December 13, 2003

Dancing into the Tomb

By George K. George

There I was on the waxy polish of the gymnasium floor. A thunderhead of dry ice smoke was rolling frame by frame from near the blue strobe light and disc jockey. The rock music was loud enough that I knew I’d have to shout for her to hear me, but even after searching myself for something, I had nothing fitting to say. Glancing around I noticed other couples shouting to one another, but the music was too loud to discern what they were saying. I hadn’t a notion as to what they might find to say to each other at this moment. I wished I knew so I might break the deafening silence that was drowning out the surrounding noise and commotion.

One of them placed his hand on his date’s waist, came around to the back of her and moved them both to the music in an exaggerated, swaying, monkey-like way. I wondered if my date and I were capable of this too. There must be some prior protocol involved, like dating status or shouting over the music for awhile, before this type of dancing becomes natural. When I looked back at her, she was looking down at my shoes, bolting them to the floor.

I knew I should do something to fill the dead air between us. I wasn’t in any particularly off mood, but the recent entrance to the gymnasium had me wondering. I wasn’t sure which of us was supposed to take the other’s arm. It made sense, as I stood there now, that she should have taken mine, but I couldn’t recall how it played out. I remembered seeing confusion in the corner of my eye as we met inside the latticed gates wrapped in Christmas lights. I resolved to play off the rest of the evening as though that hitch didn’t happen, whether it did or it didn’t. I leaned back a bit in order to crack that lowest vertebra above the pelvis, but thought I might look uncomfortable or bored.

Couples were still being announced and parading into clusters next to the retracted bleachers. I took note of a girl taking her date’s arm and caught myself starting to crack my knuckles. I then succeeded in cracking both of my knees without being conscious of deciding to do so.

My date stepped up close to my ear and asked if I’d like some punch. I thought for sure this was my job, and wondered why I didn’t think of it. I replied yes. Again, I thought the corner of my eye caught a vision of some confusion. After she was too near the punch bowl for me to be heard, I realized I should have taken on the task. It seemed strange that a festivity should be filled with so much split second life or death decision making. With its inelegant transport in mind, the punch tasted rather weak.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” she said and took a sip.

I’d been waiting for an opportunity to tell her the same thing. Or maybe I would have avoided the subject altogether. It made me wonder for more than a second if she had somehow known this and was just speaking for me. I shrugged and looked around. The last of the parade had promenaded inward, and the first dance had begun. That was probably why she mentioned her skill in dancing. She looked at me with paralyzing expectancy. From the corner of my eye I saw couples blasting off from beside the bleachers on to the court. Straight ahead I saw the perfection that came from her shadowed face and the curlicues that fell down around it. It was hard to believe a chattery-looking skull lay behind it all. I wasn’t sure why I had had this thought. Below her face I saw the rest of her, ruffled in foil-like fabric and reflective attachments.

Since signing up for this, I’d been downplaying my anxiety about the imminent moment we made our way to the dance floor. This left me unprepared for the main expectation of the event. The strobe stopped and bulbs behind colored cellophane lit the room in a brownish hue. The music slowed accordingly. I waited for a brave moment, stepped close, and for an unknown reason I said, “Try to keep up.”

I’d probably heard someone say that on television. I thought it might add some grace to the situation so far. But, she eventually took my hand and pulled us toward the rest of the dancers. I’d recalled seeing this on television too, but it wasn’t the same now. I was unsure if I was necessarily the one who should commandeer us out there, but that’s what she did. She strutted purposefully with her forehead high, dragging my reluctant feet one half-pace behind. We turned towards one another, which happened fluidly enough, but there I was with my arms again. She put her hands behind my shoulders. I started to do the same to her, but feared that not only was this incorrect, but also that we would look like two costumed wrestlers. I referenced the dancers in the corners of my vision for help. She must have noticed my glancing. When I looked back, her rolled eyes and agape mouth added up to an expression of bored indifference. Still, I thought her face might fracture or smear away if touched. And the smell was beyond cleanliness.

The four senses that gather above the neck were busy feeding on a deluge of information, but none had any appropriate queues to offer. I was only accustomed to this ornate visage in my imagination, or maybe wondering what her lower eyelid was doing at any time. Now I had the full creature expecting my coordination. I tried to think and put my mind inside my torso, the main hub to all the body’s limbs. Then I remembered hearing somewhere that modern dancing involves the use of the hips, but so far the movements of hers matched neither the strings nor the brass of the music. Lost, listening between the spacious gaps for snare cracks with which to match my steps, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Someone was cutting in.

I’d definitely seen this on television. I soon realized, however, that in all the dramas I’d seen that involved a dance floor, the camera remained on the lady, who continued to dance with the new fellow. I asked myself what became of the men who were cut out so that I could follow in their footsteps. The tax of multidirectional light and sound prevented me from recalling any particular plot, or even a title.

The two of them twirled and weaved away from me and into the sea of dancers.

I’m told that listening to one’s gut in multiple choice questions—without exercising much deliberation—is the best policy for success. The choices were to walk in a straight line out of the cyclones or to even up by cutting in on a dance myself. How does one just butt in? How I would’ve liked to take a walk, but the decision was made.

To stay on the dance floor surely had the implication that one continues to dance. That was my gut speaking again. I bopped my head a bit and tapped my foot to the mellow tune. Twisting my waist, I caught a glance from a girl. She pointed at me. The boy she was dancing with spun them both so that he could have a look. While still staring he spun her in a deft movement to where their arms were outstretched but remained joined at the hands. I would have to try that when I found a dance to cut in on, I thought. I pointed slyly at the two of them, using both index fingers and thumbs to look like pistols. It was at this time I realized it may not have been required of me to continue dancing, but with these eyes upon me it also seemed I was committed.

I had to find a way to break their stares so that I could taper my dancing off to a slight rustle and slouch with some punch somewhere at the edge. This, I now realized, was probably what I would have done if I was on television. So, I twirled on one heel like a top, or maybe an ice skater by the duration of the spin. The fancy black shoes I rented with the tuxedo had quite a resilient soul. I was able to stay spinning until my balance gave out. In trying to right my wobbling I attracted the stares of another pair of dancers. This was after they sidestepped hard into yet another couple to avoid my toppling them. From the corner of my eye I saw a girl grasping the air desperately for her date’s hand, but she in all her lace came crashing down. As soon as she was righted, the eyes of those who had lent her their hands lay upon me.

I continued to dance. Occupied in undulation and looking innocent, they probably wouldn’t be able to connect me to the girl’s fall. Then, as more eyeballs locked into position around me, my conspicuousness as a lone dancer became apparent. A few were pointing and tapping others so they would turn and see. I then saw my date join the circle.

The eyes were amused but asking, “Why?” to each other. To stop meant my having to answer this, but I was without any explanation that didn’t reveal my prior lack of knowledge on these functions. Furthering my dancing as they all stared may have deepened the need for this explanation once I found a way to stop, but inertia kept me immune to the dreaded questioning. I accelerated my steps, finding the half beats in the song that continued its hollow shout from the public address system. It must have been written to accompany a slow dance since the more frequent swaying still only seemed to be moving my body lazily. I attempted to find the quarter beats, and I remembered again what I had heard about modern dancing. Hips shaking quadruple-time, my arms followed with stationary jogging pantomime. I heard an unrestrained male laugh as I switched from jogging to beating my elbows in a chicken-like fashion. The slow strings in the song carried on. It was becoming difficult to match my twitching to any part of it. So, I abandoned it as a guide altogether.

What I did next must have reminded some of my crowd of calisthenics or tumbling without technique, which could have made it a point of natural appearance since we were, after all, in a gym. Arms flailing, feet kicking, body writhing, I must have certainly been peaking their curiosity, though. It takes a good portion of one’s concentration to pull off some of these moves. My mind had few cylinders to devote to coming up with a string of words fitting for walking away from this spectacle. And I realized that these words had to be fitting for the moment I did so. Not only did I have to dance on the floor with myself, but also with arranging a sentence. Each time I’d try to formulate one, I felt my limbs slow and change course. Then, I’d catch a hard glare from one of the watchers and forget the phrase or find it illogical in the extreme. The wrong words were the only ones sputtering in my head, which is why I now squelched internal sound.

Like muzzling one of the fountains from a flowing water source, shutting up the verbal lobes in my brain sent an eruption of awareness to the parts designated for all that I was doing otherwise. My arms turned to charmed serpents and my legs to possessed sections of linked chain. My shoulders and waist were competing for which had the most positional indecisiveness. I sank, grooving downward slowly for all to see, closer to the floor but without losing balance. I gathered later that “The Worm” is a dance done conventionally on one’s belly, but I had a few other interpretations. While squirming on my back I saw my date, with her hands spread in the air, turn sharply from the direction of the other’s gaze and shuffle away. I wanted to get up, but was pinned to the floor. To stand and repeat the erect recital might have led to an end to the dancing, and I would have to explain. I sat down cross-legged and began to roll in circles on my back. I arced across the gymnasium floor rotating and hitting my head occasionally. The circle of other dancers had to back up to make room for me. They eventually broke up and chased me rolling through the latticed gates into the hallway. Bright florescent tubes shone down, hurting my eyes. But I was out. I ran for the double glass doors and gasped for breath in the cool night air.

The principal wants to have a word with me on Monday. I believe I’ll rent the tux through then for the occasion.