Available now through my newsletter! Smitten, is a standalone, 80s dance novel. Here’s an excerpt to wet your whistle.
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Chapter One:
Years Later
“Everyone is scared and freaking out over this new health scare, Aids, but take it from DJ Dipper. We’re all still Alive and Kicking. So here’s a tubular song of the same name from Simple Minds.”
Jay abandoned the key in the doorknob and stormed over to the tabletop radio to turn it off. “I can’t believe this has been on the whole time we were gone. Like we don’t have enough high bills to pay.”
“I simply forgot.”
“It’s not the USSR nuclear tests, so forget it, right?”
I groaned. “Jay, don’t start.”
He stomped around the apartment like a green ogre. Making his presence known as he prepared to leave for work. Leaving me to put the clean laundry up alone. It was close to 7 pm and his ride would be here soon.
I remembered when everything this man did use to impress me.
It was like, he was the moon. Only to find out later that it was stinky cheese. Sometimes when we argue I can’t help, but wonder if this is the last one that leads to divorce.
We’d been married 14 years, and it was the summer of 1983. She Blinded Me With Science was the song on everyone’s lips, and Fame had everyone wanting to join a dance academy. Our main concern was paying the next bill, and the thought of hurting my husband wasn’t a thing. However, it was the first year, I felt like I was failing as a wife.
I wished it was as simple as not being attracted to each other. Those blue eyes hadn’t lost there spark, and they were still as comforting as my ma’s favorite blanket. His grin was so wide that it took over his entire face. When was the last time I saw that smile? The one time I walked in on him by accident working on his muscular, yet chiseled physique. I had actually apologized as if we were nothing more than strangers. When did we become so disconnected?
He slammed the bedroom door rattling the handles. Knocking me from my thoughts. I dropped the clothes I was folding on the bed and followed him out. He quickly grabbed his work bag from the closet shoving some papers inside. It occurred to me to ask him about it, but I was already trying to put out one fire. Hopping in front of his path to block his retreat to the door.
“Is this really about the radio, because we can pretend to be husband and wife and discuss it like adults?”
He reached for his leather jacket over my head and threw it over his shoulder. A horn could be heard honking in the distance, and he looked towards the window knowingly. This argument was as tired as there reasons for still having them.
“We are married, and that’s my ride.”
“Well Jay, you should totally go then.”
“Don’t give me that look,” he retorted, “you mean do I want you to spout off the same positive speech I’ve heard before. I’ll take a hard pass.”
I could only nod, my bottom lip quivering. “Have a good day at work then.”
“Me and you. Always,” he said, coming over to kiss me on the cheek.
A damp silence greeted his words. He sighed and pushed me aside to go meet with his ride.
“Me and you. Always,” I replied to his retreating form.
After all this time, hearing him whisper those words in her ear still made me shiver. But the warm butterflies in my stomach that I always got when I was near him, disappeared as if they were never there. I locked the door back, whispering to myself, “but whats to love anymore.”
There were many signs that indicated, they were just putting up with this shabby apartment and each other.
I sat down in an old brown fold out chair, next to their breakfast table, only to fill drops of water on my forehead. The ceiling anointing me with old pipe water being the main one. I grabbed a pot and placed it on the chair. The ping of droplets in the pot was as annoying as the drip from the sink. But it wouldn’t always be this way now that I got a new job.
Sitting alone opposite a pot of water, I busied myself by pretending that he was still there. And I wasn’t holding so many feelings inside and was actually able to talk about them.
It wasn’t hard imagining how he looked. He was a handsome man with a full mane of dirty blond hair. I used to run my fingers through it all the time. Especially when he used to lay on my chest for hours while we talked. Back in the days when I would spend the night in his loft. These days they just didn’t see each other anymore. Still, even with overalls on, he eluded confidence, with his megawatt smile. Made even better by the scruff on his chin, when he forgot to shave. But only a crazy person sits in a darkened house, imagining there husband.
These days I only saw him during laundry day. Instead of it bringing us together we ended up arguing over whites and colors. Powder or liquid. It was maddening. And due to the nature of his job, there were far too many times when I went to bed alone and angry.
I looked over at the leaky sink. Everything in this place was broken including our marriage. Suddenly, going to bed at eight pm in the evening seemed great. Except I went into the room to change out of my clothes, and the lights went out. I went over and clicked the lamp switch on and off to no avail. This was just as well since I already knew we were behind on the electric bill. That didn’t stop me from hoping that it was a city-wide outage.
I looked out of my bedroom window. “An outage that the restaurant next door was not experiencing either. Well, I don’t need light to sleep.”
Not that it mattered because the bed just got a lot colder for some reason. Suddenly I was confronted once more with my loneliness. What was the point of having a husband, when you truly don’t have a husband? These negative thoughts would make me physically sick if I didn’t do something to take my mind off it all. So I decided to pull on my Mary Janes and go get some Bresler ice cream. Repeating to myself over and over that once I get my first check, I wont have to run away from my own apartment. I grabbed my keys on the way out and threw on a fuzzy, reddish-orange sweater that I took from my mothers closet.
The Machiavelli Apartment Arms, about eleven stories high, had an elevator with a sticky door that only opened if it was kicked three times. This unfavorable trick worked against our seventy-year-old, neighbor Mrs. Grete Moller. The only person I had ever met truly deserving of the nickname, short stuff, that Jay sometimes called her. Unfortunate for her, the door had already closed by the time I saw her walk through the door of the lobby.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Moller, I would have held the door open for you,” I informed her.
“Don’t worry love,” Grete said scooting the cart closer and pressing the elevator doors. “The doors do open. It just takes longer.”
“Well let me help,” I said already impatient with the elevator that claimed to be still on the first floor. Taking out my anger over the electric bill by giving the door three swift kicks. One for Jay and his inability to express any of his feelings beyond the caveman grunt.
“You showed it,” laughed Mrs. Moller good-naturedly, as the doors slid open.
“Do you need any help with the bags?” she asked.
“Lord, no. You just be on your way and don’t let this old lady stop your fun. The hubby is waiting for me upstairs and we can manage. Besides, its summer, if I still were your age I’d be showing off those slender legs too.”
I touched the hem of my blue jean shorts. Mumbling more to myself than Mrs. Moller, “I don’t know how fun getting ice cream will be alone.”
Before continuing on my way. Sidestepping some ice cream melting on the sidewalk. It looked like someone had the same idea as me. I wondered if this person had been eating alone as well, self-medicating with confectionery sugar. Unable to shake the thought that this loneliness was my new normal. It has been for some time now.
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“Step right up,” I bellowed into the crowd. Like a ringmaster at the circus, I was ready to put on a show and take them for all they were worth. Playing up the sex appeal for a few of the older women in the crowd. Not even worrying about alienating some of the men.
I knew once I hooked there wives and girlfriends, their protests wouldn’t matter. They would be opening up their wallets soon after. But it wasn’t as if I was taking them for a row, dance would breath life into there miserable relationships.
And they were learning from a five-time Champion. They should be lucky to find a dancer of my expertise in a small place like Little Beat Dance Studio. I was after all keeping the place afloat, single-handedly. But a well-meaning push from Ms. Popalowski had convinced me to pull up roots and be the big fish in a small pond.
Periodically, I would go and pimp myself out through street sales to try to pull in new customers.
I usually enjoyed the gig, but that was because I usually had a female partner to distract the males.
“Its summer! No one wants to be indoors! Especially if it means standing next to some old grannies with two left feet! Talking about I joined this class for the exercise!” An onlooker heckled.
I gave him a weary smile, hoping that ignoring him would be enough. The small crowd seemed to be taking their cues from me. Hopefully, that would be enough to deter this attention seeker. I was only interested in showing off my best dance skills and introducing the art to some people who may need it. I’d never admitted this out loud, but dancing could be its own form of therapy.
Originally a student of a Parisian dance school, I knew how much a high brow education could affect one’s upbringing. My parents had ensured that my brother and I went to the best schools and learned from the best institutions. Yet, I was still sympathetic to the fact that everyone was not born with those same opportunities. That was partly why I was so open to Ms. Popalowski’s suggestion to come here. My brother would have made the same decision.
Still, in all fairness to Little Beat Dance Studio, it had been a prestigious institution in its time. I’d heard about its innovation all the way in Paris. And had always made plans to catch a recital, which would always fall through because of my sometimes unfocused pleasures. Perhaps, my presence could bring back some of its former glory.
My brother would have a reason to be proud of me.
But music waited for no one.
My eyes roamed the crowd and landed on an older woman, who appeared to be in her fifties. “To prove this ain’t your mommy’s dance class would you do me the honors of dancing with me.”
The woman held up her hands and shook her head. “No, I couldn’t.”
I walked up to her. My eyes burrowing into hers like I wished to make a home. “You can do anything you put your mind too.”
I grabbed her hand and did a few flourishes before dipping her. Nothing that a woman her age would find particular taxing, but it wasn’t hard to miss how it made her feel. She was alive with dance. And in that one moment, she was young again. I stood her upright again and turned to the crowd.
“Whatever!” The man yelled, before sauntering away.
“This ain’t your mamma’s dance class. You pick out the style of dance of your choice, and the first class is free. I’m one of the teachers there, Mr. Vaughn, and I meet every Wednesday night to teach ballroom among other things. You won’t lose anything for trying. So who’s next?”
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