10. CHAPTER NINE #2
“Mike said you did good for a rookie.”
“Great. Well, thanks again for the opportunity. I appreciate it.”
“You busy tonight?” he asks.
“Uh –” I pause to consider the question. “Not really. What’s up?”
“I got a bigger gig. Bride wants ten guys.”
“Ten? That’s a lot.”
“You ever dance in a group before?”
Recollections of my kindergarten Saturday Academy Modern Dance recital – and the revenge dance career that ensued in high school – flood my brain. “When I was younger, yeah.”
“You think you could learn some basic moves kind of quick? I had ten guys, but one got picked up by the cops last night for public indecency and his folks haven’t posted bail yet. Apparently, they’ re pretty pissed.”
Can’t imagine why. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can. It’s like riding a bicycle – but using only your hips.” I laugh at my own joke. “Wait. I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Would this be at the same place?”
“Yup. Cosmo is my big spot. Outside of that, we do private parties, but there aren’t any real clubs out here on the Cape, you know?”
“Right.” Hmm. Another chance to see Gretchen, without it being weird.
I mean, obviously it’s weird, the thought of stripping in front of her again.
But because she’s all decked out and uncomfortable, somehow it makes it less weird that I’m only covering my cod-piece with a snapper-wrapper. “What’s the getup? Zorro again?”
“Nope. You’d need to be a baseball player. Lots of bat-action. Two choreographed routines. You think you could make it down to Harwich to practice with the guys? 1pm?”
Two hours? “Yeah, I can be there.”
“Great, kid. I’ll even throw in the thong this time since you’re doing me a solid.”
“No problem.” The butterflies that have suddenly appeared in my stomach threaten to wreak havoc on my gastro tract. “Where’s the practice, exactly?”
“Harwich Cultural Center,” he says. “Friend of mine has a dance studio there.” He gives me a phone number, which I write down. It belongs to Max, one of the people I’ll be dancing alongside. “He’s been with me the longest. I’ll let him know to expect you.”
“Okay,” I say. We hang up, and I exhale, looking at myself in the mirror.
“Well,” I say to my reflection. “Batter up.” I shake my head, laughing at the absurdity of it all. I wash my dance belt by hand in the kitchen sink and toss it in the dryer before heading into the shower to start getting ready.
I’m not from this part of the Cape, so I type in Harwich Center in the GPS and I end up giving myself just enough time to arrive at the Harwich Community Center at 12:55 p.m. I briskly walk inside.
The place is nice, and it looks like fairly new construction, right across the street from a high school.
But it definitely gives off a geriatric vibe.
There are three elderly women behind a circular front desk, and I try to get my bearings and find some sort of center map to figure out where in this building the dance studio Steve told me about is located.
A quartet of old men are playing racquetball through a glass wall straight ahead, all hiding behind rec specs, and a woman in a wheelchair with a ball of yarn and a pair of knitting needles in her lap is being rolled down the hallway by a middle-aged aide.
There’s a Harwich Community Center bulletin board that boasts upcoming events, such as a field trip to the Sandwich Glass Museum and a “movie night” featuring the movie Cocoon, which must be well before my time because I’ve never even heard of it.
Befuddled by the lack of clarity as to where the dance studio might be, I approach the desk. One of the women, with a badge that says “AGNES, here to help” comes up to me. Slowly.
“Can I help you, young man?” she asks.
“Can you tell me where the dance studio is?”
“What’s that, now?” She leans in closer.
“I’m looking for the dance studio. I’m here to meet some guys.”
“Dance studio?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am. If you could just tell me where it is, that would be great.”
Confused, she looks up at the ceiling. “For dancing?” she asks me.
I nod. “I’m here to meet a group of guys,” I add.
She looks at me and offers what I’m sure, back in the day, might have been the Agnes version of a devilish grin. “I haven’t seen anyone here for dancing,” she says. “But I would be happy to cut a rug with you, if you’re looking for a dance partner.”
I shake my head and look at the clock on the wall. It’s 1:00. “I’m sorry, I’d love to do that another time, ma’am. But right now, I’m late for a dance rehearsal with a group of guys. Now, please. Is there a dance studio here or not?”
“I’m afraid there’s not,” she replies, sadly. “Betty?” she calls out to a different white-haired lady at the desk.
A diminutive thing with a four pronged cane who I can only imagine is Betty turns around.
“Betty?” Agnes repeats. “This young man is here looking for dance classes?”
“No, that’s not it,” I interject, not wanting to be rude.
“Huh?” Betty asks, adjusting her hearing aid.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to get flustered. “I’m supposed to be meeting a group of guys here to learn a dance number for a bachelorette party tonight.”
“Oh,” Agnes says. “Ooh-la-la,” she nods at me.
Betty startles, as if perhaps she’s turned up her ears too loud. “He’s a stripper?” she yells across the desk.
“I don’t know,” Agnes replies, looking me over. “He could be.”
“Please, ladies. I’m just looking for a dance studio. If there’s not one here, I must be in the wrong place.”
“You might check the Harwich Cultural Center. It’s over on Sisson Road. You know where that is?” Betty asks, loudly.
“Isn’t this the Harwich Cultural Center?” I ask.
“Oh no,” Agnes replies. “This is the Harwich Community Center. We welcome everyone, but it’s really mostly a senior activity center.”
Fuck. That explains it. “Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry for the confusion. Hope you both have a lovely day,” I add, and turn to leave.
“Come and see us again sometime!” Agnes hollers after me.
I pull up the number for Max in my phone. I dial it.
“Hello?” a man answers.
“Yeah, hi. My name’s Brady. I got your number from Steve?”
“What’s up, man? We’re all down at the HCC. You coming?”
“I’m on my way. Just got a little lost. Sorry. Where exactly is it at?”
Max offers me directions; turns out I’m just a few minutes away. When I arrive, he meets me at the door. “What up, bro? I’m Max.” He holds out his hand and gives me a pound. “Nice to meet you.”
Max has to be about 6’5”. He’s huge, not to mention ripped. Hard to imagine him as a dancer. Now, a baseball player, that I could see.
I follow him down a long hallway. “This some kind of school?” I ask.
“Used to be,” he says. “Now it’s an artist’s collective. Groups rent out the old classrooms to set up shop for all sorts of things – fiber arts, pottery, you name it. We just borrow space from the Zumba group that meets here. I’m friends with the girl that runs the classes.”
“Cool,” I say, as we turn the corner.
When we get to the dance room, Max introduces me to the other guys. You would think I was entering a Greek God competition or something. It’s impossible not to notice how good they look.
Max explains that there are two numbers we need to rehearse.
The first is a mash up of classic walk up songs, Enter Sandman by Metallica, Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes, Welcome to the Jungle by Guns N’ Roses, and a few others.
For that number, we’ll be using the bats.
There’s a bag with a dozen or so wooden bats in it, and Max explains we’re using wood because it’s heavier, so our muscles will flex harder when we hold the bats up.
For that dance, we’ll end up shirtless but still wearing our pants.
The second number, which abandons the bats – is a hip hop compilation including Notorious BIG, DJ Khaled, and Drake.
This is the one where we strip all the way down.
“It’s a slow burn,” Max explains. “We’ll make more money if we keep the ladies at bay a bit longer.
So the two dances combined will take us about ten minutes.
By then, they won’t be able to keep their hands to themselves,” he grins.
“Or their money in their purses,” another guy named Tommy adds.
We begin with some basic stretching, and I’m surprised at how much it feels like a dance class.
Most of us will stay in formation as backup dancers, so the work for the first song is pretty minimal.
It’s a lot of hip thrusting and hands sliding down our chests.
The bats are (of course) synonymous for our pork swords, so there’s a good amount of holding them upright and grinding our hips while slowly stroking the wood.
Then there’s a part where we freestyle – each of us finds a lady in the crowd and has to give her our baseball cap while we body roll up against her.
My position in the lineup is in the back row, all the way to the right.
This is good because no matter what, I’ll be able to watch the guys in front of me on the off chance that I forget the moves.
They’ve all done similar versions of this dance before – they’ve pretended to be a hockey team (same thing but with hockey sticks), construction workers (with levels), even farmers (with hoes).
There’s a lot of repetition, which makes learning the dance pretty easy.
About halfway through, we abandon the bats for folding chairs, and there’s a good amount of flexing and posing – each of us, one at a time – followed by a synchronized dolphin dive to the ground that marks the beginning of the end of dance number one.
Once we emerge from the ground, the shirts and belts have come off, and after that it’s a whole lot of gyrating and sharp, precise thrusting until the end of the number.