I stopped going to bars, not only because of the fighting, but because the atmosphere was so much different from the island. For one, the dancing was too sexed up for me. Booties flying everywhere, people faces contorted with sexual pleasure. Being seven feet tall was not consummate with slow dancing. No woman wanted to slow dance with their face pressed up against my crotch, nor was it any fun to do all that grinding and gyrating on the back of some woman’s head. Yes, being seven feet sucks on the dance floor. I remember one time I was standing against a wall in a club, looking at all the people going wild on the floor. Suddenly, I felt a bump on my knees. I did not think anything of it, but became a little annoyed when the bumping persisted. I looked down and there was this short blonde girl grinding against my knees. Her blonde hair was whipping from side to side, her drunken eyes glazed with pleasure. I gently bumped her with my knees, but soon she was back at it again. I shook my leg as if trying to stop a dog from humping me, but she was relentless. I leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I don’t know about you, but you grinding on my knees is not doing anything for me. Now stop attacking my bum knee.” She looked up at me, rolled her eyes and stomped off into the crowd. When I went out back home, I always danced by myself. I would park right next to the speaker and just sway to Bob Marley, or Denis Brown, or whatever cool runnings music that was playing.