The Party Starter

"I'm not going in there."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm not. You can't make me."
"The money's been paid. You don't want to waste it, do you?"
"Damn you, Sid! How dare you use my frugal nature against me!"
"Relax, Matt. It'll be good for you."
"How?"
"You're afraid of it."
"So? A lot of people are afraid of it."
"Yeah, but it's your biggest fear."
"It's a very common fear."
"It's really not."

Common or not, Sid's right. This is Matt's biggest fear. And it isn't one he feels particularly inclined to conquer today. Especially since he still doesn't understand the purpose of any of this.

"Come on, man! This is not what I signed up for! You're supposed to help me get dates... not this."
"That's what I'm doing. Trust the process."
"I will not trust the process. Fuck the process. Fuck Joel Embiid. Fuck Ben Simmons. They both suck! Fuck the process."
"Joel Embiid won an MVP."
"Russell Westbrook won an MVP, does that make him a winner? No! Doesn't mean shit!"
"Embiid was one Kawhi shot away from the Finals, they could have won the championship."
"Could've, would've, should, blah blah blah."
"Like I was saying, trust the process. It's my job to make you do the things you don't want to do but will ultimately work."
"It will not work... people will just laugh at me."
"No, they won't. I specifically instructed everyone in there not to laugh at you."
"No, you didn't."

Sid hadn't. But Matt didn't need to know that.

"I did. The instructor is a good friend of mine."
"Really?"
"Yes, and he told me that under no circumstances is anyone allowed to laugh at you. I promise."
"You're full of shit."
"Good talk, Matt. Now get in there. We don't want to waste our money, do we?" Sid slaps him on the butt. Matt sighs, resigned to his fate. "Don't worry. I'll be right here when you're done, and we can talk all about it."

Matt walks into the dance class. Sid promptly turns around and leaves.

After class, Matt is riding high. A few minutes into class, he, reluctantly, let his guard down. Once he had and started cutting loose, he felt like an entirely new man. It's all so exhilarating that he barely cares that Sid has ditched him. He pulls out his phone and sees a message.

Hope you had fun. See you Friday. -Sid

Say what you will about Sid, he may not have the best methods, but damn if he doesn't know what he's doing. Matt walks out of the Broadway Dance Company with his head held high, having conquered his greatest fear. Or so he thinks.

The detailed instructions arrive Friday morning. Matt is told to go to a place called Home Sweet Home at 8 PM sharp. He arrives right on time, far earlier than he would have liked. He goes down the steps and sits at the bar as instructed. The bar space is semi-crowded, but Matt can hear the music blasting from the back. The dance floor is empty because of course it is—it’s only 8!

The bartender, a slender woman, makes contact. Before Matt can ask for a drink she asks, "Are you Matt?"
"Yes? How do you know my name?"
"This is for you." She hands him a small package.
"How do I know it's not a bomb?" She turns around, deciding Matt's questions aren't worth answering.

There's a message on the box: you're either busy living or busy dying. This has Sid written all over it. Matt opens the box and finds an earpiece, smaller than an AirPod. He puts it in his ear.

"You know I charge by the hour, right?"
"Sid?"
"Who else?"
"Cool! Where are you?"
"I'm around."
"Okay...am I not going to see you tonight?"

A couple other bar patrons begin giving Matt some strange looks, since to them it seems he's having a conversation with himself. Matt realizes he truly doesn't care and takes some pride in that.

"You might, you might not," Sid replies. "Tonight is not about me."
"Umm, what is tonight about?"
"You feeling brave, Matt?"
"No. Do you know me?"
"How was the dance class?"
"Really good! Everyone was so friendly! The instructor was great! I think I might go back."
"That's fantastic news, Matt."
"It really is."
"It really is. So, what you're going to do now is get up and go to the dance floor."

The conversation goes deadly silent. Matt's furious with Sid, and with himself. Should've known he was cooking up something like this...

"No, I will not be doing that."
"Do it."
"No, Sid. That's too much. I don't like dancing, and besides, it's way too early."
"You're going to start the party."
"I will be doing no such thing."
"What song is playing now?"
"'Run This Town.'"
"Okay, the next song up will be 'Yeah.'"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. The song from class."
"So?"
"You know the dance. Go do it!"
"Nah, that ain't me."
"One second."

A second passes. The slender bartender returns. She puts a shot glass in front of him and pours some white liquid.

"For you," she says. Matt smiles and takes the shot, a delightful mix of smoothness and the taste of STRONG alcohol.
"How'd you do that? Where are you?" Matt asks, looking around.
"How do you feel?" Sid asks.
"Still not going up there."

The bartender pours another shot. Matt takes the shot.

"How about now?"
"Ooh, that hit the spot... I'm feeling a little loose, alright alright alright...."

The bartender takes the shot glass and walks away.

"Not that loose!" Matt yells after her. She comes back and pours him another shot, which he promptly takes.
"I love youuuuu," he says to the bartender as she takes the glass away again and walks off.

"Sid, how do you do these things? Who's the bartender? Do you know her? Do you think she loves me too?"
"Get up." Without thinking about it, Matt gets up.

"Walk to the back." Matt starts walking. The music starts to sound better and better.

"And up top, uh, two beastings and I'm beasting, off the resiling, and my n**ga just made it out the precinct..."

"Kanye is so good! Do we all still have to hate him? Does it have to apply to all the songs he did before he went cuckoo? Was he always cuckoo?"
"Are you at the dance floor?"
"Yes."

The track changes abruptly, as though Sid had it ready on command.

"Now's your time. Go!"
"I can't."
"You can."
"No, I literally can't move."
"Close your eyes."
"What?"
"Close your eyes."

Matt closes his eyes.

"Take two steps forward."

Matt takes two steps forward.

"Go."
"I can't."
"Just do it. You know the dance. Just listen to the music."
"I can't!"
"Are your eyes closed?"
"Yeah."
"Just listen."

The song plays, and as Matt hears it, he can't help but tap his feet. He then starts bobbing his head. Followed by snapping his fingers.

"What are you doing?"
"I'm doing it. I'm dancing Sid! I'm dancing!"
"You're doing the Carlton. Do the one from class!"

Matt's muscle memory kicks in, and he starts running through the choreographed dance from class. By the chorus, he is so into it he is sweating. His eyes remain closed. The song ends, and a new one plays.

"Open your eyes." Matt opens his eyes. To his astonishment, ten other people are on the dance floor. Eight of them are women.
"Where did these girls come from?"
"Dancing is contagious, my friend."
"Who are they? Did you send them?"
"No, that was all you."
"Why are they dropping it low on each other?"
"They do that sometimes. No one really knows why."