Categories > Original > Romance
Disclaimer: Elton John owns the song 'Tiny Dancer.'
Warning(s): Suicide, eating disorders.
Note(s): None
~~~*~
Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand.
~~~*~
Your mother was beautiful, no matter that she always wore blue jeans when she wasn't dancing. She was a real lady, even in the rough streets of L.A. But that was before she divorced your father and moved here to New York City. She gave up dancing to become a seamstress for a rock band and we went to high school together.
The first time I saw you it was your eyes I noticed first. So pretty, a deep blue/green color not unlike the ocean. The next thing I noticed was your smile, also beautiful, but marking you as trouble waiting to happen. Even if I had known then exactly how much trouble, I wouldn't have changed a thing about our relationship.
Neither of us went to our senior prom. I was the typical punk: leather pants, purple hair, and enough piercings to set off a metal detector from ten feet away. I tried my best to stay away from school functions and the "preppy people." You claimed the prom wasn't your kind of dancing. You, like your mother, liked ballet. Instead, we drove down to the beach so you could dance in the sand then went back to my apartment where we sat on the floor watching movies because I didn't have any furniture yet. We talked about the future.
"I want to dance," you said then laughed because it was a daily statement. "And then I want to marry someone, a music man, to make music so I can dance." Then you looked at me.
"I'm going to be a rock star."
"A music man. We can get married. Then you can play for me."
"I'll play for you any time you want but getting married...well, that's illegal. The closest we could come to that is living together."
"Oh." You looked sad but suddenly you brightened and kissed me.
That night our friendship took a turn in a new direction and you moved in the next day. I tried to play for you like you asked but ballets sounds different when played by electric guitar and it was hard for you to dance to Metallica or David Bowie. But all in all, it didn't really matter. You would be always with me no matter what.
After graduation you went to one of New York's prestigious ballet schools and I got a job at Virgin Records selling CDs. I made a demo tape and sent copies of it to all of the major record labels. It was when I was stocking shelves one day that I found the perfect song to play for you: Tiny Dancer. That night I must have played it for hours while you danced.
My big break came just after your first performance. We had just walked back into the apartment and I checked the answering machine because the light was flashing. The only message contained the second most beautiful phrase I had ever heard: "This is the president of Columbia Records. I would like to meet with you tomorrow to discuss a contract."
~~~*~
Jesus freaks out in the streets
Handing tickets out for God
Turning back she just laughs
The boulevard is not that bad.
~~~*~
I was the new Marilyn Manson, only bigger. There were Jesus freaks protesting outside every time I played. Rolling Stone called me the new rock god. I played concert halls and outdoor festivals all across the country ance dce did an impromptu concert in the middle of Boulevard Street in New Orleans. My manager was talking about Europe. When I said I wanted to go home she just laughed.
But in the end, I did go home.
~~~*~
Piano man he makes his stand
In the auditorium
Looking on she sings the songs
The words she knows, the tune she hums.
~~~*~
It was just for a concert but I knew I was going to get to see you while I was there. That made all of the difference and, to be honest, I was tired of touring. I wanted to come home to stay. However, that probably wasn't going to happen, so I decided to send someone to get you on the day of the concert and bring you backstage to watch it. I paid my manager off just so she would schedule the NYC concert on your birthday and planned something special for you: I would play Tiny Dancer, what I had come to think of as your song. Somehow, my manager got wind of what I was planning and, after a lecture on why I shouldn't do it (during which I wouldn't back down), she informed the press that the rumors about my sexuality were very true and that I would be dedicating the last song at the NYC concert to my boyfriend.
I thought I was done for. Now that the world knew I was gay, there was no way I would sell out the New York City concert. Fortunately, I was wrong. The concert was supposed to be held in some auditorium in the middle of the city. It sold out and there were riots in the streets in front of the ticket stands. Only after one of the ticket venders was set on fire did the company decide to book Yankee Stadium instead. That too sold out.
You were late for the concert. The only thoughts going through my head during the whole first half were of you. What if something had happened? What if you weren't coming? What if...But suddenly there you were, backstage, or what qualified as backstage, sitting on a bar stool someone had brought in from the bus. I smiled. It was the first time in almost a year I had seen more than a photograph of you. But there was something wrong. You had always been thin, after all, most dancers all. You were thinner now, almost wasted looking. That was not natural. But I thought nothing of it. You hadn't written anything about it to me and you looked so happy just then, singing along quietly as if you knew every word to every song. I would come to find out later that you did.
After the concert I told my manager to go fuck herself, that I was taking a week off, and went home. To bed. With you.
And two days later, when you had finally gone back to class, your mother stopped by to see me. It was then that I learned why you were so thin. Apparently one of your instructors had told the class that dancers needed to be thin. You, ever so emotional, had taken it the wrong way and stopped eating. You had lost twenty pounds and only weighed 100 to start with. The doctor had diagnosed you with anorexia and your mother was counting on me being home, being with you 24/7 to make sure you ate something once in a while.
That was when I decided NOT to do the European tour. I was worth several million dollars at age nineteen and the album was still selling well. Why did I need more money? You were worth more than the several million dollars I would make in Europe and I was willing to spend every penny I already had on making you well again.
But it was hopeless. Three weeks after my last concert you were down to less than sixty pounds and had to be hospitalized. You had almost no chance of surviving this and I promised you that when the time came you would not die alone, that I would always be with you. Of course, I don't think we meant exactly the same thing. There was no way I could live without you and rock stars can buy ANYHING on the black market, including poison that kills instantly and leaves no trace of itself. If you died, so would I.
~~~*~
But oh how it feels so real
Lying here with no one near
Only you and you can hear me
When I say softly, slowly...
~~~*~
The doctors made it official an hour ago as I lay beside you, holding you. It was okay, even though I wasn't supposed to be on the bed. They unhooked all of the machines, said their 'I'm sorrys' and left us. We had arranged this long ago, to be left alone if anything were to happen.
"We're leaving," I say, untangling myself from you and standing up.
"NO!"
"No, no. I'm not leaving you. We're going together." Oh, yes we were. "We're going back to the beach. Remember? The one where I took you to dance the night we finally... You know."
"Oh. Yes." You closed your eyes, not having strength for anything more.
"Hey..." I say softly, not sure exactly what has happened.
"'M okay."
And I am greatly relieved. If we're going to the beach we had to get there fast. "Let's go, then. Let me know if I'm hurting you." I pick up a quilt I had brought from home, your favorite one, and wrap it around you before lifting you into my arms. I wouldn't have believed anyone could be so light and yet, be alive. But that was about to change.
"You won't leave me?" you ask once we're at the beach and I'm walking through the sand.
"No." Now is the time to let you know what I've planned. "Not even in death will I leave you."
"You...You're going to..."
"Yes."
"And I can't stop you?"
"No. So save your breath." I lay you down on the sand and spread the blanket around you before lying beside you.
"Sing to me again. One last time."
I do as you ask, holding you close.
~~~*~
Hold me closer tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
You had a busy day today
~~~*~
The last time.
I feel your breathing stop. I'm crying now, the first time since I was a little kid. And now I have to force myself to finish the song.
~~~*~
Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand
~~~*~
Before the last note has time to fade I am removing the little blue bottle from the pocket of my pants and, after uncapping it, drinking the contents. I feel sleep pulling me in as I hold you tightly once again.
For the last time.
For eternity.
Because that is what we have now.
My tiny dancer.
Warning(s): Suicide, eating disorders.
Note(s): None
~~~*~
Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand.
~~~*~
Your mother was beautiful, no matter that she always wore blue jeans when she wasn't dancing. She was a real lady, even in the rough streets of L.A. But that was before she divorced your father and moved here to New York City. She gave up dancing to become a seamstress for a rock band and we went to high school together.
The first time I saw you it was your eyes I noticed first. So pretty, a deep blue/green color not unlike the ocean. The next thing I noticed was your smile, also beautiful, but marking you as trouble waiting to happen. Even if I had known then exactly how much trouble, I wouldn't have changed a thing about our relationship.
Neither of us went to our senior prom. I was the typical punk: leather pants, purple hair, and enough piercings to set off a metal detector from ten feet away. I tried my best to stay away from school functions and the "preppy people." You claimed the prom wasn't your kind of dancing. You, like your mother, liked ballet. Instead, we drove down to the beach so you could dance in the sand then went back to my apartment where we sat on the floor watching movies because I didn't have any furniture yet. We talked about the future.
"I want to dance," you said then laughed because it was a daily statement. "And then I want to marry someone, a music man, to make music so I can dance." Then you looked at me.
"I'm going to be a rock star."
"A music man. We can get married. Then you can play for me."
"I'll play for you any time you want but getting married...well, that's illegal. The closest we could come to that is living together."
"Oh." You looked sad but suddenly you brightened and kissed me.
That night our friendship took a turn in a new direction and you moved in the next day. I tried to play for you like you asked but ballets sounds different when played by electric guitar and it was hard for you to dance to Metallica or David Bowie. But all in all, it didn't really matter. You would be always with me no matter what.
After graduation you went to one of New York's prestigious ballet schools and I got a job at Virgin Records selling CDs. I made a demo tape and sent copies of it to all of the major record labels. It was when I was stocking shelves one day that I found the perfect song to play for you: Tiny Dancer. That night I must have played it for hours while you danced.
My big break came just after your first performance. We had just walked back into the apartment and I checked the answering machine because the light was flashing. The only message contained the second most beautiful phrase I had ever heard: "This is the president of Columbia Records. I would like to meet with you tomorrow to discuss a contract."
~~~*~
Jesus freaks out in the streets
Handing tickets out for God
Turning back she just laughs
The boulevard is not that bad.
~~~*~
I was the new Marilyn Manson, only bigger. There were Jesus freaks protesting outside every time I played. Rolling Stone called me the new rock god. I played concert halls and outdoor festivals all across the country ance dce did an impromptu concert in the middle of Boulevard Street in New Orleans. My manager was talking about Europe. When I said I wanted to go home she just laughed.
But in the end, I did go home.
~~~*~
Piano man he makes his stand
In the auditorium
Looking on she sings the songs
The words she knows, the tune she hums.
~~~*~
It was just for a concert but I knew I was going to get to see you while I was there. That made all of the difference and, to be honest, I was tired of touring. I wanted to come home to stay. However, that probably wasn't going to happen, so I decided to send someone to get you on the day of the concert and bring you backstage to watch it. I paid my manager off just so she would schedule the NYC concert on your birthday and planned something special for you: I would play Tiny Dancer, what I had come to think of as your song. Somehow, my manager got wind of what I was planning and, after a lecture on why I shouldn't do it (during which I wouldn't back down), she informed the press that the rumors about my sexuality were very true and that I would be dedicating the last song at the NYC concert to my boyfriend.
I thought I was done for. Now that the world knew I was gay, there was no way I would sell out the New York City concert. Fortunately, I was wrong. The concert was supposed to be held in some auditorium in the middle of the city. It sold out and there were riots in the streets in front of the ticket stands. Only after one of the ticket venders was set on fire did the company decide to book Yankee Stadium instead. That too sold out.
You were late for the concert. The only thoughts going through my head during the whole first half were of you. What if something had happened? What if you weren't coming? What if...But suddenly there you were, backstage, or what qualified as backstage, sitting on a bar stool someone had brought in from the bus. I smiled. It was the first time in almost a year I had seen more than a photograph of you. But there was something wrong. You had always been thin, after all, most dancers all. You were thinner now, almost wasted looking. That was not natural. But I thought nothing of it. You hadn't written anything about it to me and you looked so happy just then, singing along quietly as if you knew every word to every song. I would come to find out later that you did.
After the concert I told my manager to go fuck herself, that I was taking a week off, and went home. To bed. With you.
And two days later, when you had finally gone back to class, your mother stopped by to see me. It was then that I learned why you were so thin. Apparently one of your instructors had told the class that dancers needed to be thin. You, ever so emotional, had taken it the wrong way and stopped eating. You had lost twenty pounds and only weighed 100 to start with. The doctor had diagnosed you with anorexia and your mother was counting on me being home, being with you 24/7 to make sure you ate something once in a while.
That was when I decided NOT to do the European tour. I was worth several million dollars at age nineteen and the album was still selling well. Why did I need more money? You were worth more than the several million dollars I would make in Europe and I was willing to spend every penny I already had on making you well again.
But it was hopeless. Three weeks after my last concert you were down to less than sixty pounds and had to be hospitalized. You had almost no chance of surviving this and I promised you that when the time came you would not die alone, that I would always be with you. Of course, I don't think we meant exactly the same thing. There was no way I could live without you and rock stars can buy ANYHING on the black market, including poison that kills instantly and leaves no trace of itself. If you died, so would I.
~~~*~
But oh how it feels so real
Lying here with no one near
Only you and you can hear me
When I say softly, slowly...
~~~*~
The doctors made it official an hour ago as I lay beside you, holding you. It was okay, even though I wasn't supposed to be on the bed. They unhooked all of the machines, said their 'I'm sorrys' and left us. We had arranged this long ago, to be left alone if anything were to happen.
"We're leaving," I say, untangling myself from you and standing up.
"NO!"
"No, no. I'm not leaving you. We're going together." Oh, yes we were. "We're going back to the beach. Remember? The one where I took you to dance the night we finally... You know."
"Oh. Yes." You closed your eyes, not having strength for anything more.
"Hey..." I say softly, not sure exactly what has happened.
"'M okay."
And I am greatly relieved. If we're going to the beach we had to get there fast. "Let's go, then. Let me know if I'm hurting you." I pick up a quilt I had brought from home, your favorite one, and wrap it around you before lifting you into my arms. I wouldn't have believed anyone could be so light and yet, be alive. But that was about to change.
"You won't leave me?" you ask once we're at the beach and I'm walking through the sand.
"No." Now is the time to let you know what I've planned. "Not even in death will I leave you."
"You...You're going to..."
"Yes."
"And I can't stop you?"
"No. So save your breath." I lay you down on the sand and spread the blanket around you before lying beside you.
"Sing to me again. One last time."
I do as you ask, holding you close.
~~~*~
Hold me closer tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
You had a busy day today
~~~*~
The last time.
I feel your breathing stop. I'm crying now, the first time since I was a little kid. And now I have to force myself to finish the song.
~~~*~
Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand
~~~*~
Before the last note has time to fade I am removing the little blue bottle from the pocket of my pants and, after uncapping it, drinking the contents. I feel sleep pulling me in as I hold you tightly once again.
For the last time.
For eternity.
Because that is what we have now.
My tiny dancer.
Sign up to rate and review this story