Chapter 5 A Good Frame
A GOOD FRAME
Occasionally, New York City—expensive, challenging, stressful New York City—offers up a bit of kismet, a reason for you to stay. It’s like anything else that’s not entirely healthy for you: just when you’re thinking about leaving, it shows up with flowers and an apology.
In my case, the flowers appear in the form of a piece of perfect synchronicity.
The very night after my one-hour introductory lesson with Ollie, I go online and discover that there is a kids’ Taekwondo class on Sunday afternoons right down the block from Manhattan Swing Workshop, at almost exactly the same time as an introductory West Coast Swing class.
In the next twelve hours, I manage to sign Hannah up for Taekwondo and arrange for one of Hannah’s babysitters to keep an eye on her for the next four weeks while I try out the dance class.
It’s a bit of a financial outlay, but I can swing it, especially since Nick has started paying back some of his delayed child support.
The Taekwondo serves another purpose, too: Hannah doesn’t do a lot of activities outside of her after-school program because I’ve rarely had the energy to take her back and forth to piano lessons, art classes, and tennis lessons while solo parenting the rest of the time.
Now I can balance my own enrichment activity with one for Hannah, too.
The Four-Week West Coast Swing course is not one of the classes Ollie teaches, though. I tell myself that’s a good thing. I don’t know if I can handle a full month of staring into his hazel eyes while he teases me about me not having a partner.
When I arrive at Manhattan Swing, which is on the fourth floor of a building in the Flatiron district, I immediately spot Jody from our intro class waiting by the classroom door.
Jody has long, light-brown hair that almost reaches her waist and an upturned nose that makes her look like the sarcastic younger sibling on a sitcom, even though she’s probably around thirty.
Today she is wearing loose yoga pants and a t-shirt from the Sierra Club.
“Hey!” I say, approaching her. “You’re doing the whole one-month course?”
“That was always the plan.” Jody has a dry way of speaking that can seem a little hostile if it weren’t for the undercurrent of humor running constantly beneath it. She reminds me a little of my mother at her best: cynical, funny, a little tired of everything.
I lean against the empty stretch of wall next to her. “You think any of the engaged couples will be back again?”
“Probably not. Most of them have realized it’s going to be more efficient to just take a one-hour private lesson with someone who can help them choreograph their wedding dance, and then they don’t have to learn how to actually lead and follow.”
“I think improvisation is the fun part.”
“Because you’re not planning a hundred-thousand-dollar wedding with bridesmaids in matching taupe dresses.”
I laugh. “Oh, to be young and have disposable income.”
“It’s a stupid reason to learn to dance.” Jody gives me a once-over. “Speaking of, I’m noticing this is not one of the classes taught by Mr. MacCormack.”
“No,” I say. I decide not to mention that I’m only here because Ollie dared me to stick with it. “I like West Coast Swing, it turns out.”
“Very well,” says Jody. “I will postpone my decision to dislike you.”
“How kind,” I reply with a grin.
“I am always incredibly kind. It’s shocking that I’m single.”
A plump woman in her sixties walks over to us and dumps a large colorful bag on the floor beside her with a huffing sigh. She has iron grey hair cut in a bob and wears a long, flowing batik-dyed shirt and hot pink leggings.
“Beginner West Coast Swing?” she asks.
Jody nods.
“I’m Helen,” she says in a rush. “This is my third dance I’m learning. Last month it was salsa. Before that was tango. My husband died and I said fuck it, I’m going to do everything he wouldn’t let me do when he was alive.”
I think I’m going to like Helen.
As we line up inside the classroom a few minutes later, I am surprised by one other familiar face: the fiancé of the Rihanna-loving bride, with his sandy blond hair and apologetic expression. I find myself lined up opposite him when class starts.
“Is your fiancée sick today?”
“Oh, no…” He looks a little embarrassed.
“She kept talking about how bad I was, so I wanted to surprise her by getting better for our wedding. We’re doing one of those private lessons to choreograph our dance, but I thought, you know, if I put a little extra time in, then I could actually impress her.
She doesn’t know I’m here. I told her I’m training at the gym. ”
“That’s really sweet.”
He shrugs. “I hope so. I’m sorry I kept stepping on your feet.”
“I’m sure I stepped on yours just as often. I’m Laura, by the way.” I put out a hand.
“Ben,” he says. “So this is definitely a beginner level class, right?”
“Let’s hope so.”
Ben nods nervously and glances at the teachers who are setting up some music. He takes a deep breath and starts counting out loud.
A little over an hour later, I find myself sitting with Jody and Helen in the coffee shop at the corner, killing time while my daughter finishes her Taekwondo lesson.
Jody is giving sharp summaries of the different styles of follower that she’s had to deal with in her various Lindy Hop, East Coast, and now West Coast Swing classes.
“You two are fine,” she says, waving her hand vaguely. “You two are acceptable. But there are people I’ve danced with who have the weakest possible grips. It’s like their wrists are made of Jello.”
“Oh no. That’s what Ollie said about mine,” I say.
“No. You’ve improved a lot. There are followers where I take a step toward them and their entire frame sort of melts away, like I’m stepping into the mirror dimension. And it’s like, you do need to push back against me a little or I will end up pressed against your entire body.”
“Well,” Helen says, “some of the leaders have a death grip. There’s this one guy…”
“I know the one,” I agree.
“It’s like he’s one of those 1950s tin robots with the arms coming out from his elbows.” Helen imitates a robot. “He seems to think his job is to push me around like a shopping cart. I mean, I like a decisive man, but not like that.”
I laugh. “The ones who bother me are the ones who fling you away like they’re tossing a frisbee. And then they snap you back again, and your wrist hurts.”
Helen holds up a wrist. “I just say, ‘Be careful, dear, I’m old and fragile.’ That usually tones them down. I got pushed around enough by my husband.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.
“Oh, he wasn’t abusive exactly,” Helen replies, looking thoughtful.
“Just rigid. Very rigid. He was a university professor. Eighteen years older than me. We met when he was teaching my intro philosophy class in college, and I married him the summer before I graduated. And he was one of those people who just… I would say, you know, ‘Maybe we should go to Norway for a trip,’ and he would have fifteen reasons why we shouldn’t go to Norway.
He knew everything that was wrong with Norway.
Or Florida. I couldn’t possibly want to go to Florida.
Do you know how humid it is in Florida? And taking a dance class?
Never. We weren’t going to become professional dancers, were we?
What was the point? Exercise? You could get much more efficient exercise at the gym, and we had a paid membership.
I gave up so many opportunities because they didn’t fit what he thought was logical. ”
“And now here you are,” Jody says with more than her usual warmth.
“Here I am, dancing with men half my age who are scared to break me.” Helen sighs and shrugs.
“You,” Jody replies, “have excellent connection and a great frame.” Helen’s face lights up at the compliment.
I shake my head. “I never expected so much of dance would be about holding hands the right way.”
“That’s the whole thing,” agrees Jody. “Well, half of it anyway. As a leader, I feel like I’m sending out secret messages, hoping the followers read them.”
“Put like that, it sounds very sexy,” I say.
“It’s a mating dance,” Jody agrees. “At least in part. I wish there were more lesbians who came to class. But nevertheless, I persist.”
“So are we all going to the Friday night social?” Helen asks.
Our intro class is taught by two dancers, the spunky and experienced teacher named Maria who greeted Ollie the other day, and her assistant and teacher-in-training Hank, who is in his early twenties and bouncily enthusiastic.
They both spent the first class heavily advocating for us to attend the school’s two-hour ‘open social dance’ on Friday evening.
It is a free event where West Coast Swing dancers have the chance to practice their steps in an informal atmosphere.
I shrug. I’m not sure whether my date with Ollie will be on Friday night. I’m not sure whether my date with Ollie will happen at all, to be honest, because he still hasn’t called me. It’s only been twenty-four hours since my intro lesson with him, I remind myself.
“If I’m free, I’ll try to be there,” I tell Helen. I do want to get more practice with dancing. In the back of my mind, though, I wonder why I am bothering. I’m certainly not going to dazzle Ollie, who has already danced with someone who is basically a national champion.
“I’ll probably be there,” Jody replies, sounding a little weary. “I might as well get the practice in.”
Outside the window, I watch a young woman stride by us wearing a punk rock t-shirt, her hair in an untamed wave, her ears triple-pierced.
That was my look for a few years in my mid-twenties.
I used to dress like Joan Jett, with an I-dare-you attitude and copious amounts of black eyeliner.
I listened to metal bands and went to dubstep raves and snuck into parties where I didn’t bother to learn anyone’s name.