No! Your Other Left Foot is a superb and charming story, as original as its title. If you believe a woman’s life ends at sixty, think again. Thea Clark proves that excitement, competitiveness, and a lust for living persist indefinitely in the woman who dares to strip down to her skin, don a flashy costume, and come out ready to dance!
Maralys Wills, author of Higher Than Eagles
Thea Clark’s No! Your Other Left Foot is a story about daring. In her sixties, she dared to get out of her easy chair, defy her elderly mother, and step into a new world of competitive ballroom dancing. She dared to care about her handsome young dance instructor and to care for him when he was struck down with a tragic illness. Although still grieving, she couldn’t give up the joy her body experienced in motion to music and fancy footwork and moved on with a new dance instructor. For hours of unique entertainment, give Thea Clark’s memoir a whirl—and be inspired to take up a daring adventure of your own.
Barbara French, author of Someday Street
Copyright 2012 © Thea B. Clark
ISBN 978-0-9801165-1-9 print edition
ISBN 978-09801165-6-4 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording by an information recording and retrieval system, without express written permission from the publisher.
Forked Road Press
2373 N. Flower St.
Santa Ana, CA 92706
www.forkedroadpress.com
To contact the author: dancelady29@gmail.com
www.TheaBClark.com
Some of the personal names in this memoir were
changed for the purpose of privacy.
Manufactured in the United States of America
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2012943339
Cover design: Stephanie Starr
Cover photo: Tim W. McCray
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED to my mother, Althea Edwina Faucett Bryant. Brave, determined, fiercely loyal, unflinchingly committed to the welfare of my father and me, she was never hesitant about meeting a problem head-on. She encouraged me to follow my own artistic yearnings. If by helping me she’d had to leap tall buildings in a single bound, she’d have tried. I miss her Scorpio stingers.
She was rare among the mothers of my friends. She was Martha Stewart at home: painting, plastering, gardening. She was courageous, driving from the Atlantic Seaboard to the Pacific Ocean during the WWII gas-rationing crisis with a six-year-old daughter as navigator. I miss her Down-East common sense grounding me.
She might not have cared much for this book, but she would have been proud of me for writing it. Unexpectedly shy among strangers, she would have hawked my book on street corners if I’d asked. She believed in other worlds, and that we are all forever connected while committed to lifelong learning. She was an old soul and destined not to return but to move on, giving advice wherever she landed.
Thank you, Mom, for being my “old trout.”
Sherrie Shepherd of the television talk show The View said, when she was booted off Dancing With the Stars, “Run toward your fear.”
I sat in the studio audience of that very first season in 2005 and knew then that DWTS would be a lollapalooza of a show.
Introduction
1. A Pair of La-Z-Boys
2. How Did I Land Among These Peacocks
3. Pesky Man, Fateful Night
4. Suckerrr!!
5. The Road to Oz
6. If I Weren’t So Old and Straight
7. Just Use Your Other Left Foot
8. A Secret Life
9. Now, I’m a Ballroom Mom
10. Michael’s Health Problems Escalate
11. When Does Two Become One
12. Disaster in Blue
13. Sixty-three Plus and Still My Mother’s Child
14. $250 a Minute
15. What’s a Body Suit?
16. Nana and Luke
17. Las Vegas
18. Glitz, Glitter, Glamour
19. The Dreaded Cha Cha Cha
20. Nana Disappears
21. Michael’s Teaching Days End
22. Jealousy Was a Tango
23. Help! I’m Going to Kill Myself
24. A House Is Not a Home When It’s A Hospice
25. Lewis Suarez
26. Jolene’s Fifteen Minutes of Fame
27. A Doppelganger Or?
28. Bereft
29. Master Teacher
30. Another Route to Oz
31. Dancing in a War Zone
32. An Oasis of Elegance Amidst a Racial Tsunami
33. We Close the Competition
34. I Dance for Fun and Friends
35. Happy Birthday to Me
36. Luke Surprises Me
37. A New Studio
38. The Korean Show
39. Surviving the Korean Show
40. The Cavalry
41. A Dip to Build a Dream on
42. The New Me
43. Arizona for Two
44. Goodbye to Nana and Michael
45. Ramon, the Fearsome
46. Twenty-one Steps
47. The Pain
48. To Be in Shock, or Not to Be
49. Toof? What Toof?
50. Back to Work Too Soon
51. Twenty-One Steps Revisited
52. My Next Challenge
53. Stubbornness, Thy Name is Thea
54. Lewis Pulls Me Through Again
55. Florida
56. Side Slits
57. Trust Me, He Said
Acknowledgments
At age thirty, forty, and most certainly at fifty, I wouldn’t have imagined myself stark naked in a dressing room full of Barbie lookalikes. To wear sexy Latin dance costumes, you undress all the way. Neither could I have fantasized that in my sixties I’d be on a darkened stage bathed by a brilliant spotlight, performing a tango with a handsome man forty years my junior. And how then could I have anticipated the sorrow that would rock me when my first teacher died of AIDS?
If work defined me, who was I when I retired?
How could I prepare to go from something to nothing?
No! Your Other Left Foot: Ballroom Dancing My Way Through My 60s is an if-I-can-do-it-so-can-you memoir of my journey from couch potato to passionate dancer. Complicating this trip was an angst-filled grandson and my mother’s waning years.
The best things in life are free.
Wrong.
Sometimes they cost thousands.
“YOU’RE GETTING TO BE A FRUMPY, dumpy, little old lady,” said the white-haired mound to my left.
I was sixty-one; she was ninety-three.
She leaned across the tray table between us, stabbed her finger at my belly. “You’re getting fat. And since you retired, you’re really bossy.”
If my mother’s words had color they’d be acid green.
Apathy, my current mantra, permeated the air like L.A. smog. Even the family room’s super-sized orange and red poppy wallpaper, chosen in a moment of whimsy, expressed more energy.
Early October rain rattled the large sliding door behind us, sending swift cascades down the glass and onto the patio bricks. The decades-old song “It Never Rains in Southern California” accompanied images of Malibu mudslides and freeway havoc, flashing like an old-fashioned newsreel on the big blue eye of the TV.
Frumpy, dumpy, indeed. While I’d never considered myself remotely glamorous, my mother’s words stung. I slowly counted to ten. In the flickering, eerie light, she missed seeing me stick out my tongue. One more crack like that and it’s the nursing home for you, Old Trout.
She grunted. “You need a hobby, or a man, or both.”
My jaw clenched. Still, I kept silent; she paid half the rent.
The kitchen phone jangled, jarring us both. I didn’t move.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?”
Sighing, I managed, just barely, to heave my frumpy, dumpy, bossy, hobby-less, man-less rump out of the chair and answer “Hello!”
“Good evening,” said an enthusiastic male voice. “Our studio is offering a free dance lesson.”
Holy cannoli! How many suckers do they snooker with these so-called free lessons? “Sorry. Not interested.” I slammed down the receiver.
“Who’s on the phone?” asked my elderly roomie.
“Nobody, Nana.”
“Had to be somebody. I saw your mouth move. Or were you eating again?”
I sighed. “A man selling ballroom dance lessons.”
“Ha,” Mother howled. “You dancing! That would be something for the Guinness Book of World Records.”
Dance lessons. Me? Why? What a foolish idea. I’d have to be crazy—wouldn’t I?
Wouldn’t I?
A ROLLER COASTER of a year later, I strode into a Las Vegas hotel ballroom, my hand clasped by the cool fingers of a handsome young man in white tie and tails. Head held high, I felt like a matador marching into an arena, the audience exploding with the welcoming screams of aficionados. My suit of lights was a blushing peach satin gown encrusted with Swarovski crystals, flashing and sparkling.
What had transpired following the couch potato scene with my mother and that irritating phone call? What led to this moment? If those in the audience only knew: more than a hundred hours of private lessons, two local competitions, and a near disaster in a Christmas show.
Now, back to that huge Las Vegas ballroom where dozens of competitors waited on the sidelines for their chance to perform.
“Thea,” said handsome Michael, “don’t be nervous.”
I groaned.
He pointed to my knees vibrating my new satin skirt and chuckled, then he patted my shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Ready?” Spine straight and elegant in his Fred Astaire attire, Michael’s full height seemed electric with anticipation. “Show confidence. Stroll like a queen. Smile at your subjects.”
He tucked my arm in his and squeezed my fingers.
Looking over my shoulder at the other C Division women lined up in back of us, I wondered. Are they as jittery as me? I imagined I heard an echo of the opening bars of “Our Hearts Were Young and Gay.” Heck, it fit. I was young at heart and, yes—he was gay.
I surveyed this tall, elegant young ‘un, then my eyes roved over the audience occupying the bleachers of the Las Vegas Hilton. I couldn’t believe they had actually paid to watch us. I sized up my competition, women in the fifty-to sixty-five- year-old category, all glamorous in satins, sequins, and feathers, nails manicured and pedicured, professionally coiffed. Really, how did I, a sixty-plus retired junior high school teacher, land among these birds of paradise?
Michael interrupted my musings. “Pay attention. Tonight, you dance one heat right after the other, a waltz, a foxtrot, and an American tango.”
“Yes. You’ve already told me that.”
Using a softer tone and in a slower cadence, “I want you to be clear. The heats move along fast.”
“Really? No pause in between to get a drink or sit down?”
“Right.”
I stared at him. “Why didn’t you explain this before?”
“I didn’t want to freak you out. Now, when the announcer calls our names, suck in your stomach and smile.”
A no-nonsense business-suited lady with a clipboard diligently kept track of the entrants. Standing at the edge of the dance floor, she tapped Michael on the shoulder. “Off you go and good luck.”
Stepping from the carpet onto the polished hardwood, I entered another dimension. With my favorite music genre, the waltz, swirling around me, I counted to myself, one, two, three, one, two, three, over and over. The rhythm of “Moon River” syncopated with my heart and I floated in Michael’s arms, oblivious to the current of other dancers moving in line-of-dance around the super-sized parquet floor. This reminds me of my high school roller skating days with my favorite beau, and the pounding beat of the Wurlitzer pulling us around the rink to The Tennessee Waltz. Heaven!
“Don’t lose focus,” Michael whispered in my ear. “Pay attention.”
My stomach lurched.
“We’ll circle the floor until we’ve been seen by all eight judges. Keep looking past my right shoulder and up toward the ceiling.”
“I know, I know. It’s framing.”
“Shush. I do the talking.” And, he did, without moving his lips, using the entire intense ninety seconds.
Eighteen of us danced counter-clockwise, synchronized like the grand MGM musicals of the nineteen thirties and forties.
“Keep you upper body still,” Michael said. “Move from the hips. My body’s momentum will move you backwards.”
He makes it sound so effortless, I thought, concentrating on his commands, sensing only his body and the electric space between us. Dear God, thank you. Thank you. I feel wonderful.
Abruptly, he pulled me to a stop. “Good job.” He hustled me off the parquet only to turn me around at the edge of the dance floor with “Be still. Listen to the announcer.”
“Six couples will return for a semi-final waltz,” said the emcee at the podium. “They are: number forty-five, and…”
“Yes!” said Michael and gestured with his free hand as though pulling down the handle of a slot machine.
When the announcer had recalled all six couples and we’d moved forward away from the pack, the remaining dancers left the floor in disappointment.
I’m sorry for them all, but I’m sure glad it’s not me.
Michael touched the tip of my nose. “Don’t get overconfident. It’s okay to have fun but technique counts.”
With a shiver I was back at junior high gym class, among the last to be picked for the next dance. Get over it. Now here I was fifty years later, paying close attention to the commands of a man a third my age. I’d definitely moved beyond my comfort zone. I embraced the vision of a young Dorothy skipping toward Emerald City, dancing on her Yellow Brick Road into the unknown.
Within the next half hour we had scored in the top three. I walked off the floor after the last heat in a daze.
Afterward we joined Patty, an advanced student stunning that night in her bright red-feathered gown. She’d performed after my heats and before the awards for my division. She clapped her hands and said with delight, “Thea, you looked like Cinderella in that dress.”
I gave her a hug. “I love this dress. I really do feel like Cinderella. Thank you for telling me about Mr. Suarez. I like his design.” Fanning my skirt and fluffing my feathers carefully, I sank into my chair, trembling with relief, my muscles collapsing after the high alert tension. “Are we done for today?”
Michael nodded, his eyes searching the room for friends. “Excuse me, Miss Thea.” He offered that lovely grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, seven thirty.”
Ready to leave, my dance bag packed and zipped, I heard Patty ask, “What are you wearing for the Latin?”
“A simple shift with long sleeves, completely covered with silver sequins.”
“Sounds good. See you around eight.”
I followed her exit from the ballroom. How lucky to be tall and slim with long graceful legs. Maybe in my next life, I’ll look like that.
In the morning, wearing my sparkly dress and silver dance shoes, I made my way through the stale smoke of the all-night gamblers.
Patty met me at the entrance. “I came to root for you,” she said, smiling.
I was about to thank her when the emcee called for the Newcomers’ rumba. Michael and I were competing against most of the same group of couples from the day before. I did okay; the ruffle wobbled and my hips gyrated. Michael smiled as we hurried to the head of the line once again. “Cha cha next,” he said.
During lessons I’d had trouble with the introductory step, often starting on the wrong foot.
Michael placed us in the exact center of the floor where we were visible to all the judges. As he turned me to face him, I froze, rigid as a fence post set in cement.
“Thea! Arms up.”
For ninety seconds I was semi-conscious, coming to when Michael tugged me off the floor.
“Don’t sit down. Swing comes next,” he said.
“No worries,” I said breathing hard. The worst is over. A half hour later when the awards were announced, I gasped. I’d been awarded a Third in cha cha. By 9:30 a.m. my first dance competition was over. I’d taken two Firsts, two Seconds, and two Thirds in the Latin division, and I’d done even better in the Smooths.
Hallelujah! Time to put the La-Z-Boy in the garage.
THAT NIGHT WHEN Harry the telemarketer had first called —was that only a year ago?—after hanging up the phone I remember saying to Nana, “I’m bored with the storm news repeated over and over. It’s like we never have weather like this in Southern California. Slowly rising from the cushy comfort of my La-Z-Boy, I sighed. “I’m going upstairs to read.”
“Fine,” said Old Trout. “I’ll go, too.”
I clicked off the TV. “Need help getting up?”
“Humpf!” she grunted. “I’m hard of hearing and can barely see, but I can still get in and out of my chair by myself, thank you, Missy.”
I followed behind her slow limp through the living room. At the stairs, she clawed the wrought iron banister to pull herself up. I contemplated what would happen if she fell back. Even though she was her thinnest ever, was I in any condition to catch her? I quickly placed my hand on her boney rump.
Again she humpfed. Finally reaching the top, she turned and with our faces almost touching, her eyes flashing, she grinned. “See? Made it again.”
Upstairs, thunder shook the windows. The eucalyptus tree outside her bedroom window was floodlighted by the next lightning strike. Luckily she’d removed her hearing aids. She was terrified of lightning, having been hit twice in the tropics. If she could have managed it, she’d have crawled under her bed, and if the fireworks came any closer, she’d be in bed with me.
“Do you need help getting into your nightie?” I called. The pelting hail created such a racket that I hardly heard her response. “I guess that’s a ‘No’,” I said. I knew my proper Bostonian mother well. Unless she was in a coma, she’d change her own clothes no matter how long that took.
Might the storm be seen as a metaphor for the conflict between our personalities? As Nana aged and became less able, she’d often exhausted my patience. In between our mini-clashes, ennui fuelled my angst. While we’d always had a respectful relationship, I’d received more demonstrative affection from my unmarried aunt.
Then came another one of those darn phone calls. “Hello there, Ms. Clark.”
“Do I know you?”
“I called before. Our great offer is still available.”
I was silent.
“You know, that free dance lesson.”
Pushy, pushy, pushy. “I’m not interested; don’t want it even if it is free.” Nothing’s free, don’t you know.
The following evening the ringing of the phone once more whipped through the tedious twilight.
“Hi. Your friendly telemarketer here.”
I almost dropped the receiver in exasperation.
“Wait, wait. Hear me out. C’mon. You know you’re interested.”
Now, he’s psychic as well as irritating. “Wrong. Look, whoever you are…”
“My name is Harry. Help me out here. Take one lesson, just one,” he went on in a syrupy tone. “What have you got to lose? C’mon. Thirty minutes. What’s thirty minutes?”
“Okay, okay.” I’m such a sucker. “One o’clock next Wednesday, my day off.”
“One o’clock it is. Thank you, Miss.”
Maybe the Miss got to me because I replaced the phone more gently this time.
Truly, you are crazy, Althea Bryant Clark. As I circled the appointment on my Audubon calendar, I snapped off the tip of my pencil.
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA SWELTERED that January. Even with the Camry’s air conditioner on snow-maker, my hands slipped around the steering wheel as I drove the eight miles to the dance studio. It’s not just the heat, fool. You’re scared. Admit it. This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. I swung my Toyota into the shaded parking lot at the back of the building housing the dance studio and peeled my frumpy, dumpy self off the fake leather car seats.
Hot-footing it across the asphalt to the studio’s rear door, I touched the brass doorknob. Fire radiated through my fingertips. My hand, with a mind of its own, turned the handle. I urged my trembling legs into a huge air-conditioned room. The sign on the back of the door stated, “Maximum Occupancy: 120,” but I saw only one couple undulating to sensuous music, checking themselves in the mirrored walls with every movement.
Now what do I do? I gathered courage and walked a few steps toward the receptionist seated at a desk near the front door. No one paid any attention to me. Skirting the perimeter, I closed in on a Betty Boop look-alike snapping magazine pages, three to the second. “Ahem.”
She looked up reluctantly. “Yes?”
I pointed to a square on the large desk calendar in front of her. “I’m Thea Clark, here for a free half hour lesson.”
Her eyes traveled down my chunky body to my Cuban-heel pumps. A fake smile appeared on her frosted lips. “One o’clock with Michael Jensen. He’ll be here soon.” Tipping her head toward a corner of the room where floor-to-ceiling windows met each other, she indicated old-fashioned ice cream parlor chairs. “You may sit there. You can put on your dance shoes while you wait, if you brought them.”
“The man on the phone didn’t say anything about special shoes,” I said.
She shrugged. A looky-loo, not a serious customer, her expression seemed to say.
“I always pictured a dance studio filled with music and dancers,” I said. “Where is everybody?”
She dog-eared the corner of her page. “Most of the people who practice here are at a competition in Las Vegas.”
By the trimness of her shape, the self-confident B.B. clone was probably a dancer herself.
I pulled myself up to my full five-foot-four, took a deep breath, headed toward the ice cream parlor table near the window and sat, demurely pulling my denim skirt to cover my knees.
Suddenly a white Pinto pulled up at the curb within a few feet of where I waited inside. The six-foot-tall driver climbed out, flattening himself against his vehicle to avoid being hit by fast travelling traffic. He looked to be twentysomething. Rounding the rear of his car, he reached into the passenger side and removed a black sports bag. Then, up the front door steps he loped. Now inside the double doors, he stopped at Betty B’s desk and smiled.
“Hi, Michael,” she said returning his grin. Pointing in my direction, she said, “Your freebie is here.”
He glanced in my direction.
Hot damn! He’s young enough to be my grandson. His hair, that hair! Dyed florescent red and lacquered to stick up like a porcupine’s spines. A blazing white Western-style shirt emphasized his broad shoulders, a silver bolo adorned with a turquoise stone took the place of a tie.
His posture was as straight and flat as a T-Square. Dropping his soft leather bag on the floor, he said, “Hi. I’m Michael Jensen,” in a drawl matching his Western attire. His handshake was cool and firm. He pulled out his chair noiselessly and sat opposite.
I sized up his luggage and said, “Traveling?”
“My dance bag. Indispensable for a dancer.” He unzipped the sports-type bag and withdrew a pair of wellscuffed soft black leather shoes then removed his polished cowboy boots, setting them under the table. His dance shoes tied, he stood, shook his trouser legs, smoothing those immaculate white jeans. Extending his right hand in invitation, he said, “Mrs. Clark. Or, may I call you, Miss Thea?”
Miss Thea!
A small frisson of excitement vibrated all my chakras, as my yoga teacher would say. I felt like young Forrest Gump when he began to run and the braces flew off his legs. My boring present retreated.
“Have you done much ballroom dancing?” he asked.
It had been some time since a male voice tiptoed up my spine. I shrugged. “The Twist and, well, The Swim. That was in the sixties.”
Those wide shoulders twitched.
Why can’t I say something brilliant? “I confess. I did the mandatory ballroom stuff in the eighth grade during P.E. I really hated those weekly dances in the school cafeteria. I was a shy, size fourteen, self-conscious kid, hiding in the shadows of the more popular girls.”
He looked sympathetic. “Yeah. I remember junior high, a real identity crisis time.” He turned me to face him. I stepped into his arms. Then he winked; his glinting amber eyes were fringed by lashes so long they looked fake.
My heart beat faster. I moaned, silently of course. He had one of those grins that wrap you up in a hug.
I giggled out loud. Stop that, you old fool.
“Sorry?” He chuckled. “Okaay. Do you remember the waltz box step?”
We rounded the floor several times counter-clockwise. “See?” he said. “You’re doing fine. Let’s try a rumba. The beat is slow, quick, quick, slow.” He demonstrated and we practiced together. “Hey. You got it.”
Gosh, this is easier than I thought. He barely touches me but I seem to know what to do. Mmm, and he smells good. What is his cologne, I wonder?
The other couple on the floor signaled Michael that they were changing the music to a swing.
“Let’s try a swing next,” Michael said. “You may know it. I’m sure you did something like it in your day.”
He blushed, realizing he’d made a reference to my age. “Well, I mean, some dances don’t change much.” His red flush deepened.
I grinned. I wasn’t offended.
“I can tell that you like swing,” he said. “You’re more confident.” But, a glance at the wall clock and Michael said, “Uh oh, I’m sorry. Your half-hour is over.”
Already?
“I hope you enjoyed the lesson enough to come back. Would you like me to make an appointment for you?”
Ah. Here comes the sales pitch.
“I need to think about this.”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s been nice meeting you. I’ll walk you to your car.”
That’s really sweet.
When I was settled in my car, he re-crossed the parking lot to the back door of the studio.
Putting my car in reverse, I checked the rear view mirror. I saw him remove a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and after lighting one, take a deep drag. As I drove out of the lot, he gave me the Queen’s wave.
My mind argued with itself on the way home. I felt I was being tempted to do something naughty. I knew my practical-minded mother would disapprove! It’s my own hard-earned money, isn’t it?
The next day at my part-time job as coordinator of a seniors’ program, I had little time to dwell on my feelings about the lesson with Mr. Jensen.
A week passed. No one called to sign me up. Now, where was Harry, Telemarketer Extraordinaire?
The half-hour had been more pleasant than I’d anticipated. Just thinking about dancing with Michael put a grin on my face. I wondered how a full hour might make me feel.
What’s the danger in one little ol’ hour?
Why not try just one?
“YOU WANT TO BUY one lesson, only one lesson?” asked Betty B. whose real name was Celeste. Scorn came loud and clear over the phone. “We’re a franchise. We sell plans.”
Like I should know. “I’m not ready for a plan. You may not remember me, I was there two weeks ago for a free half hour lesson with Michael Jensen. Now I’d like to buy a full hour.”
Was that a pencil tapping? I could almost hear her frown.
She asked, “What’s your name again?”
“Clark, Thea.”
“Please hold.”
I began my own pencil tapping, wondering how they could afford to be so choosy.
“Hello, Mrs. Clark. Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll write you down for one o’clock on Wednesday with Michael.”
Shivers traveled up my arms. Abruptly, the Oriental poppy wallpaper appeared to dance across the kitchen walls and I felt a swelling of joy as I whirled on my Nikes.
I’d been nervous and excited on the drive over, wondering if Michael would be as nice as I remembered. Could I last through the longer lesson? I surveyed the large room. This is more like it. Six couples sailed around the hardwood floor to Frank Sinatra’s “My Funny Valentine.” Over the music, I could hear the white noise of the two ceiling fans spinning at full speed. The air was cool, the atmosphere charged with narcissism.
At her desk Celeste flipped through a Dance Beat magazine. “Please sign in,” she said, handing me a clipboard with that day’s appointment sheet attached.
Aha! I’m a paying customer now.
I’d barely sat when Michael said, “Ready? We’ll start with the basic steps of the foxtrot.” He extended his hand.
Up I jumped, eager to dance to Ol’ Blue Eyes and “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” Tall, slender couples with the set facial expressions of window display mannequins sped past us. The women with beautifully sculpted arms, the men with tight muscular butts.
Focusing on his instructions, I stopped watching the clock. When I’d taught junior high, my fifty-eight minute hour was divided into multi-tasking. Today, following one lousy direction took all my concentration. Twenty-five minutes non-stop and I was out of breath. “I didn’t know ballroom dancing took so much energy. These folks make it look so easy.”
Michael pointed toward our table. “Let’s take a water break, or would you prefer coffee?”
“Water’ll be fine, thank you.” Glad for the breather, I dropped into my chair and closed my eyes, opening them when I heard Michael return. I saw he held a cup of water for me and a coffee refill for himself.
“Ready to continue?” he asked.
I nodded. “My mouth’s so dry. Why is that?”
“Breathe through your nose more.” His voice became crisp. “To finish for today, let’s try a waltz with the box step, a promenade, and an underarm turn.”
Oh, I like this. Feels like flying.
“Keep your back straight,” Michael said. “Stretch your neck up, keep your chin parallel to the floor. This is called your frame.”
I can’t remember all that. Oh, won’t matter. This is my first and last lesson. Sadness engulfed me as those words echoed in my head. But how can I miss something I’ve never had?
Then Michael came to an abrupt stop. Sounding apologetic, he said, “I’m sorry, but your hour is over.”
“Really?” I was genuinely surprised. Still holding my hand, he walked me back to the familiar ice cream parlor table and pulled out my chair.
He took a sip of his coffee. “What would you like to do now?”
I stammered. “I—I’m not sure. I don’t really have a reason to take private lessons.”
He sat back in his chair. I noticed he never slumped. He was silent. He’s quite good looking with his sharply defined cheeks and golden brown eyes. “The manager can show you some options,” he said finally.
Lively music and more dancers filled the building, gyrating to a high energy beat. Others seated at the tiny tables tapped their feet while they chatted. The ever-present mirrors on two walls reflected a crowd.
I like being here.
“The manager is Mr. Allen. His office is in that corner.” Michael indicated a door at the far end of the room. “Why don’t you talk with him?”
Why not?
My heart pounding with every footfall, I approached the tiny office. I heard a “Come in,” when I knocked.
Mr. Allen stood and indicated the only other chair. “Did you enjoy your first lesson?”
“Yes, very much. But before I take more, I need to hear about the fees.”
He was the height of Michael, but fifteen pounds heavier with straight black hair and a tanning booth complexion.
Gazing out the window, I breathed deeply to calm the fluttering in my stomach. Outside, all traffic appeared to be going toward a definite destination. Am I headed anywhere in particular—or am I strolling aimlessly along the shoulder of the road, a bored and lonely observer?
Mr. Allen interrupted my reverie. “Here are three plans and their costs. Which one might you be interested in?”
I pointed at one set of numbers. “That could be manageable.” Barely. My stomach made protest noises.
“All right,” he said. “That one includes one group lesson per week, four private lessons per month, and four practice parties.”
“What are practice parties?”
“A weekly Friday night dance. To learn to follow different partners, you know.”
I stared at the figure on the paper. Two hundred and ten dollars per month. Why, that’s a whole car payment! My stomach constricted; I clenched my jaw. Yet again, my hands seemed to belong to someone else as they fumbled for my checkbook.
The manager remained silent.
He’s not as courtly as Michael. I don’t think I’d like him for my teacher. My penmanship was almost illegible from the shaking of my hand as I wrote the check. What will Old Trout say?
I was about to hand Mr. Allen my check, when I blurted, “I’d like Michael to be my teacher.”
Mr. Allen frowned, withdrawing his hand abruptly. “I choose the teacher for beginners.”
It was my turn to pull back my hand.
I could see him repress a sigh as he examined the large plastic calendar in front of him. He nodded, and not very graciously, I thought. “Okay, Mr. Jensen it is.”
Once outside his office, my heart beating on high, I waved at Michael, the plan’s receipt in my hand. He sat with a young blonde, an Alice in Wonderland look-alike.
“Excuse me, Michael.” I included Alice in my smile. “I’ve signed up for a month beginning next week.”
He stood. “Great,” he said and offered that special “only-for-you” grin. “Could you buy a pair of dance shoes by your next lesson? You’ll learn so much faster with the proper shoes.”
Studying my feet, I asked, “These pumps aren’t suitable?”
“Street shoes are too slippery. Dance shoes have suede soles.” He grabbed a piece of scrap paper on which he wrote an address. “There’s a specialty store not far from here.”
“How much would such shoes cost?” I asked innocently.
“Sometimes you can get them on sale. Usually, they’re about a hundred dollars.”
Whoosh, said my checkbook—again, desperately trying to clamp itself shut.
BRIGHT SUNSHINE had replaced the shade in the parking lot, turning my pale blue Camry into a silver chariot. I sat with the driver’s side door open, feeling heat waves wash over me as they streamed from the vehicle.
Now, you’ve torn it. Where’s your sales resistance? How will you explain dance lessons to Nana? Mentally, I knew I could go back inside and retrieve my check. I also knew I had time that afternoon to check out the shoe store. Why not? I dare you, Miss Thea. And I pointed the car toward the Harbor Freeway.
Finding the store was easy. Deciding which pair to buy was not. No sparkly red shoes like Dorothy’s could I see, but instead a pair of white leather, open-toed two inch sandals was on sale. Outside, I saw no rainbow, but heard a faint whisper: “Follow the yellow brick road. Follow the yellow brick road.” Where? Have a little imagination, Thea. Shut up and follow the damn road.
At home, I cautiously slid the patio door aside. The house was silent. I felt like an errant teenager sneaking upstairs, past the creaking step on the landing. I peeked into the dragon’s den and found her asleep in her recliner warmed by the late afternoon sun. Good. I’ll pretend I’ve been home all along.
My mother owned the publishing rights to the book of Thea. For once, I wanted to include a chapter she’d not read.
“I don’t see Michael,” I said, standing at Celeste’s desk. “Am I here at the right time?” I knew that I was. I had a thing about punctuality.
She ceased honing her talons. “You’re his first lesson of the afternoon. He’ll be here. Why not put on your shoes?” She eyed the dark blue box with approval then returned to her manicure.
Carrying the precious cargo to my usual table, I placed it lovingly on the faux marble top, lifted the lid and peeked inside. The pristine white leather shoes costing seventyfive dollars lay gently nestled in dove gray tissue. Separating the layers I encountered a fragrance not often present with today’s plastic composition shoes, the unique aroma of genuine leather. I turned over one shoe to caress the suede sole. Eventually, with both shoes buckled, I took tentative steps on the smooth carpet. I’d never had new shoes feel so comforting. Placing one foot, heel to toe on the highly polished wood, I suddenly jerked myself backward to avoid a tall couple whirling by. I imagined the pair as Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, beckoning me to dance a threesome with them. Why had I waited so long to feel this kind of joy?
My fantasy bubble popped as I heard Michael say, “Now, you’re serious.” I hadn’t seen him come in the front door. His drawl slithered up my spine. All in white as usual except for his cowboy boots. He gracefully sat.
“About what?” I asked.
“Dancing, of course.” He bent to remove the boots. “Dance shoes are expensive.” Straightening, he shook his ironed jeans back into place. “You have to take good care of them so they’ll last. Never wear them on the street.”
“Never?”
“Junk, old gum, oil in parking lots, water and mud puddles—all ruin the suede soles.”
“When I’m good to them, they’ll be good to me?”
“You got it.”
I scanned the room. “Lots more people here this week.”
“Last week, several of our couples went to comps. There is at least one every month somewhere in the U.S.”
Still having no interest in the competitive dance world, I didn’t pursue the subject. “What do we do today?”
“First, how about reviewing last week?” He released that sweet smile.
“I hate to admit it but I’ve already forgotten what that was.” I grimaced. “Is that true of all beginners, or just seniors?”
“Not unusual for anybody. You’ll soon lock the steps into your muscle memory.” His amber eyes grew serious. “Give yourself time.”
Oh, if you weren’t so young and gay!
Damn! If I weren’t so old and straight.
“MICHAEL, I’M EMBARRASSED to ask you to repeat your instructions. It bothers me that I can’t handle more than one at a time.”
He’d just finished teaching me four basic steps of the cha cha. The studio was filled with professional dancers rehearsing for a showcase. Distracted by so many people, I was only half-heartedly listening to him.
“Why can’t I coordinate my body parts, especially my feet? You tell me to step on my right and what do I do? I step on my left, and then I tangle with your feet. Oops! Like now.”
“Not a big deal,” said Michael. He squeezed my hand. “Soon, like I said, your muscle memory will kick in and most moves will become automatic, like driving your car.”
My muscle memory must have Alzheimer’s today.
“But you do have to focus on me. I won’t bump into anyone or let them collide with you.” He moved me around the floor in sync with the others. “And, Miss Thea, don’t think so hard. Just use your other left foot when I say ‘change weight’.”
My other left foot!
I laughed but then a minor miracle happened. I don’t know why those silly instructions worked, but they did. I’d simply gotten confused and lost track of where my weight was supposed to be.
From then on, whenever he said, “No, your other left foot,” I just switched feet, automatically shifting weight.
No problemo.
“You ready?” asked Michael the next afternoon when I hadn’t moved out of my chair.