DANCE FEVER

Susceptible to motion sickness I had opted against joining Jim and Aubrey on the Baltimore Harbor paddleboats. 

Something was about to happen in the courtyard.  A square of what looked like worn brown linoleum was unrolled against the concrete pavement.  Oversized concrete stairs surrounded the courtyard in a bleacher-like seating arrangement for the two thousand or so people who would soon encircle the staging area.  People had begun arriving in anticipation of the street performance to take place around the newly placed brown theater floor.  The driving beat of the boom box and the warming up of the dancers was attracting attention.  Though it was several hundred feet before the previously arranged meeting spot, I decided to stake out a space on the concrete to watch what was going to happen.  Jim was wearing a salmon-colored polo shirt so I was certain I could watch the show and still glimpse the paddleboat pair when they walked by.  

Just as things were getting underway, I spotted the two of them making their way to the edge of the crowd.  They were trying to see what display was drawing all the spectators.  Soon flagging them down, together we watched the agile break-dancers and their super-sized announcer.  

After several songs-worth of painful-looking stunts and dance moves; it became obvious that they were about to seek audience participation.  Since none of us enjoy the limelight, we began to make a hasty retreat.  Sneaking between clapping members of the audience, I led the charge up the jumbo concrete steps.  Aubrey was right on my heels. 

Just reaching the top of the steps, I heard my daughter begin to shriek with great alarm.  Her voice was in a panic.  You would have thought aliens had abducted my husband.  “Mom!  They’ve got Dad!”  Not fully understanding her announcement, I asked her to repeat herself.  “They have him Mom!  They pulled him down!”  Squeezing myself through the crowd, I was shocked to see my very private husband standing in great discomfort at the edge of the brown linoleum mat.  The dancers had placed a nerdy-looking tourist to Jim’s left, and two middle-aged

African American gentlemen facing inward at the other side of the square.  It was the battle of the dance.  Two unsuspecting white guys were supposed to out-dance two less-than enthused black guys.  After over 25 years together I am pretty proficient at reading my husband’s mind and what I was reading was a heap of distress.  Should he try to make an escape?  The crowd was pressed in on every side.  Hoping for an effective out-of-body experience and with no viable alternative, he bravely stood rooted to the spot. 

There were murmurs of disapproval in the crowd.  The contest did not look fair!  At the crowd’s prompting, the men were reshuffled, leaving the teams with a more even distribution of pigment.  I could see Jim trying to convince the performers that he could not dance.  It was of no use.  The game went on.  One of the other men attempted to flee and was recaptured at his family’s bench and returned to the dance floor.  The other white guy did not appear to contain an ounce of dignity and gave himself fully to the challenge.  He looked perfectly and predictably ridiculous. 

And so early in the competition, my shy hubby became a crowd favorite.  He won the first round with his carefully executed Steve Martin pointing dance.  Being

rhythmically gifted, he successfully set himself apart to the cheers of the crowd.  A regrettable detail was the large puddle of harbor water which was staining the entire buttocks region of Jim’s jeans.  It was an unfortunate side effect from his recent paddleboat adventure.  He was blissfully unaware of this moisture until I was indelicate enough to tell him about it after his departure from the stage. 

Anyway, the two black men were dismissed, leaving Jim and his nemesis Mr. Whitey Yahoo to dance to the finish.  The professionals were brought out to coach the two remaining men.  Rubbing Jim’s shoulders and trying to get him to loosen up, the ‘trainer’ popped a gangster hat on Jim’s head and tried to teach him a suggestive hip-thrusting movement.  Jim wisely declined to imitate the motion and opted instead to look as though he wanted to evaporate into thin air.   

Returning to the edge of the mat, this time in hats, the other guy went first.  He gave it his best effort with only minimal encouragement from the crowd.  And then there was Jim.  With a slight revision to the “Martin Point” and his own rendition of the infamous Sprinkler, he won the adoration of the crowd and a $5.00 bill which was donated immediately to a young member of the audience. Jim would have paid a much larger sum just to be set free from the thousands of people now

watching his response.  And I would have placed money myself- on the bet that my husband would never have danced for thousands at the Baltimore Inner Harbor. 

But having no way to escape the inevitable, he was an outrageously good sport.  Walking gratefully away from the exhibition, his skin tone began returning to normal and he asked with residual nausea that Aubrey and I ‘never speak of this again.’  It is a hard request with which to comply, as the images of dance fever keep playing through my head and causing the corners of my mouth to turn upwards into full fledged grin-age, if not unrestrained laughter. 

I attempted later that evening to reiterate how impressed I had been with his ability to rise to the occasion and wow us all with his dance moves.  He spoke quietly and with the great control for which he is usually known. “The mere thought of it is like fingernails on the chalkboard of my mind.” 

And so I stopped talking.  And started writing.