by Dan Begley
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“That day I helped her with her furniture, some woman was eating a candy bar, and she said, I swear to God, ‘I may as well be gluing this chocolate to my ass.’ Then two of them get into a discussion about which is better, Godiva or Ghirardelli or some other crap, then somebody else jumps in about the style of jeans the ass-gluer’s wearing, and how that’s a good fit for her, since she’s short-waisted. Whatever that means.” He stuffs a few nachos into his mouth. “I suggest you get down to that dance studio and make like SpongeBob and soak it all up.”
Oh, that’s what he’s talking about: go to a dance studio. Yeah, I’ll do that, right after I jam a screwdriver through my ear. “News flash: I don’t know how to dance.”
“No kidding. That’s why they give these things called lessons, so people like you can learn. It’s the perfect cover: a public place, lots of chatter. You’ll fit right in.”
I picture the studio, and me at the studio, and other people with me at the studio, and little beads of sweat begin to form on my upper lip. But if it would help… “What’s the name of the place?”
“Dance something or other.”
“Oh, I love that place. I’ll head right over.”
“Just get me the phone book. I’ll know it when I see it.”
I fetch the yellow pages and he thumbs to the dance section.
“Aha! Here it is,” he says, “Dancing Daze.”
Jesus. A place that likes to pun. I despise it already. “So what kind of dancing does she do?”
“Hmm. That part never came up.”
“Okay. What nights does she go?”
He shakes his head. “That part either.”
“What did come up?”
“The half-off shoe sale at Macy’s, chocolate, jeans for short-waisted people. Oh, and the instructor’s name. That came up a lot.”
I wait for him to give it to me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he conspicuously turns away and takes a swig of his beer and holds the bottle up to his mouth for quite some time, like maybe if he does this long enough, I’ll forget what we’re talking about, and my own name, too, and we’ll move on to something else. But I wait, patiently.
“Well?”
He sets his jaw, serious-like. “Let me ask you a question, Mitch. How important is it for you to pull off this stunt?”
“Give me her name.”
He clears his throat. “Uh, his.”
“Fine, his.”
He chews at his lip. “It’s… Adonis.”
No fucking way!
“Mitch, he’s a dancer. He’s Greek. What’d you expect? Jim? And anyway, remember what the Bard said: ‘What’s in a name?’”
A hell of a lot, I’m guessing, when you’re a dance instructor by the name of Adonis. How tight are this guy’s pants?
“Look, if it’ll help any, I’ll call my sister, explain the situation, tell her to be on the lookout for you.”
I almost toss the remote at his head. “Oh, that’s brilliant. ‘Hey, Sis, I have a writer friend who’s working on a book about shallow, superficial characters and he wants to research the project by eavesdropping on you and all your friends. Be especially trite and vacuous with your comments, because that would help a lot.’” I give him a look.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Yeah, well that doesn’t help. That’s idiotic. ‘I’ll call my sister, explain the situation,’” I mimic in a lunkheaded voice, to let him know how I really feel, in case he doesn’t already. “In fact, with help like that...” I start, but I can’t think of a way to complete it, not that gets it right, lets him know this whole thing is driving me nuts, that nobody told me there’d be days like this. But maybe that’s just the point. I can’t think right now. And that’s my goddamned problem.
He shrugs. “Your call, Baryshnikov.” Then he starts yelling at the referee on TV.
There’s a scene in the first Indiana Jones movie when Indy’s about to lower himself into the chamber where the Ark is buried, and he sees all those snakes, and he rolls back on his side, repulsed and disgusted and horrified, and says, “Snakes. Why’d it have to be snakes?” That’s how I’m feeling later, tossing and turning in bed, only I’m saying, “Dancing? Why’d it have to be dancing?” Because I hate dancing. I am repulsed and disgusted by dancing. And not because it’s unmanly or unhip, or in any way snakelike, because, brother, it ain’t; I’d trade places in a heartbeat with Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain if it meant having any part of my body near Cyd Charisse’s. The problem isn’t even the dancing per se. The problem is that I’m no good. And I don’t do a thing if I’m no good at it, because I can’t stand looking ridiculous and foolish and klutzy, or being reminded of my deficiencies and inadequacies and shortcomings, even if it’s only for the electric slide, and I never do those things in public, where there is gawking and guffawing and pointing, and where I could be the butt of a joke (“Hey, look what that guy does with his arms. It’s chicken-man!”). And maybe I’m overly self-conscious about all this—or thin-skinned, or kakorrhaphiophobic, or whatever a shrink might say—and maybe I should just get over it. But fuck that, really.
So...
As I see it I have three options: chuck the whole project and live with the knowledge that Katharine does this better than me; keep plugging away as I am and go insane; head off to dance class with Adonis and Co. and make a total ass of myself. Not the most soothing plotlines for a bedtime story and, as a result, I sleep terribly and dream awful dreams, and this is how desperate I am when I wake: I’m prepared to cloak myself in tips gathered from Cosmo’s “Now and Zen” article. I shall be calm and still, a pool of tranquil water, and listen to the universe for answers.
I give the writing another try and it gets me nowhere. I breathe deeply from the diaphragm.
I go to the bookstore to check out the new Glamour, Harper’s Bazaar, and Vanity Fair, and they yield nothing. I delight in my oneness with consciousness.
I consider talking to Molly, even if it means she’ll know for all eternity I came crawling to her for help, but she’s wearing a T-shirt that says Taster’s Choice and the same skirt she wore to my office the other day, and I’m guessing it might be hard to talk with her about plunge bras and v-strings and Italian lace tangas and keep my mind—and eyes—where they need to be. I take a cold shower (which, strictly speaking, was not mentioned in the article, but seems like the thing to do).
I give Oprah another shot, and she has a show on transgendered people—women trapped in men’s bodies and vice versa—and while any one of them could easily write the book I’m trying to write, since they seem to have a finger in both pies, so to speak, this is no help to me. The universe, I conclude, has spoken by not speaking, which is very Zen of it: it must want me to dance.
I call the studio and a pleasant female voice tells me that, yes, there is an instructor named Adonis, and he teaches recreational ballroom on Mondays and Thursdays, championship tango on Tuesdays and Fridays, and gives private lessons on the weekend. Since Bradley mentioned nothing about his sister being a dancing savant, I’ll assume the recreational class is her speed. Which means there’s a lesson tonight. A dancing lesson. I take a moment to find the center of my being, so I’ll know where to plunge the knife, if need be.
The annals of literature are filled with individuals who went to extreme and dangerous lengths to capture the story. Ernest Hemingway drove an ambulance in World War I, got injured, and we have A Farewell to Arms and The Sun Also Rises for his pains; Jon Krakauer climbed Mount Everest for Into Thin Air; George Plimpton played quarterback for the Detroit Lions to get Paper Lion. These men endured artillery fire and subzero windchills and 250-pound brutes in cleats, all for the sake of their art; Mitch Samuel has only to dance. So I slip into my jeans. I put on a button-down shirt. I lace up my sneakers. I stare into the mirror and give my hair a little brush back, channel Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. I’m Tony Manero. I’m cool. I’m confident. I
can do this.
A half hour later, on the bus, I realize I’m not cool, I’m not confident, I can’t do this. Bring on the bullets and blizzards and blitzing linebackers. Please. I ring the bell; let me off at the next stop. As for the book, well, I can mail Katharine a letter and tell her what I was up to, let her know I made her look like a fool—you autographed a book for Bradley, my best friend, a guy—and be done with it. Maybe I’ll include a picture of Bradley, naked, using the book to cover his privates. Good enough, I suppose.
And this is the plan, or the early stages of it—though I’m already having second thoughts about the naked picture of Bradley, since that seems borderline… criminal—when I hear Snoop Dogg. His music is pouring from the old-school headphones of some teen standing next to me, waiting to get off. (How do I know it’s Snoop Dogg? Because I’ve seen my share of MTV.) But Snoop is really Calvin Broadus, which means, of course, that Snoop Dogg is just a stage name, an alias, just like Bono and Sting and Slash and 50 Cent and Eminem; like Mark Twain and O. Henry and George Eliot and Bradley/Bradjolet, for that matter; like Cary Grant and John Wayne and Jon Stewart; like the names I let my students use when they write their papers. And the benefit of hiding behind an alias? It’s not you on the stage, or the other side of a camera, or in print. Not really. It’s your alter ego, an actor, someone else, and this someone else can take risks and be crazy and let it all hang out, because if he fails, he fails, not you. Which means...
Mitch Samuel doesn’t like to dance. He hates it. He’s self-conscious and awkward and stiff, but more than anything, he’s not interested in making a fool of himself in front of others. Fine, Mitch. Go home. Bug off. We don’t need you tonight. Because tonight we have a special guest. Jason (my middle name). Jason Gallagher (my mom’s maiden name). For Jason, dance is the rhythm of life. It is the soul making love to the body. It is the motion of the heavenly hosts. And Jason has the perfect attitude about taking lessons: he basks in the spotlight of attention, he’s willing to take chances, and most importantly, he won’t cry or throw chairs or punch anyone if he messes up. Or so he says.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Here’s what I expect when I get there: spandex and sequins and strappy heels, feather boas and fake nails and teeny tops. And that’s just the guys. But what I get instead is cotton and polyester and denim, and a fair share of leather, but leather where leather belongs: in shoes. A couple dozen people are sitting around on metal chairs, chatting and laughing, waiting as another lesson finishes up, and to my eye, there’s nothing to set them apart from a regular crowd of people, except they’re sitting in a room with mirrors covering three walls and a bunch of trophies and plaques and photos of dancers on the fourth. Of course, Jason would’ve been fine with the glitz and glitter, had it been there, but he’s not complaining.
I take a chair in the corner, next to a couple about my age. The guy gives me a smile.
“Steve Carlton,” he says, extending his hand. “This is my fiancée, Jennifer.”
“Nice to meet both of you,” I say. “I’m, uh, Jason. Jason Gallagher.” There, I’ve said it: Jason Gallagher. And my nose isn’t growing.
“First timer?” Jennifer asks. She’s one of those strawberry blondes and freckly.
“It is,” I say. Then Jason adds, brightly, “I’m looking forward to it.” Steve and Jennifer are changing out of sandals into what I can only presume are dance shoes. I am not. “You two must be pros at this.”
Steve peers up from his laces. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just trying to learn a few steps so I don’t trip over myself at our wedding.” At mention of the wedding, he turns to her, and she to him, and they get goofy smiles, and I swear someone coos.
“How about you?” Jennifer asks. “Wedding coming up, or something like that?”
“Wedding? No, nothing like that. It’s for work.” Work? “I’m in sales. I’m, uh, a pharmaceutical rep actually, and sometimes, um, we have conferences, with dinners and dancing, and I always feel like a klutz. So, for that.” Jesus. “Anyway, I hear the instructor is good. Adam, Adrian…”
“Adonis,” Jennifer says, her face going chandelier bright. “He’s great. You’ll really like him.”
I can tell she doesn’t just like him, she worships him—I think Steve should be worried—and I’m tempted to tell her that according to Greek legend, Adonis wasn’t actually a god, just a mortal, and he got gored to death by a wild boar. Not much to like about that, now is there? But I let it go.
“And which one is Adonis?” I ask.
Jennifer gives the room a quick scan. “Hmm. I don’t see him.” Steve gives it a try, coming up empty too. “Maybe he’s in the office,” he says.
Maybe. Or maybe he’s one for theatrical entrances; descending from a disco ball would be good. But enough about him. What I’d really like to ask is, “Which one is Marie?” But it turns out I don’t have to, because I’ve found her all on my own.
She’s sitting several chairs down, across from me, in a satiny blouse with fake jewels for buttons. She doesn’t really have Bradley’s squared-off jaw or deep-set eyes—her face is fuller, rounder, more animated—and maybe she’s a bit more big-boned than I would’ve expected his sister to be, but what gives her away is the hair: highlighted, teased, huge, the telltale sign of someone in Marie’s profession. That’s one thing I’d like to tell the hairstylists of the world, if they’d care to listen: Whoa, cowgirl. Slow that pony down. Just because you have all the fancy clippers and scissors and products, don’t be so itchy with the trigger finger. Subtlety and understatement go a long way. Perhaps I can find a way to mention something to Bradley and he can find a way to suggest she tone it down.
People start migrating toward the floor, as if summoned by a pied piper’s song, and I go too, even though I don’t hear a thing, since I assume something is about to happen. It does. A guy steps out from the office area. He’s lanky and pale and seems to be in need of a good dentist, and he’s wearing baggy jeans.
“Who’s that?” I ask Jennifer.
“That,” she says, doing her best to build up the moment, “is Adonis.”
Skinny and balding and pale? Adonis? Now I get the name, and it’s actually kind of funny.
Adonis starts by welcoming the group, especially the new faces, and tells us the dance we’ll be learning tonight, and for the next few weeks, is salsa. Salsa, he explains, is a four-beat dance, but there’s a pause on the four, so it turns out to be more like a quick-quick-slow, quick-quick-slow, where the slow is held for two beats. We step it off, one-two-three-pause, four-five-six-pause, with the men always starting on the left foot, going forward, the ladies on the right going back. That’s the basic. Of course, now it’s a matter of getting the weight distributed properly, because it’s not a march, stiff legged and upright, but something loose and swivelly, where you send the weight out and snap it back, so we work on that. About the time I feel my body’s getting the hang of it, and not so badly, he puts on the music, and now we have to find the beat in the music, and step it off, and get our weight distributed, which overloads the circuits of a few of us and causes our feet and hips to malfunction. But whereas Mitch would have already stormed off the floor and knocked someone down for looking at him, Jason calmly regroups and eventually gets it; and then we work on posture and arm placement, pretending to dance with someone; and then we work on a turn; and even though there isn’t a ton of time left in class, he wants us to put it all together, steps and music and posture and turn, with a partner.
Mine is a woman named Fran. Her hair is gray and permed, and she’s a bit on the heavy side, but her slacks have an elastic waistband to accommodate such a shape. She also has a fanny pack strapped to her middle, and I can see the cap of a water bottle poking out. Practical gal, this Fran. But she’s a talker, one of those nonstop kind, so while I’m trying to concentrate on the music and my steps and my arms, she’s going on and on about her cats, letting me know that her Persian likes to sit on the refrigerator, except in summer,
because then she likes to lie in the tub, not with water of course, but on the cool porcelain, which makes sense because she doesn’t keep her house all that cool; but her tabby likes to lie on the sofa, year-round, but he’s always been more sociable and friendly and likes to be where she is, especially when she’s knitting, because he likes to play with her ball of yarn. And just about the time I’m ready to ask her if she has one of those balls of yarn in her fanny pack so I can stuff it in her mouth, Adonis calls out for us to change partners.
What this means, I discover, is that the men stay in place, but the women slide one spot down the line, so that I lose my Fran and gain a brunette in Lucky Brand jeans. It’s a whole new set of arms and hands and feet to get used to, a different body type, but we muck through it, do well, in fact, then change partners again, then again, and a few more times, so that just before nine, I look over to my left and Marie is next on my dance card, one slot away. But Adonis stops the music, and I figure that’s that, the show’s over.
“Last dance,” he calls out, and Marie, visibly relieved, swaggers my way with a big flirty smile.
We join hands. “Fresh blood,” she purrs. “I’ve been looking forward to this all evening.”
Great. Bradley’s sister is hitting on me. “Hope I won’t disappoint.”
Adonis cues the music and we’re off.
She’s one of those enthusiastic types who’s not necessarily good, but she does it with such gusto and commitment that it makes up for the shaky steps. She throws her weight around—and there’s a bit to be throwing around—uses her hips a lot, styles her arms and shoulders in poses, and if the perpetual motion machine of her body weren’t enough, she tosses out comments like rice at a wedding. When she messes up a step: “Bad feet! Bad feet!” When she turns: “Look out, handsome, hips coming through!” When she has to spin more than once: “I’m so dizzy. What’d you put in my drink?” And her favorite, when we get something right: “Vavoom!” It’s all a bit over the top, like her hair and blouse, and fun, mostly, but I’m beginning to see why Bradley kept her in the closet and out of my sight all these years.