danceislove

Danvers
It’s Saturday night and Peter is accompanying me to The Boston Tea Party.  We depart for Danvers after dinner at Antonia’s in Davis Square.  Grilled shrimp, pasta and wine compete for my attention with the streetlit snow floating past the Somerville Theater’s marquee.  Then he gets a crepe at the new place across the street and I have more coffee, and he drives expertly through the weather up Route 95 while I bounce and sing along with the radio.

I dance with Peter early, and I try to go check on him every now and then.  He sits at a long table, where ice water dwindles from clear plastic pitchers as little cups proliferate on the dark blue cloth. I ask him how he is doing and pick up a cup to rehydrate, bewildered by the lack of permanent markers.  Lindy hoppers like me are accustomed to labeling our plastic cups, but at a hotel-hosted event like Tea Party, single-use is the norm.

Peter nods at me and says that he is fine.

“OK.  Would you dance with me again at some point?”  I sip the water; it’s harshly cold, not good for my moist and chilling constitution.

“Yeah, yeah.”  He nods again, this time effortfully, drawing together his brows, before he returns his gaze to the hordes pounding an acre of portable wood floor.

The Lindy Living Room, as it’s called, occupies a large sunken space just off the hotel reception area.  At one end, a real fireplace splashes light onto the smooth sprung floor, installed specifically for this dance weekend.  At the back - past several couches edging the floor - a few more stairs lead down to additional conference rooms, also fitted with temporary dance floors.  In Tea Parties past, these back rooms were designated for hustle dancing, but this year, one of the lindy hop rock stars hosts a Motown room, where people can fit lindy hop or West Coast Swing or blues dance or anything they want to the easy, soulful, familiar tunes.

Up above the Lindy Living Room, near the reception area, I comment to Peter, “Jeez, Tea Party didn’t even used to have lindy hop.  This used to be one of those West Coast Swing events.  About eight years ago Paul and all those people who run shin-digs like this figured out that they could make more money if they added a lindy hop competitions, workshops, and social dancing, even if it did mean they had to let in a bunch of crazy geeky kids who dress like slobs.”

Unlike the sloppy youngsters, Peter looks neat and proper in a light brown suit jacket, blue button down and khakis. I draw nearer to where he is seated, bend slightly to put my arm around his shoulders and kiss the place on his forehead above and between his green eyes, below the classy messy fringe of dishwater hair.  “How come you’re so handsome?” I cry, as I stand up and smooth his hair.

“Are you having fun?” he asks me.

“Yeah.  Lots of really good dancers from out of town.  It’s a good opportunity for me to learn.”  I pause, taking in the jangly Django Rheinhardt tune Chester is playing right now.  “You probably don’t want to dance to this one because it’s too fast, Mr. Boston Marathon.  But let’s dance soon, OK?”

“I could balboa to it.”

“Yeah, but my balboa sucks, and I always just want you to swing me out, so let’s dance a blues or something slow later.”  I squeeze his hand on top of the chair’s metal arm rest and scamper down the four or five steps which lead to the shining blond floor.

I decide to look past the young gals who take my classes and focus on the out-of-town guys, so I can practice more following.  I use my mantras, focusing on each leader in turn, thinking, simply, “you.”  Occasionally I also use “me,” or “us.”  I send energy up and down the sides of my forearms, a trick I discovered while practicing with Kendall a couple of weeks ago.

“Where’s Kendall?” I ask casually of Teresa.  She smells of vanilla and jasmine, and she looks gorgeous from the brown-and-white Rocket Dogs to the tightly-sprung single curl over her perfect forehead.

“Oh, he’s probably up in the room, getting drunk.”

“What room are you guys in?”

“444.  It’s me and Kendall and Jacques, and Deanna.”

“444.  Huh.  That’s easy to remember.  Deanna - the gal from New York, the one Kendall taught with at the Hartford weekend?”

“He taught with her there?” says Teresa.

“Yeah - you don’t remember that whole drama?  Oh well - it isn’t important now.”

To distract myself from the temptation of knocking on 444 at that moment, I consider getting Peter to dance with me, but Chester has put on a standard-fast song, about 210 beats per minute.  Dancers form a clapping circle around one couple.  Hollers and cheers seem to heighten rather than drown out the song’s brassy and woodwinded noise.  The gal’s fringy, green miniskirt flies through swingouts that snap as well as they stretch.  The guy swinging her out wears a sweaty white T-shirt, and jeans and a baseball cap, but he dances with an understated grace.  After the requisite eight bars the two shimmy from the circle’s center, where another couple goes in and throws an admirable knickerbocker.  These must be folks from out of town, possibly Montreal.

I’m antsy and annoyed.  Kendall and I have stuff we can throw in a jam, but he’s upstairs.

After the end of the song, I call to my husband, “Hey Peter, I’m going to go see what’s up with Kendall,”  I run up the short flight of stairs.  “Do you want to come?  I’m sure he’d love to chat with you about basketball.”  Peter follows me as I skip to the elevator.

Back then, in the late 1990‘s, when everyone either thought they had money or acted like they had it, the mainstream swing fad funneled many lindy hop students into Jennifer’s and my classes.  One such class contained a preponderance of men with the same first name, so they all became known by their last names.  Payne was one; Chester and Strommeyer, two others.  This class also contained several additional notable characters, all male, who made a habit of poking fun at me and Jennifer, at times doing exactly they opposite of what we wanted them to do in the dance.  Their antics entertained the whole class of 60 students and probably helped encourage many of them to go out social dancing, in order to experience more of that entertainment, that feeling of belonging to a group.  An enchanting magic existed during that time.  None of us knew each other very well yet.  Some of us fell in love anyway, but at the time of this notable class and for at least a month or two afterwards, no one had yet broken up.

Payne and Jennifer were a couple, for a couple of years.  They began dating when he still looked almost like a child, slim, with mischievous blue eyes, usually dressed up in a starched bowling shirt and spectator shoes.  He’d probably had many favorable dating experiences in the lindy scene before he settled in with Jennifer.  When they broke up he began to get a little puffy, and as most people will tell you who were around back then, he usually DJ’d depressing music, earning him the moniker of Mr. Grumpy.  Shortly after I left Jennifer for my hotshot California partner, in the summer of 2000, she started teaching with Payne.  Briefly I hoped that she might talk to me again.  She didn’t.
As a general rule, Payne and I keep our distance from each other.  My loud impulsivity annoys him, and most of the time I don’t feel like tolerating his unpredictable mood swings.  At the same time I believe we respect each other for the hard work we do, separately, to maintain the lindy hop scene here in Boston.  We don’t dislike each other; we just prefer not to deal with one another, usually.

The presence of Kendall and of Scotch, however, change the game a bit.

“Payne, I have an important question for you, since you’re an awesome Westie dancer,”  I say, leaning forward on the couch, probably fluttering my eyelashes.  “You remember the first place routine that Juan Frontera and Sandra Dubrowski performed at NADC 2000?  He did this move with her where she was on the floor, and they had a cross-hand connection, and he whipped her up through the air so that she sat on his shoulder.  Do you know how to do that?”

Payne laughs.  “You know that’s how Juan messed up his back and he couldn’t do anything for like a year.”

“Holy crap - no, I didn’t know.  Shoot.  I wanted me and Kendall to do a move like that for our showcase piece.”

“Why don’t you do the one where he holds your leg and vaults you up so your other leg goes around his neck?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, I think I know what you’re talking about, Payne,”  Kendall says.  “The one where -”

“Show me,” I say, getting up.  “I mean, you know, not for real.”

“Alright,” says Payne, “so Kendall, you grab her underneath her left leg -”

“From where?” I say.

“You start over here,” Kendall says, indicating his right side.

“Oh, I think I get it, the beginning anyway,” I say, putting my left hand on his shoulder.  “Like this?”  I give Kendall my leg so he can hold it from underneath.  “Now somehow I have to jump and twist around so my right leg comes up and over your head.”

“Up on three,”  Kendall says.  “Payne, you got her?  Lynn, when I go you just push off and kick your leg up.  OK?”

“OK!” I exclaim.

“One, two, three.”

I can’t help but scream and giggle as Payne helps me up and around.  Now I am facing the floor, my abdominals planking against Kendall’s shoulder girdle.  “Now in the piece I wanna kind of slither around you and end up sitting on the floor,” I gasp, trying to breathe and intensely engage my abs and talk all at the same time.

“OK…” says Kendall, shifting his weight to balance me up there better.  My head brushes the ceiling.

“OK, I’m going to try to come down,” I announce.

I aim to hook my left arm around Kendall’s waist and continue downward, but lose my purchase somehow and then Kendall’s voice commands, “Get her head!”  Then I’m sitting on the floor, having experienced the gentlest of landings.  Kendall offers a hand to help me up.

“Thanks for saving me, guys.”

Kendall says, “Evelyn, Peter, this is Jane.”

Girlfriend number 3, from Albany, is not a supermodel.  She’s not even that thin.  I’m very surprised.  She rises from the couch as I gush, “Such a pleasure to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,”  Jane smiles, shaking my hand and then Peter’s.  She’s a sandy-haired gal, definitely attractive, but I don’t feel as ugly standing next to her as I thought I would.  “So, you and Kendall dance together?”

“Yeah, she’s my partner,” says Kendall.

“How long have you been dancing?” Jane asks me.  “Since you were a little girl, right?”

“If you call 26 a little girl,” I laughed.  “Well, 23.  But I didn’t get serious until my mid-twenties.  That’s when I started studying ballet.”  I look around because something doesn’t seem quite right.  Impulsively I turn to Kendall. “I thought Ronnie and Bianca were here.”

“They were.  They bailed,” answers Kendall.

“Oh, man,” I complain.

“More for us,” Kendall giggles.

We sit on the big sectional couch, next to a defunct wood-burning stove.  I’m between Kendall and Peter.  Jane is on Kendall’s other side, leaning into him.  He pours some Scotch for me.  “Mm, smooth,” I sigh happily.

“That’ll put hair on your chest,” Peter says, which is what he always says when I drink Scotch.

“Nah.  I do enough girly drinks to cancel that out.”

I hear the crackle of plastic to my left.  Kendall is crumpling closed the top of a bag of fancy spiced tortilla chips.  “Take these away from me,” he commands, handing the bag to Peter.  Peter had bought them at Whole Foods but decided to bring them inside from the car as a contribution to the party.

There’s a knock at the door and Kendall hollers, “Come in!”

Payne enters, hair slicked back as usual, but wearing a tuxedo, which is not usual.

“Hey, man,” greets Kendall as Payne walks over to the couch.  The two of them do a slap-grip-slide kind of handshake that men do.  “How was the wedding?”

“Are congratulations in order?” jokes Peter.

“Not for me. Carson and Brooke’s wedding,” Payne explains.  “I was DJ-ing.”

Payne is a historical figure in the Boston lindy hop scene.  He was Kendall’s first mentor, but his influence goes back years before, to the packed classes that Jennifer and I used to teach in Cambridge.

Coming up: Who is Payne, and what happens at the intersection of alcohol, lifts, and a low ceiling?

Somerville

My insides ache from a dream.  Peter and I lived in our old place, on Inman St.  Shoot, why did we move from there?  Why did we buy this Somerville condo, this ball and chain?  I dreamt going to Whole Foods, to which we used to be able to walk.  Then I dreamt teaching Kendall some type of swing-out while thinking, “I don’t have much left to teach him.  He is too good.”  I dreamt that he and I were watching Whole Foods on TV.  On the screen a clerk poured unroasted coffee beans into a platter.  I dreamt Kendall’s arm tight around my waist, standing in the Somerville condo studio watching Whole Foods TV.  I dreamt he said, “I’m outta here,” the way he did last night, around 10:30, bundled in a hat and coat by the door of La Sala, where the girls couldn’t let him go, where Glenn had eaten a sandwich last week.

The Weekend Corrolla Tour
On Friday night, after I finish teaching, Peter helps me put some of Darlene’s photos on my website.  Then, we go out to Flora in Arlington with two of my salsa students, Maurice and Dina.  They tell entertaining stories of their recent trip to Spain while getting slightly high on this bright blue cocktail they both love.  The key ingredient is a practically opaque liqueur supposedly made from passionflower.  Both Maurice and Dina are high-powered. He used to work for NPR in Washington, D.C and is now a consultant; she is a print journalist.  Maurice, whose age falls between mine and Peter’s, regales us with his particularly charming brand of self-effacing humor.  Dina, who is about five years my junior, by turns blindsides and delights me with her strong, opinionated streak founded on keen observation and knowledge.

After dinner, however, we are all tired and go to our respective homes.  Peter, immediately but gently, tries to have sex with me, but he hasn’t talked to me.  I am passive, so after he carries me to the bed I fall asleep in my jeans and bra.

On Saturday he helps me to incorporate photos into fliers, and when these are finally done I want to bring them to the Watertown dance but not dance, then rent Borat for our date.  I’m grateful when Peter decides to accompany me, because I want his company.  He wants a little pie from Whole Foods and it is almost ten.  As he gets back into the car my phone goes off, and I’m a little surprised when I look at the caller I.D.  “Hey, Kendall.”

“Hey, you and Peter wanna come over and drink some Scotch?  Jane is here, and Ron and B., and Victoria -”

“Sounds fun,” I blurt, and summarize for Peter, who hesitates.

He is justified:  this is date-night.  I have already spent most of it working on fliers; now I want to finish it off in the company of annoying young people.  “I’ll call you back,” I say to Kendall, pinning myself to the passenger’s seat, boiling with hope.

Despite my lack of good arguments, Peter relents in the time it takes to reach the light at Inman St. and Mass Ave.  The dashboard clock says 10:03 as I count the rings…four…five…Kendall finally picks up and I give him my prepared voice message:  “We’ll be there in forty-five.”

It’s now Peter’s turn to wait in the car, outside the Armenian Church in Watertown.  By a stroke of luck, an old friend of mine is standing in the lobby when I come in to drop off the fliers.  This is the friend who moved me, in his car, from Ithaca to Boston in 1997.  We converse briefly and he confesses that he’s not sure if he wants to go into the dance.  “Don’t do it,” I giggle conspiratorially.  “I don’t like the band - do you?”

He shrugs.  The quality of the band is probably not that important to him.  I smile because the sight of his merry blue eyes and fuzzy brown beard warms my heart.  He still looks like the youngster he was 10 years ago.

Back in the car, I sit ramrod straight, pushing into my boots’ chunky heels.  Peter and I don’t talk.  He cannot understand me, does not have any clue of my inner life.  Novelty and excitement, illusion and passion have fashioned me into a separate being.  He does not have me.

If Peter does not have me, then truly there is no have.

No.  That’s wrong.  Kendall has me.

As soon as Kendall opens the door to his apartment, I declare, “Read ‘em and weep,” and thrust the sheaf of peach-colored fliers at him before accepting his hug.

It was a typical Sunday morning at Serendipity Central, post cross-season.  Violet stood at her round glass kitchen table, halfway between making oatmeal and booting up her laptop.  Alexander was already hunched over his own, the brand-new silver Macbook Pro he always packed away so lovingly, smoothing out the microsuede keyboard protector, latching the device shut and slipping it into its protective sleeve.  Now, however, he was probably watching some cycle racing on the screen, or checking the value of the dollar against the euro, or updating his facebook status.

My own computer was not in the kitchen because I had already copied the recipe for blueberry scones onto paper, or more accurately, cardstock:  the back of an old Blues Cafe flier.  Today’s attempt at scones was my third.

“I don’t know which ones are the best,” I said, hovering with Violet’s silicone spatula over the baking sheets I had placed on the counter.

“Come on, it doesn’t matter.  They’re all good,” Violet said.

I plunged the spatula vertically into one of the larger scones, splitting it in half, inhaling its sweet scent.

“Here, Daisy.”  (Violet and I call each other ‘Daisy’ after the controversial 90’s rap song “Daisy Dukes.”  This term of affection we use for each other is also a play on Violet’s own name.)

I held out a plate to Violet with half of the scone.  I would eat the other half, although both of us had sworn off sugar and white flour.  The scones were for Alexander’s benefit alone.  I placed a smaller one on a saucer and wordlessly slid it onto the table near his elbow.  Alexander eats and drinks only a little at a time, except for when he is wolfing chocolate chip cookies.  About a week prior to this morning I had finally found a good way to serve him tea:  in a small hand-thrown vessel intended for syrup or ketchup or other condiment.  Violet had made the tiny cup herself years ago.  To Alexander I have joked that I would start giving him tea in a thimble.

Now he glanced at the scone and said, “Thanks,” warmly, and resumed typing.

Violet, who had not yet sat down, was saying, “Oh my god, Daisy,” and rolling her eyes heavenward.  “These are the BEST scones I have ever had.  Alexander,” she said, “Aren’t these the best scones you have ever had?”

“Don’t answer that,” I broke in quickly.  I turned my eyes back to Violet and explained, “According to Alexander, the Sherman cafe makes the best scones.”

“Well, fuck him!” Violet harumphed.

Alexander and I both responded, “Already did that,” because, as I mentioned, it was a typical Sunday morning at Serendipity Central, post cross-season.

We are all here because of Chuck Shen, bandleader of the Boston Authentic Orchestra.  In many respects Chuck is similar to other residents of Concord, MA. He owns two technology businesses and lives in a big glittering house with his lovely wife and adorable 2-year-old.  One important thing differentiates him from the other successful people on his suburban block:  Chuck is on a mission to popularize authentic swing music again.  I admire his formula.  1) Select the best students from Boston’s Berklee College to play in a big band that recreates all the musical arrangements from the 30’s.  2) Lure high school students from their lacrosse matches and SAT-prep classes long enough to seduce them with the wild world of lindy hop.  Since kids especially find air steps impressive and inspiring, Chuck has hired me and a the partner of my choice to perform and teach air steps at Concord swing dances.

After our demonstration, Kendall and I exit the circle with a move where he drags me across the floor.  The crowd applauds.  “Sing Sing Sing” is far from over, however, so the high school kids get in the circle and goof off.  The girls have taught their escorts how to do those awful pretzel-armed moves followed by dead-weight dips, but since they are teenagers in ties and polka-dot dresses they still appear charming.

The horns blare a final time.  The graying suburbans applaud while the young girls squeeze their boyfriends’ waists.  I scamper up to Chuck’s microphone, on the stage in front of the band.  The microphone is old-style slitted stainless steel.  I feel embarrassed as I try to adjust it.  I crane my neck and holler, “Give it up for the Boston Authentic Orchestra!”  Claps and cheers sound through the hall.  “I’m Evelyn Graham.  My partner Kendall and I teach swing classes in the area.  Some of you have already signed up for our air-steps workshop, which is going to take place right now!  So grab your partner and come on down.  For those of you not taking the class, Chuck is going to keep the music going on the sound system.”

We have about 16 people in the workshop.  Everyone else mills around or hangs at the refreshments table or social dances.  I greet my and Kendall’s group and make them jump up and down a couple of times, shake their arms and legs out, roll their shoulders, move their heads around.  Kendall and I then show them the trick we are going to teach:  the Frankie flip, where we interlock arms and he puts my back on his back and flips me over.  When I land we are face to face.  The class applauds after we do the trick.

Slowly, Kendall backs away from me and spreads his arms out toward the students, looking at each one.  “We are going to show you this move step by step.  We are going to do a lot of preparations first.  Air steps are all about the prep, yeah?  And NO ONE goes over until I say you’re ready to go over.”  He pauses, as if daring anyone to consider doing the flip without his go-ahead.  Naturally everyone is silent, and the smiles have drained away.  Some of the students are nodding.  “Now,” Kendall continues, “when we do air steps, one person is the base, and the other is the flyer.  Usually the guy is the base.  So you have to practice anchoring yourself to the ground.”  Kendall demonstrates, flexing his knees.

He teaches most of the class, while I roam and flutter around the circle, supporting, instructing, and spotting.  The students are in groups of four, so they can spot each other and have built-in breaks.  After a while I notice a common mistake in which the gal tries to jump onto the guy’s back.  This motion breaks the connection and goes against the direction of the flip.  When correctly done, this move involves the guy using his butt to scoop the girl’s butt onto his lower back.  Then she squeezes with her arms and chest as he rolls her over, and she must release and look up.

No one is at these later stages yet.  I’m helping a gal refrain from jumping onto her partner’s back when I am startled by a loud voice that I almost don’t recognize.

“EVERYBODY STOP.  Remember I said that no one goes over unless I say go over.”  Kendall sounds like a platoon commander.  He is standing in the middle of the circle and with his outspread arms he seems to take up the whole room.  Even I am shaken, and I am used to Kendall.

The canned social dance music continues to play: Louis Prima wants a banana split for his baby, and a glass of plain water for himself.

Across the circle from where I am currently standing, a balding man with a white comb-over hairstyle is helping up a tall, thin woman from the floor.  Around them, people are murmuring, “Are you okay?” repeatedly.  Since the woman keeps nodding, I feel relieved.  I breathe deeply, hoping to relax and help dispel the tension in the air.

Concord
My mantra for the back handspring was, “You got it, baby,” which silenced doubts, helped me follow, fly, and land.

Now, Saturday night at the Concord dance, we are doing the lamppost.  I use a new phrase:  “I trust you.”  Then, I direct myself, commands compressed into milliseconds:

let him stretch you.  push off his hand and shoulder.  crunch.  look up.

First we rehearse our show in the corner.  It’s a quick bit of standard choreography called The California.  During the run-through we are tired; I am very tired; it was a big workshop day; nevertheless I remember to leave my thumb outside the hand grip during the barrel roll.  He nods his head.  Now we can prep and do the lamppost correctly.  The band strikes up “Sing Sing Sing” and Kendall swings me out.  The event attendees, 50% high school students and 50% people who could be their grandparents, back up from the stage and form a circle around me and Kendall.  We tear into the routine.  He gives me no end of power. I hold my center and ricochet all of it back. I hear the collective “ohhhh” of the crowd as I fly.  The lamppost is pretty big - lots of separation - but could have been faster, I think.  Nevertheless it’s wonderful to hear that sound, involuntarily uttered by a hundred fifty people, simultaneously.

New England Conservatory of Music
The next night was Thursday.  At 7:18, I had just hauled my big iPod hifi over to the condo door when a flurry of beeps sounded outside.  I went back through the studio and noted Kendall’s car in the driveway, in front of our neighbor’s truck.

His backseat was full of sound equipment for Saturday’s workshop.  “Wanna put that in the trunk, Lynn?”  he asked, referring to my hifi but staring at his phone.  His umbilical cord.  Sometimes, while he’s driving, he hands the phone to me and dictates what to text to his sattelite-connected interlocutor.  Once I mediated a lively exchange with Savanna, the New England Conservatory student whom Kendall brought home one night.  It was Savanna who got us this lindy hop teaching gig at her school, to which he and I were now en route.

NEC students are easy to teach, because they are musicians.  They do not need to be trained to dance on the beat.  Many of them know how to play jazz music.  Thursdays class had 7 gals and 6 guys, all lively, quick learners.

After we finished I went to the snack table, where I chatted with a couple of the gals and ate a few honey-wheat pretzels.  Then a few more.

“Hey Lynn.  Will you stop stuffing your face and come dance with me?”

I desisted decimating pretzels so that Kendall and I could continue to work on Saturday’s material.  He helped me refine my warm-up combination.  Then he laughed because I couldn’t follow his crosses move on my left side.

The move worked when his left hand was joined to my right.  He led me forward by traveling forward himself.  Simultaneously with one step he extended the connected hand away from his center. On the next step, he brought the connection toward his center.  This made me cross my right leg over my left, change weight (since he also changed weight), cross my left foot over my right, change weight, repeating the movement in this way until he led something else. In reality he was not simply moving his arm, but allowing it to stretch and contract with impetus from the movement of his body.  It is a singular experience to feel energy from one person transmitted and translated into movement in my own.  Following well requires removing tension while increasing attunement and activation, which enable translation of energy into direction, velocity, timing, and other elements communicated from the leader.

I accomplished this task reasonably well in the crosses, when Kendall had my right hand in his left.  When he put me on his other side, though, I wasn’t able to follow the move.  We tried repeatedly but I couldn’t seem to improve.  It made him laugh.  “Let’s put it away for now,” he said equably.

Next we rehearsed material for the dips and drops class we planned to teach on Saturday.  Then we practiced the Frankie Flip, the first air step ever created, in which the leader and follower are back to back, they lock arms and he flips her backward over his back.  We planned to teach it after the workshop, at the Concord dance.

Just for fun, we threw a lamppost, gloriously.

“That was large,” Kendall celebrated.

New England Conservatory gives us free space to practice in addition to a reasonable sum for teaching a weekly lindy hop class.  We play swing music after class:  I leave my iPod going so the students can practice.  Generally the kids stay, social dancing a bit but mostly watching me and Kendall.

When the Idlewild song came up on my playlist, shortly after the large lamppost, Kendall’s whole expression and posture softened and opened in response to the first notes.  “Do you want to dance?”

We’d been dancing for the past hour, but I knew what he meant.

I trust you, I thought, helping him make a new moving illustration of this familiar and worthy tune.  I focused on trust because I thought it would make me follow better.  I don’t know whether it did or not.

While we stretched, after I’d turned off the iPod, one of the students sat at the piano and gave us some bebop boogie woogie.  I sat on the hard floor with my feet apart and stretched over one leg,  then the other, feeling the warmth in my muscles and savoring the sweet sounds.  Kendall had to remind me that it was time to go.

In the car, he said, “Are you interested in balboa at all?”

I paused, staring out the windshield at Betty’s Noodle Cafe on Huntington and Mass Ave.  I’ve always wanted to go there.  The light turned green and he turned the car left onto Mass Ave.  Finally I said, “I would be interested in practicing some bal with you.”

“I just figured that since I practice with you a lot, we could work on some bal.  Only if you want to, though.”

“I do.”  Something dropped through me, at once melting my insides and anchoring me to the passenger seat.  “I mean, I don’t really know it, though.”

“Have you ever done anything with bal?”

“Yeah - I took this great workshop with Sylvia Sykes once.  And a class series with Josh and Hannah, when they lived here in Boston.  Oh, and Peter and I took a private once with this guy in Dallas.  West Coast Swing and salsa and ballroom dancer.  Flamboyant guy.  Really good teacher.”

“I’m really interested in making a bal scene happen here.”

“If you think I can help you do that, I’m definitely game.”

I watched the Citgo sign as we crossed the Mass Ave bridge.  “I mean, I could take some private lessons…”

“No - I could show you for now.  Basically, to follow bal, you just have to keep your feet under you.  You can learn styling later.  I think it will be cool, since we practice so much together anyway.  I practice with Kim too, but -”

“Well, obviously, if you want to teach anything with her - well, of course - anyway, let’s leave it like this: anytime you want to work on bal with me, or help me with it, I’m in.”

MIT
Last Wednesday, Kendall and I spent so much time prepping for an upcoming workshop and practicing the knickerbocker that by the time we social danced it was quite late.  The tune was another slow, thick, hard-hitting blues, easy for me.  I focused on timing.  When does the lead open? Is it my turn to style yet? He built energy by stretching his center away from mine.  The force percolated through the connection or our arms and shoulders, an electrical current encountering resistance on the way to the floor through my feet. My muscles wrung the energy into slow, thick shapes.  Then he released the counterbalance, shifting his weight forward slightly.  To amplify my momentum toward him, he lifted his elbow up and out, almost to the level of his shoulder, so that my view held only the black of his T-shirt as he inhaled.  I matched his breath, waiting for the exhale, letting a small body roll flow downward from my chin to my hips.  I glanced up at Kendall briefly and playfully.

Then my mind went, here’s the end, it’s going to be a spiral dip or something, breathe focus don’t speed up stay with him be ready follow.

“That was hot.”  Julie looked at me, sincere, her voice like resonant wood blocks.  She complimented Kendall too, I think.  He and I had already done the “that was awesome,” etc., ending the role play.

No matter what else Kendall and I manage to accomplish together, it might be true that the depth possible in our social dancing is reward enough for the hours of work.  I trust him.  Trust is deep.  It’s best explained in a story, not at the moment, in this sentence.  I see how it leads to joy.  I see how I’ve trusted others, in particular two men in my past, who brought me joy followed by pain.  I interpreted their attentive actions in the early months of each relationship as an indication that I had some claim.  I thought I could have them.  Maybe some part of have is trust, or vice versa.

Glenn Galanor was semi-hunched at a table near the hallway, munching mozzarella and veggies on a baguette, holding on by the plastic wrap.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said, going over there.  “Here you are, trying to eat your dinner, and the girls won’t leave you alone.”

He did his usual soft nervous half-chuckle.  Glenn has a good body for air steps, relatively big and strong.  Some aspects of his appearance remind one of suburban middle-age: the slight puffiness, the side-parted hair, the reticent personality.  None of these inhibit his ability to throw girls, though, or his constantly-evolving dance moves.  Glenn leads with less power but more creativity than Kendall, and occasionally with more finesse as well.  His intricate and unexpected direction changes, and huge variety of Charleston moves, never fail to delight me.

“So yeah,” I began, “As I said in the email the other day, I’d love to practice with you sometime if you have time.”

“Yeah - I’d like to do that too, as long as it doesn’t cut into other stuff; the scheduling can get so unpredictable….”

“Are you ever free during the day?”  I pursued.  I needed to Glenn to help me get better, so Kendall might continue to dance with me.  Also, when Glenn and I danced the last song at Blues Cafe two weeks ago, he volunteered that he hates balboa, and we both enjoyed poking fun at that style, e.g. it just shuffles, it’s so boring, and it makes people bad at fast lindy hop because they just do balboa and never learn to swing out with any tempo.  Then I thought, Glenn also does West Coast Swing, unlike Kendall, who keeps jetting off to bal weekends, but I shouldn’t feel bad not knowing how to bal because it feels so much better to swing out and move my hips!  So I need to do some work with Glenn.

“I’m going to quit my job this spring,” he went on, “because I’m applying to grad schools.”

“Glenn - does that mean you’re leaving us?” I said.

“Probably.”

“Oh, Glenn.”

“But anyway, that means this summer I’ll have lots of free time, so you and I can practice then.”

A little later, Glenn drove Kendall home.  As Kendall got his hat on, he looked at me and said, “Oh, we forgot to ask around.”

“Shoot.  I’ll do it.  I’ll start now.”

Kendall also turned to someone standing near him and said, “Hey, would you take a weekly class with me and Lynn at The Dance Complex?”

“What kind of class?” the gal hedged.

“Lindy, or blues,” Kendall answered.  The gal said she might.

I looked at Kendall.  “I’ll see you later.  Thanks for practice.”  Hurriedly I hugged him.

“Yeah, g’practice.”  Our closing ceremony.

“Oh - can you pick me up again tomorrow?  At 7?”

“Yeah - or - it can be later.  We don’t have to be there until quarter to 8.”

I walked back across the floor, to the back wall by the windows.  “Hey, Mark,” I said, to a slight and slightly wizened guy.

“Hey.  Evelyn.  How are you.  You know, you’ve been married for a while now - how many years?”

“Almost four.”

“When are you and Peter gonna start having kids?”

I forced a bright smile.  “We’re not going to.”

“What?!  Oh, Evelyn, why not?!”  His spectacles began to work up and down on his gray head. You’re both such great people, you should really -”

“Mark, listen,” I laughed.  “Why is everything such a problem?  Relax for once.”

“OK, OK, you’re right.”

“Now, I actually have a question for you.  Would you take a weekly class with me and Kendall at the Dance Complex?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Evelyn.  I’m stuck in a rut - I just go out to Watertown.  Listen, you know what nobody teaches anymore?  Balboa.  You do balboa, don’t you?”

“I do,” I lied, “but I don’t really teach it.  It’s not my style.”

Julie came over and saved me from my argument with Mark about whether some songs were too fast to swing out to.  It was an inane discussion, and I was behaving badly, insisting on swing-outs for everyone no matter what.

“Last song,” called the DJ.  I danced with Julie, then drove her home.  I love her:  her smarts, her emotiveness, her dancing.  From the first moment, I have always loved her.

Natick, MA (west of Boston)
Lying on the cold wood floor under undimmed lights, I blink.  I wait out the song’s intro, languid shimmering chords, descending bassline.  Hymnlike.  At the snare hit, last beat of the last measure before the vocals begin, my arm moves across my torso, perpendicular to my center line.

The vocals begin from Portishead’s “Roads” - track 2 on my “Gloomy” CD. I spiral up from the floor, stretch my leg up in a developpé, spin, walk, back bend, stand up, fall, rebound.  Slowly.  I dance: a vestibular, physical representation of music.

I am in Gina’s studio, lingering after the end of her exercise class.  I am better, at dancing, at being a person, than before, but I still move too quickly, sound too chirpy, say too much.

Men move more slowly.  Women stand up, sit down, trot, flutter, hover, giggle.  I’ve got to stop giggling, and breathe instead.  It feels like a lost cause.  Then again, six years ago, so did a decent developpé in second position.

Somerville
On Thursday I pulled a muscle.  I emailed Kendall, who had written from San Francisco All-Balboa Festival to ask if we were going to teach the blues class in Natick next week.  “I’ve been teaching pain-free, but I won’t be able to do jumps or air steps till Friday practice.”

When I look back on my schedule over the past week, it’s obvious why, by the end of my birthday party, my leg was toast.  At least this time it’s my left leg, not my right, again.

“Too much air steps practice,” I explained to Stella last night as she and Peter and John and I ate Emma’s pizza and watched Stella and John’s pictures from Argentina on Ben’s laptop.  It was Peter’s and my night to say goodbye to John.  He leaves next week for LA.

Peter and I, on the other hand, have to stay in Boston now.  The Green Line train is definitely coming to Union Square: headline news on WBUR.  The value of our condominium will go up considerably when our area is train-accessible.  Peter and I haven’t discussed any of these topics, however, maybe because they are self-evident.

Peter is immersed in basketball.  Two nights ago, Friday, I was in the shower as he stood in the bathroom getting ready for bed.  I mused out loud to him about the many activities over the week that had probably led to my strained muscle.  The second time he interrupted to ask a question I thought irrelevant, for example wanting to know how many people had shown up to one of my classes, I said, “Oh well, never mind, I’m just bragging about my busy schedule.”  After some thought I decided to tell him that it bothered me when he asked how many people had come to my class, especially when I was in the middle of telling him something else, especially when he didn’t seem interested in aspects of the class I thought important.

He felt really hurt because it seemed to him that I was keeping him from contributing to our conversations.  He thought my message was that he shouldn’t say certain things.  I said that I just wanted him to listen more so he could understand me better.

I tried explaining my point of view several times, but it didn’t seem to take.

“What would a guy do, in this situations?” I asked, semi-rhetorically.  “A guy would just ignore your interruption and keep bragging, right?  That’s what I should do.  Or stop talking so much.  I need to stop talking so much, like a stupid woman.”

Yesterday was Saturday.  We got up at nine, went out for brunch, then mostly went about our own business around the house until it was time to go to Max’s show at 8.  Max participates in a Senegalese drum ensemble, and Saturday night they gave a performance at MIT.  Many of the audience members got up and danced; naturally, I joined in.  Peter did not enjoy the loud drumming.

“You shouldn’t have come,” I said.

“I wanted to be with you.  That’s how much I love you,” he said.

I wondered why he hadn’t noticed that I didn’t say anything to him all day.  During the car rides to and from brunch, to and from MIT, waiting for our pizza, hanging out with John and Stella, I said nothing to Peter.  He talked a blue streak, about basketball.  I focused and breathed and listened actively.  Sometimes what he said was interesting to me, sometimes it wasn’t, but I tried to just be there.

In the car, Peter listened to XM comedy channels, which he knows I hate.  I didn’t protest.

This is bad.  Marriage is not fooling around.  We are not fooling around.  I am being passive aggressive.  The goal, on the other hand, is to be silent, slow, detached, peaceful.  I stared at a candle for 20 minutes today.  It’s a start.  Maybe I’ll do it again later.

“Was it nice?” Peter asked, to his credit.

“Meditation is hard,” I answered.  He didn’t ask me anything else about it.  He went back to talking to and for the cats.