mused. Either my eyes are crossing or her twin has just joined us. How delightful. I can’t hear a thing she’s saying. When she laughs, I’ll laugh. Why is Cindy sitting upside-down? I think I’m going to puke.

Then he heard her say his name. Sam? Sam, Sam! But the voice was far away and synthesized, as if it was coming through a dime store radio. Sam felt himself being shaken. He was trying to make sense of events. It’s Sandy. Why is Sandy shaking me? Then again, it occurred to him, I feel sick, really sick. He had fallen down a deep hole and could not be stopped. Like Alice in Wonderland, he was descending into chaos. The room was rushing past him and spinning; people were speaking nonsense, but only for a few seconds. Then he disappeared into total blackness; blessed release.

CHAPTER TWO

T hough to Sam it only seemed like a few seconds, in reality it was five and a half hours later that Sam Hudson, slightly drunken movie star, regained consciousness. He was in his own house, in his own bed. He opened his eyes. The soft light from the big west window filled his room. Seeing all his personal belongings was comforting, but Sam still felt disoriented. It seemed to be early afternoon. Two faces were looking down intensely. The concerned people hovering over him were the two most trusted humans in Sam’s life. Nearest to the bed was Dr. Preston, Sam’s personal physician and behind him, peering eagerly over the doctor’s shoulder, Sam’s other business partner and best friend, Ed Pauley.

At sixty years old Ed Pauley was fifteen years Sam’s senior. He was a strong dynamic sixty that many found a challenge to keep up with, even though he had a full head of silver gray hair. Ed waited patiently until Dr. Preston stepped away to the bureau, before addressing Sam. Ed was standing in a familiar pose; hands on his hips, practically snorting. Well! In dead seriousness he added, This is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into. He stared at Sam, scowling.

Sam stared back, squinting slightly, trying to decide what he had done to distress Ed. Ed had left England twenty-one years ago, and often was able to pass for an American, but when he was upset his accent quickly returned. The accent was returning now, thought Sam. I must have done something incredibly irritating.

But suddenly Ed smiled, his green eyes twinkling. He put his hand out, squeezed Sam’s left hand and beamed down at him. Sam was relieved and tried to sit up only to find the muscles of his stomach uncooperative. Ow, Sam complained and flopped back down.

This complaint caught Dr. Preston’s attention. Stay down Sam, he urged. You just had your stomach pumped.

What! Sam blurted out, the effort only straining his muscles further. He lay on the pillow with his arm across his stomach. What happened? I know I was drunk but I didn’t drink that much! How long have I been out? How did I get here? What…

Ed put up his hand to cut Sam off. Slow down Sam, give us a chance…

No, you didn’t drink an excessive amount, if that’s what is worrying you. Dr. Preston casually replied over his shoulder as he was fussing with something. Finally Dr. Preston turned to face Sam. Bad dip they think, or something else gone bad. Maybe even a combination of things. Apparently a lot of people ate it, whatever it was. Quite a few guests got dreadfully sick. Some are still in the hospital. Believe it or not, you were one of the lucky ones. After your stomach was pumped the hospital released you to me since I am on the staff. Dr. Preston looked down at his pocket watch. That was several hours ago.

Dr. Preston turned his back to Ed and Sam again. Ed looked accusingly and spoke in a hushed tone. Even in a whisper his speech was crisp and dynamic from his many years of Shakespearian stage training. Sam, I know it was food poisoning, but what in the dickens were you up to? When we got to Jack’s the girl who had your head in her lap, how old was she, sixteen, seventeen? Christ Sam! We can’t take any more of this kind of publicity. And how much did you drink? Thank God for salmonella!

Thank God for salmonella?! Gee, thanks Ed. I could’ve died. It’s good to see you too. Then Sam started gesturing silently for Ed to come closer. Sam tried pointing and pantomiming. Ed was staring at Sam mystified. Finally Sam mouthed the words, Ed-what’s-the-doc-tor-do-ing? Sam was trying not to draw the doctor’s attention. All his precautions were to no avail.

Dr. Preston whipped around. As Sam had feared, there was a needle poised in his right hand. He was grinning like a shark about to feed. Now, how’s my best patient doing?

Oh spare me Phil, Sam retorted, rolling his eyes. What’s that for?

It’s just Vitamin B and something to stop the stomach contractions.

Great! Sam realized it was pointless to protest. He rolled onto his side. Sam didn’t really mind injections; he just liked giving Dr. Preston a hard time. Take your pick Phil, the butt or the arm.

The hip, Sam, perfect position. Sam had to wait a moment for a short lecture before the needle hit its mark. Now be sure to sip room temperature water for the next few hours. Have a bit of simple soup or apple sauce until your appetite returns.

Then without warning came the stab. Sam winced. Within moments the doctor had completed the unpleasant task and whisked out the door. He popped his head back in the door for a moment and added, I’ll be back later to check in if you need me. Don’t hesitate to call if you feel that something odd is happening. And he winked before disappearing.

Sam looked at Ed and said with a chuckle, Something odd happening around here? No comment. By the time he looked up the doctor had gone.

Ed sat down in the bedside chair. So Sam, how do you feel?

Good, actually. I haven’t felt this rested in a longtime. I guess they gave me a sedative or something. I’ve been kind of wound up lately. It’s crazy that I have to get my stomach pumped to force myself to take a break. It’s nice just to lie here in bed and relax. Ahhhh.

Sam flopped his arms out and pretended to be dead. He lay there trying not to breathe for as long as possible.

Ed stared blankly at Sam and waited. He knew Sam was playing out one of his ridiculous scenes and he would be done soon enough.

Suddenly Sam sprung back to life. He flinched. Ow! I forgot about my stomach muscles. Anyway I don’t think I can lie here very long. I’ll go bonkers.

Ed decided to speak, Sam, Jack and I were very concerned about you. Jack was hysterical at the house. I’ve never seen him like that. I know this was food poisoning but to be brutally honest, and you know I can be brutally honest…

Sam glared and waved his arm like a traffic cop. Out with it Ed; the suspense is killing me.

Yes, right, well, something is going on with you. What’s going on?

The sudden stop threw Sam and he was momentarily left with his mouth hanging open. Uh… Um… Nothing… really… ha ha… you know me… I enjoy a party. Maybe I am drinking a little too much, I admit it. I’ll pull back. I don’t even enjoy it. I only do it at Jack’s silly parties. And the girls, well, the girls… Sam rolled his eyes in a mugged comic fashion, imitating Groucho Marx.

Okay Sam, never mind. I can see we are not going to have a real conversation about this now. Maybe some other time. Sam seemed content to change the subject and let his attention drift around the room.

Ed spoke again. Dr. Preston said you were well enough to work from the house as long as you didn’t overdo it. So… Ed asked hopefully, do you feel like working on the new script today?

Sam tried to respond, Ed, I…

You know I’d like to make some more progress on the editing. I think we should do it before next week’s board meeting. That way we’d actually have something to present to them. He drew this last sentence out dramatically complete with hand gestures.

Again Sam began speaking.Well I thought I might…

Once again Ed cut in. What do you think will impress the Board more? Should we prepare an actual presentation or just do amusing hand shadow puppets on the wall? Hmm?

Ed left the room briskly, presumably to get the documents. Sam relaxed on the bed dreamily. Sarcasm was a staple with Ed. Sam had learned to filter it out.

Sam started to think about Ed’s request to work on the script. It seemed like a reasonable suggestion. He began pondering, In past years I have always cherished these first few months with a script when almost anything is still possible. We convince ourselves we are making choices based on living in a perfect world. Like when we say, If I were directing this film d’ya know what I would do? The straight man always says, What? Then the punch line, Oh wait, I am the director. Then we pick up our red pencils and cut an entire scene, obliterate a character, or just write the words bad, bad, bad all over the page… Sam chuckled to himself at the memory.

Ed returned with the scripts. He gave Sam one on a clipboard and a red and blue pencil. So, let’s start at the ‘double-cross’ on page twenty seven.

Sam nodded absent mindedly. Okay, Ed. Good spot.

Ed began explaining some new dialogue he felt would bridge the two adjacent scenes.

Sam chewed on a pencil. He stared at Ed and let his eyes cross to make it look like Ed was in two different places at the same time. He found this very amusing.

Sam’s mind was drifting. In fact it had completely left with the tide. Ed had his nose in the script and for the moment, did not notice that Sam had turned to look out of his big bedroom window. He was visualizing himself lecturing to a group of film students. At the moment he was being very profound. He was saying, See, it’s like being God. I envision each movie as my own Garden of Eden. It starts out perfect in every way and it’s my job to keep the Devil off the set. This is often impossible because the darn Devil is always so rich or so talented. I hate that about him! But still, I always enjoy the challenge. Then the students faded and he seemed to be talking to himself, standing alone in his entrance hall of mirrors. But something’s going wrong? I’m not happy. The joy is gone. It didn’t happen in a moment, but happiness has been oozing through a tiny hole and I didn’t even notice it leaving. Oddly, since the projects are in the chute, the momentum keeps them going. But the enthusiasm is definitely missing. It is not in the acting, it is not in the writing… directing… I’ve got to recapture the magic… to find the inspiration…

SAM! Ed was shaking Sam’s shoulder. Are you there? My God, you scared me! You totally checked out. Should I get Dr. Preston back here?

No, no… I’m thinking. I was listening. Go on. Really, go on, Sam encouraged.

Right! I’m sure you were listening! Ed huffed. He challenged Sam, Okay, so tell me; what was the last thing I was saying? Sam opened his mouth to speak and then closed it without speaking. Ed blurted out, Hell! Never mind that. Tell me the last thing you were saying.

Sam looked sheepish. You caught me. I’m lost Ed. I guess I should tell you.

Tell me what? Ed practically shouted.

I need a break. Sam pathetically moaned and looked up at Ed with desperate eyes.

Immediately Ed softened. Oh, yes of course. I never should have started working so soon after your ordeal. It has been a horrible day and a half. Ed looked down at his Baume and Mercier 18 karat gold watch. Let’s take a break until…

No Ed, stop. You don’t understand. Sam put up a hand. You mistake my meaning. When I say I need a break, I’m talking about a break of at least a year.

What?! Oh my God, Sam! Please tell me you are kidding. You are kidding, right? Ed could see from the look on Sam’s face that he was not kidding and responded in panic. We have commitments. Perhaps after this project; as soon as next summer or fall you could take a few months, maybe. You know that!

Sam just sighed and looked back out the large wall sized window. He did this more to drive Ed crazy than anything else. Ed was staring helplessly at Sam, waiting for him to say something. Sam turned casually to Ed and asked, I wonder if I should re-sod the lawn.

Even though his years of acting training allowed him to remain calm, Ed had a veiled look of panic in his eyes and his voice sounded pinched. Sam, have you considered my suggestion to bring in that woman? Do you remember I mentioned Karen Griffith, the Transformational Technician?

Sam rolled his eyes and mouthed the words Transformational Technician in a very mocking way. Sam queried sarcastically, What do you think I am, a broken down car? Is she going to give me an overhaul, or racing stripes? Oh wait, I get it. She’s a technician for people right? See, I get your drift. I’m a broke-down junker in need of repairs.

Ed just stared. He knew better than to try to interrupt Sam when he was on a roll. Finally Sam crossed his arms and glared. Ed knew it was in jest.

Sam, she’s nothing of the kind and you know it!

Sam cut in, Are you trying to set me up again? Why do you insist that what I need to straighten me out is a really good woman? Sam was looking up into Ed’s eyes trying to rattle him with this last comment.

Ed was unmoved. Really Sam, this has nothing to do with that, either. Although, now that you mention it, it would be good for business if you would stop scrounging around with the underage bimbos you meet at Jack’s parties!

Sam slapped down his clip board. First of all Ed, I don’t meet them. They hunt me down. Secondly, it really hurts me to hear you lower your usual impeccable verbal standards by using words like ‘scrounge’ and ‘bimbo,’ just to get my attention.

Well Sam, I’m glad to see at least this time you were listening. So I guess it worked. But don’t change the subject. I am not ‘setting you up’ as you put it. I mention Karen again because she has a great professional reputation. She’s… different. Rather than needing years of analysis, she is somehow able to cut through all the bullshit and get right to the heart of the matter.

Sam wanted to humor his friend. And pray tell, Ed, how does she accomplish this miracle?

In a nutshell, her style is unique. She comes to the client’s house to get a sense of how their life works, or doesn’t work. First she shakes things up, like a bomb going off, then she cleans up the mess; and it usually takes a week.

Sam had a momentary look of horror on his face so Ed decided to restate the description. Okay let me reword. Let’s say she’s unconventional, but very effective. You’d like her, (or not) he added as a stage aside.

Ed stiffened and got up to clear away some cups from a TV tray that had been set up next to Sam’s bed. Sam’s face clouded with confusion, The man was gathering up old coffee mugs from a bedside table. In all my years of working with Ed I’ve never seen him clean up after me! Sam pushed all the papers off his lap. Ed, stop. Stop doing that this instant! You have my attention.

Ed set down the tray of cups. Sam held up his right hand in an oath. I can promise no snide remarks or witty comebacks until you feel… how have you been putting it lately…? Hmm? Oh yes. ‘Complete with your communication.’ Then Sam smiled his award winning smile. He threw out his arms as if to say, Here I am!

Ed rolled his eyes and tutted, but proceeded. He was used to Sam’s hambone dramatics. Right! He sat down and made himself comfortable. Sam, I’m just going to say this as it occurs to me. However it comes out, I think you’ll get the basic idea.

Shoot, and start with the title. Technician? I don’t get it, Sam encouraged, crossing his arms and getting comfortable.

Right. Well, if your computer is on the fritz you call a computer technician. You would want someone who understands the inner workings of the computer; how a computer is put together. She does that for people. She is a human technician, specializing in transformations. Karen challenges people’s presupposition about themselves and the world around them. She encourages them to reconsider the rules and boundaries they are convinced are true; to give up fixed ways of thinking about the way life seems to be.

Sam wrinkled his brow, but Ed continued. It’s more than thinking outside the box or the envelope, or whatever you wish to call it. There was a pause and Sam could see Ed searching for an example. For instance, your brain actually has infinite possibilities available for solving any problem… Ed tapped the fingers of his right hand on his jaw. Suddenly he looked elated and continued, sticking his finger up in the air as if he were posing for a statue. … or possible designs for accomplishing tasks; even methods of comprehending information. Except over the years, people naturally begin to limit their own brain capacity. Ed leaned forward. You look puzzled Sam. You may be asking. Why would someone do this?

Sam’s eyes were twinkling. He had his hand over his mouth and he was nodding; desperately trying not to talk.

Ed had hit his stride now. He stood up and began pacing back and forth next to the bed. Sounding like a hawker at a carnival, he began his shpiel. Why would a person limit their own brain capacity? It’s not intentional. It is an automatic coping mechanism. Every time you accidentally hit on some combination of words or behaviors that seems to work for you, your body notices that, and records it as ‘seems to work.’ Your brain tags the experience, ‘this is good’ or ‘I like this path.’ ‘I will take this path more often.’ So far this seems to make sense from an evolutionary perspective, correct? Ed stopped pacing and waited for a response from Sam.

Sam nodded vigorously like a child.

Ed sat back down and pulled the chair up close to the edge of Sam’s bed. But this is where the natural course of things starts to work against us. You see, even if you never again get that good result, your brain will continue to lead you down that same path over and over, and keep telling you that path is good and will not challenge it, unless, and this is a big unless… Are you ready Sam? I’m about to tell you the greatest secret in the entire Universe.

Sam finally decided to speak, Go on Ed. I’m positively rapt and breathless. No, really go on.

Undeterred by Sam’s attitude, Ed soldiered on, his voice rising with each successive point. Nothing will ever change… Unless you consciously challenge the path or presupposition and ask the question, ‘does it work?’ If the answer is ‘Yes,’ then you can keep the pathway open; or not, that is your choice. But if the answer is ‘No,’ no the path does not work; meaning it no longer gets you the desired result, you must be willing to abandon it and create a new path!

Finally Ed was at the top of his vocal crescendo. His arms were out as if he has hitting the high note of a great aria. He waited a beat, and added, This is what she does. Ed let his arms drop into his lap.

Sam was stunned; this was dramatic, even for Ed. But he refused to show it. He simply asked, in a bored fashion. Is that it?

No! She will challenge your thinking patterns. She will teach you to find new pathways that work; ones that bring joy and life.

Stop, Ed! Now you’re starting to sound like an info-mercial, or my mo… No my mother would never talk like that. You sound like Jerry Freakin’ Falwell. Ed got up and began gathering together his things.

Ed’s patience was frayed and Sam knew it. Okay, Yes! Yes! Yes, yes. Fine, bring her by. Just give me a few days to recover from the puking and bring her by. I promise I’ll see her. And she can see me. I’ll let her unscrew my head and untangle my brain. God knows she couldn’t do much damage.

A pouting frown came over Sam’s face. He was lying on his side in bed and he set his chin on his hand. His elbow was on his pillow. When Ed turned to see Sam’s reaction he caught sight of a ridiculous third grade school picture Sam kept on his dresser. He realized nothing had changed; Sam looked exactly the same!

Sam seemed to be completing some conversation he was having in his head. …and don’t worry about fixing me up with her. I heard from Jack that he heard from Chuck that she is a grandma and almost fifty years old.

Sa- am, Ed said in a sing song voice, drawing the name into two syllables.

Yes Ed? Sam said with complete innocence.

Ed pointed out, You are almost fifty.

Ouch, Sam mugged, clutching his chest and falling back on the bed.

Heaven help us, Ed muttered, rolling his eyes. This time he did gather up the dirty dishes, stuff the scripts under his arm and stalk from the room.

After all, Sam went on talking to the mirror, She’s a grandmother. How dangerous could she be?

CHAPTER THREE

T he music was positively blaring. The powerful bass speakers resting on the long wooden work bench caused loose dirt to bounce in rhythm to Talking Heads, Life During Wartime. The lead singer’s voice stridently proclaimed, This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, this ain’t no foolin’ around. No time for dancin’ or lovey dovey, I ain’t got time for that now.

Viewed from the back, a woman with a