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.
H
ere’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.
We finish and the lesson is over, and we all give ourselves a round of applause. “New kid on the block, I like you,” she says,
putting one hand on her hip, the other on my shoulder. “You know how to move.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You did a good job leading.”
She’s scandalized. “Who, moi? A lady never leads. I was just helping us get where we needed to be.”
“We got there, all right,” I say with a grin. “I’m Jason, by the way.” My plan is to stick with the faux name for now, sort
it out with her and Bradley later.
“And I, my dear, am Rosalyn,” she says a bit breathily. “But my friends call me Rosie.” She gives me a wink. “I
hope
you’ll be calling me Rosie.” She turns on her heel and sashays away, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure I’m checking
out her backside.
So Marie isn’t Marie at all; she’s Rosie. I look around at the other women in class. She must be one of these, except for
Fran or Jennifer; or maybe she’s not even here, since no one else looks even remotely like Bradley. But as I take a seat with
the other dancers, I realize it doesn’t matter. Steve and Jennifer are chatting with another couple about wedding invitations
and her dress. Lucky Brand woman is squealing to another gal that she knows someone who knows someone who
actually has a Derek Lam purse
! And there’s a woman in the floral print dress with empire waist and ruffled hem I saw in Anthropologie, and I know she paid
$79.00 (unless they’re having a sale). I’ve hit the jackpot. If I can just grit it out, force myself to come back a couple
more times, and keep track of everything I see and hear, then flake it up a bit, I’ll have everything I need to assemble the
perfect cast of characters.
The woman in the chair across from me tugs at the back of her sandal, a Kenneth Cole T-strap, no less—
god, I’m in heaven!
—and smiles at me.