After The Lesson

There were more than two hundred people at the Elk's Club that night. After the dance lesson, the five-piece band that had been setting up took over. The singer got right into it with Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy. Her voice was terrific--smooth and nuanced. I wish I could remember her name, but my mind was on overload. The close proximity of all those dancers and their frenetic movements stunned me after my many sedentary years of sitting in the audience at the Joyce and Jacob's Pillow. And live music was something I appreciated from my seat at Lincoln Center, Tanglewood, or one of the small jazz clubs in the city. Wherever it was, I was used to being separated from the action on stage. My only participation--if you can call it that--was to clap at the end.

But my nervous system finally did begin to settle down, and I started to take in my surroundings. The single women far outnumbered the men. That was no surprise. After some one-on-one private tutoring, David said he'd be expected to ask some of the numerous single women to dance. I nodded and off he went.

Since many of the other dancers seemed focused on being seen, I watched. They were of all ages, but most entertaining were the students from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. With its strong dance program, it turned out kids who danced like pros. Their sneakered feet kicked and jived, heels and toes jutting high in the air. People gave them wide berth to avoid injuries.

I was about to sit in one of the folding chairs that lined the perimeter of the floor when a man approached me, grunted, and held out his hand. Somehow, saying no thanks seemed out of the question, so I took it. He placed his other hand on my back, I did the same on his shoulder. We began to repeat the triple-step, triple-step, back-step that I had just learned. After a few (who am I kidding?--more like twenty) repetitions, my mind began to free itself from its hypnotic, held-breath, will-this-go-on-forever state. My partner and I didn't speak, which I appreciated enormously. We were just completing a turn when the song ended. He escorted me back to a seat, grunted again, bowed formally, and drifted back into the crowd.

Not too bad. Not too bad. I was soothing myself, when a woman I'd met earlier that night sat beside me.

"You did fine!" she said. (A couple of years later she told me I'd looked like a deer in the headlights.)

"I guess I followed him alright," I conceded, secretly proud.

"Yeah. I'm not sure what's wrong with him. I think he's recovering from a stroke. These dances are probably part of his rehab."

My elation deflated as I giggled to myself. His meticulously repeated movements had made him the perfect leader for me to follow. I couldn't have asked for better. But that was all I'd noticed. Self-consciousness had limited my focus.

Just then another man I didn't know approached and asked my new friend to dance. I was still laughing at myself when David returned. "There you are! I couldn't find you. Are you alright?"

"Oh yes," I answered nonchalantly. "I was just dancing with someone."

"Good! Who?

I scanned the crowd. "Oh, I don't see him now."

"How did you do?"

"Fine," I tossed off.

He and I danced together for the rest of the evening.