The Dance

The Dance
by pam ashlund

Drove with George to Tustin last night to a folk dance party. George, bright, funny, living marginally, no college education, reading problems and dyslexia, working on a circuit-board assembly-line for minimum wage. No insurance (health or automobile), the slightest dip and he is in financial and emotional desperation. A night with George is as uplifting as seeing an old friend you love dearly can be, but with the painful edge that comes with a feeling that he may never overcome his circumstances.

George: "Oh no, I can't find Loma Linda Way on the map"

Me: "Do you have directions?"

George: No.

Me: "Do you have the number?"

The number is dialed on the cell phone. Only an answering machine.

George (whining) "Maybe it's a new street, this map book is from '91"

Then comes the kind of phrase everyone dreads to hear.

George: "Oh, maybe it's not at his house in Tustin, maybe it's in Santa Ana at someone else's house"

Now that's planning. I take the deep breath one will need to not get drawn in to George's world of anxiety and panic. He calls Barbara and directions are obtained. Emergency over.

Now, 45 miles, 5 freeways and 1 hour later, we arrive. A glass house, luckily no one throwing stones. It was, as George puts it, a Doctors house. That said it all. End of the road, dim street lamps, house surrounding outdoor pool. We enter. "George is here", "Look George made it", "Hey, Jorge!". Women flock. I bring the chicken over to the food table. From the table I watch. One by one, George is hugged, kissed, whispered to. Then he is dancing, leading the line to the taped music playing. This popular alpha-male is in his element. Twenty years of dancing and teaching, he is adored by all. I see now another facet. This must be how his psyche remains intact.

Mingling with the guests, folk dancers all, few have jobs or much financial success. Someone goes to look for a bathroom, another says, "there are three, one is for the maid". They laugh, but guest number two says "no, I'm serious". Eyes widen. A live band, "Madison Avenue Crossing", plays Greek Syrto's, Russian waltz's, German Polka's and the ever present Slavic folk music. There is the accordion, of course, but this group has a symphony Marimba player and Dumbec's for the rhythm section. A Chicagoan is sitting in and ban leader jokingly says maybe they should change their band name to "Crossing Madison Avenue". Everyone laughs.

The dancing has begun again. The second set. Line's form. I join. Soon we are Syrto-ing around the pool. With the light of the blue-green pool reflecting upwards, the dancer's are photogenic and surreal. Will fairies fly out from the brush, and mythic creatures bend to listen?

I dance, watching the feet of my fellow dancers, and others help me. "Turn now Pam!" and sometimes I turn, or go right when the line goes left, and I laugh and my new friends laugh and all is well with the world. Another beautiful swaying slow song begins and George and Ann pull me in to the line between them and George sings, "first the left foot, then the right foot, lift, turn, and lift, turn". Then the chorus joins "first the left foot, then the ri-ght, li-ft, tu-rn, lift, turn". They are harmonizing, and then the band's singer comes in, "first the left foot, then the ri-ght…". Forty voices soar with happiness as we move along, forming a line, which bends and then goes underneath the first part of the line where two dancers have formed a bridge with their arms. Suddenly, we all stop singing for the instrumental portion, the natural sense of musical timing was sensed by all. One imaginary verse passes and everyone joins in again. There is little irony in the group, only a very genuine sense of contentment and satisfaction.

I move away, to the lawn and the lawn chair. I sit and watch. George and pony-tailed-Nike-bike-shorts-tan-and-healthy Barbara, dance a partner dance. George dipping Barbara confidently, pony-tail brushing the concrete. They swirl around until they are by the side of the pool. Then they do "the swim", fifties-dance step, bodies shaking, hand motions synchronized. They laugh and dance and I smile. Watching other people have moments of happiness has it's own sweetness. Then Ann pulls up a chair.

Ann is from Yugoslavia and talks exactly like Natasha in "Bullwinkle and Rocky". I can't get over the initial impression that she is putting on the accent for a few moments and then I realize it is as authentic as they get. Why has this accent been so parodied that I can scarcely take her seriously? She has long black hair, beautiful face, thin shapely figure, and wears a sarong/wrap skirt, in a blue island print. She is only missing the orchid in her hair and the flower Leigh. A beautiful women, and now charming as well. She sits and talks to me and asks where I am from. Then I ask her if she knows Stanley too and she says "Yes, of course, I met him at the Kolo festival last summer". And she says "And do you know Jim too?" and I almost laugh. She has never met Jim, only heard about him, and I say "yes, you could say I know Jim". And she knows Rhonda as well. This women I have known for 5 minutes knows my oldest friends in the world. Once having captivated me, like, I am sure, many before me, Ann is off to join the dance. I watch her and George dance and sing all the Yugoslav dances, with a joie de vivre an American could never have for a dance that might well be from her home-town.

Then the band does its final numbers, and the food is slowly put away, and George has his panic attack where he thinks he has lost his bag, and guests gather, and hug and say goodbye. The party is over, it's time to say good night. And we drive off, out of Tustin and the lovely, dark, and affluent suburban streets, back on to the Spaghetti bowl of freeways that will take us back home.

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