Suddenly, I found myself alone on the dance floor looking like the jerk of the year. In the middle of a number, my partner Sheila, my only dance-partner all these years, left me there totally helpless and exposed to others just because of miss-stepping once too often.
It happened when the band was playing a song that was familiar and romantic. In my mind I was picturing myself as the svelte guy that had all the right moves such that women on the sidelines wished their hearts out just to be in my arms on that dance floor. Truth was, I couldn’t dance to the beat of my own drum and likely never will. I wished the power would fail or I could be invisible rather than take that long walk back to my table. Doing so, I attempted to look nonchalant over her rejection and channelled those hurt feelings into previous dance memories of earlier years.
As a teenager living in a small town there wasn’t much action – until one summer the girls decided to teach the guys how to dance. It was awkward and rather embarrassing but it was a beginning. It did have its perks though. For the first time ever, we noticed that the girls had special attributes (boobs and bums), thought-provoking enough to keep us coming back for more lessons.
Then there were teen dances held in the original Town Hall on Saturday nights, attracting kids from near and far. It was sponsored by the Lions Club and overseen by my own father. He was always pestered about which 45-record to play first so he started keeping a list of the requests. Most of us were still wallflowers but one evening a friend spotted a new girl from LaPasse and asked her for a dance. She accepted and the pair danced together until the very end. As Arthur Murray used to say, “Couples who dance together stay together.” These two did just that and got married a few years afterwards. There were a few other instances of romances that blossomed like the transformation of a seed into a beautiful flower — for many years, I doubt it! As for me, I was still in the shadows!
In the high school gymnasium, I observed couples whose dancing was more polished; the guy appearing more in charge by inviting the girl to follow him through every movement. Even if a step was misinterpreted each would adapt to the other like teamwork, not like back in our village. We rural folks danced more brazenly with an off-key rhythm and a lot less pizzazz. I made some mental notes on how I might improve.
After moving to the big city I wiped my hard-to-forget slate clean. I practised my steps over and over until I developed a good lead, easy-going but not too subtle. My intention was to somehow entice a woman who was compatible, able to blend in with my repertoire. I would be cool and alert, always scanning the floor in front of me, watching the streams of others for a signal of approval of my new proficiency. Still, I would be constantly aware of what was happening right in my arms. I would treat my dance-partner with respect, never forcing movement from her but following her through every movement. If she interpreted a movement differently than I had intended, I would adapt to her rather than forcing a change in the step. That’s how I wished it to be –graceful and attention-grabbing, a beacon of light dispelling the darkness of my past.
Like serendipity, I bumped into the perfect mate and luckily discovered she too wanted to be a sensation in the dancing mode. We soon signed up to refresh ourselves with the rumbas and waltzes. The dance studio we chose claimed to be a new Arthur Murray version. Thwarted again, I couldn’t catch on, obvious before the end of the second lesson –my feet couldn’t stay in beat with the music and my arms and legs too unbending. My girl, an opportunist, latched onto another partner and I was left alone to my own devices, slim to none.
Years later I returned to the Valley and noticed that many of the bands played country. I took to the music, despite seeming disorganized and a little whacky. One night I took a dare and headed onto the dance floor. It was surreal, nothing like any other experience I had. My unorthodox style fit right in. Better still, no two couples danced alike. I became light-headed with joy: finally a dance where everybody did their own thing and didn’t care whether it was a half-step or a three-step.
I regret so many years of dancing in obscurity and the angst it has caused. However, I found my best avenue was to take the road less traveled – dancing in the dark to hillbilly music alone at home.
