Five Dances
Fred Shaw
Rock Around the Clock
I remember being a kid, sitting Indian-style, as my folks swell the living-room of this aging house with swing-dance, our shiny coffee table, topped with a Lucite grape cluster, slid to the side. A well-worn Bill Haley and His Comets album pleads from the speakers with each spin. Beneath the orange shag carpet, floorboards flex as the duo loses themselves to the moment, eyes closed. Second-guessing a next move, they begin to look out of practice. Our old hound bays and nips, wanting to cut in. Trying again, it鈥檚 a distant version of themselves they鈥檙e pursuing as they angle their limbs, just so, like on those nights after they鈥檇 first met in the Air Force. Partners in rhythm, Dad slides and dips Mom before passing on point for the turn. That they鈥檒l fall out of step and end breathless near the end of the song is the cue for when I should鈥檝e clapped. I could watch this every night.
In twenty-five years, Dad will pass too young. Mom will keep propped against her basement window the door prize they won in a Bicentennial dance-off at the Elks Club. I can eye it from the yard, that tin vanity plate remaining sealed in shrink wrap. In the spirit of the 鈥70鈥檚 it reads Pittsburgh: Someplace Special, a red, white, and blue rainbow touching down on the city鈥檚 Golden Triangle in the kindest of ways. For Mom, it reminds her to remember Dad for being light on his toes. When she shares another story, I can almost see her thinking of how their fingers wove together on the dancefloor, the sounds of a band playing a bubbly 鈥淢oon River鈥 propelling them to move as one. That she鈥檒l never date after his death, makes me think of the flora planted on her small property as a stand-in for their life that once flourished together. Strolling the borders of her lawn, I notice a few plastic bags of compost exhaling steam in the early sun. A nest of sparrows鈥 twitter, while the beebalm, gooseneck and honeysuckle hop with the agile feet of pollinators, looking for food, mates, and a place to shelter.
Turkey in the Straw
It鈥檚 a reel we鈥檙e practicing while fiddles squeal from the old vinyl, Zip Wilson鈥檚 comforting twang guiding our moves through the language of square-dance just before I accidentally Judo-flip my partner in 3rd grade gym class. We had been at it for weeks, a portable record player grinding through 45鈥檚 of the Modoc Maniacs or Slim Jackson and The Promenaders. Maybe, it was too much do-si-do and right-hand star, cramming so much harmony into our small corner of the gym, where the bleachers folded and the blazing sodium lamps that hung from the rafters kept buzzing above the basketball court鈥檚 gleaming waxed wood. The girl鈥檚 hands were sweaty, and even Ms. Gardner, with her whistle at the ready, didn鈥檛 punish me over the tumble, as if it were well-deserved for a 9-year old child wanting to twirl like a dervish.
By 9th grade, that girl, a member of the marching band, will thank me after I blast her bully in the nose twice. It鈥檚 a year when I鈥檒l begin to sway with the few neighborhood girls I know in that same gym after football games, at Sadie Hawkins and Homecoming, my size twelve shoes barely moving to the slow jams. I am thankful to be so close. I am terrified anything upbeat will expose me for being heavy-footed and ungainly. It鈥檒l be a few years before I manage to get my first kiss. Even longer for me to learn that laughter, music and dance are what make us uniquely human.
Stick-Em
It took me until just now to realize, that with my puny pre-teen physique, I embodied the insult pencil-necked geek that wrestling manager, 鈥淐lassy鈥 Freddie Blassie, would spit at all-comers before Saturday鈥檚 televised matches. That鈥檚 me, perched in Dad鈥檚 recliner, waiting for the wrestling to begin, stoked to see 鈥淪uperfly鈥 Jimmy Snuka bound from the ring鈥檚 top rope, pinning another opponent into unconsciousness. Dad was right when he called the losers cannon-fodder. Watching these choreographed battles became an unspoken rite of masculinity among my peers. We鈥檇 mimic the moves often. On the screen of our walnut brown Zenith which Mom dusts each week, Soul Train would be finishing up. As the credits begin to roll, Don Cornelius is wishing the audience peace, love and soul. The camera pans through the mostly brown-skinned crowd, lingering on women in high heels and Afro鈥檚, the men, bearing their chest in striped-shirts, gheri-curled, and high-stepping a groove. Those tunes sounded bolder yet more graceful than any of the guitar-rock bleeding from older boys鈥 headphones I hear most days on the school bus. To those dudes, dancing was thought of as what chicks did. And while they never seemed to get dates themselves, the fear of being thought feminine by anyone I knew was a conflict I鈥檇 struggle to resolve with myself.
When breaking broke, it was presented in pop culture as fad, rather than a pillar of the new art form that was hip-hop. I first learned about it in what-was then a new rag, USA Today. Soon, I鈥檇 be sneaking into the movies to see Beat Street before enrolling in a 鈥淏asics of Breakdancing鈥 class in the mirrored studio at the local YWCA. The B-boy who taught it was a high school dropout. He looked like he could suit-up to play in the NFL, his body a bulge of muscle as he walked our group through some of the easier moves, 鈥淭op rock,鈥 and 鈥6-Step.鈥 Like the others, I had little patience or focus, only wanting to learn flashier stunts I鈥檇 seen on screen, though one kid managed to figure out the undulant 鈥淐aterpillar.鈥 The best part of the hour-long class was the B-Boy鈥檚 boom-box blasting the beatboxing Fat Boys, mesmerizing me with Prince Markie Dee鈥檚 Brrr, Stick 鈥檈m! rapped as refrain. Finally, tired of our lame sense of rhythm and lack of upper-body strength, the teacher would go through his moves like we were in a 鈥渂attle,鈥 popping and rocking to rounded beats, his footwork ending with a 鈥渨indmill鈥 and a 鈥渇reeze.鈥 I lasted two weeks, though finding myself entranced by watching him work up close made it worth embarrassing myself to admit that I鈥檇 ever signed-up.
Planet Rock
In the living room of her boyfriend鈥檚 house, she鈥檚 charming me with that smile, this girl I鈥檝e just met, who I鈥檒l one day marry. Neither of us knew then that, in a few weeks, an underground rave would be our first date, where a thousand heads would be swimming with a bevy of chemical compounds. That night, she sat on my lap at the edge of the strobes where everything felt both sped up and slowed down. In that warehouse, I can feel the bass pounding my belly, the distinct face of William S. Burroughs projected onto a screen, superimposed atop a flapping American flag. A regiment of baggy-jeaned dancers boogie to a breakbeat or channel a twirling hippy caper beneath the lasers bouncing off walls. One raver brought orange-coned flashlights as a prop, waving some unseen plane in for an hours-long landing. Another looked like a switchboard operator plugging in to so much weirdness. Between the music鈥檚 uncoiling, unstoppable energy and watching the crowd move as both separate but one, was to wrap myself in the pulsing beat conducted by another turntable hero. Too self-conscious to dance much, I was happy to listen and watch it all unfold from my place against the wall. Yet that scene, edgy and new at that age, would come to define so many in my orbit, a relic now looked upon wistfully when we sometimes cross paths with those who were there, as if we were survivors of the friendships and fun that followed.
I was the one who found it in the back of the Pitt News, and was the only name signed to the lease. 133 Chesterfield Road became ground zero for those in the know. It was a duplex among duplicate homes, all of them stacked along a lumpy brick road steep as a ski jump, its gutters filled with litter. The tiny front yards were a clutter of broken furniture, tireless bikes, and weathered toys. In our house, no one ever went barefoot on muddied and chilly hardwood floors. The front room was a mishmash of chairs, full ashtrays and 40-ounce bottles of malt. Drunk and high, we laughed and shouted above even louder turntable bass being spit from vinyl grooves, the DJ鈥檚 always practicing their scratching or making mixtapes. Party people Party people Can y鈥檃ll get funky? Afrika Bambaataa鈥檚 song became our anthem. The utilities were never paid, and the rent was always late. This madness stuck on repeat at all hours for every day of that year. Our immigrant neighbors hated us. The gang bangers thought we were nuts. Flashing red lights regularly crawled by our door, never stopping. Only when gunshots rang out nearby, did the dancing and music stop, and by then, we knew it was time to get down low.
You鈥檙e All I Need to Get By
Restless after another busy dinner shift of waiting tables at TGIFriday鈥檚 that kept us hustling well past midnight, we鈥檙e lounging in our living room by the light of the TV. Nearing sunrise, I find myself compelled by some sudden urge deep inside me to ask that brown-haired girl who鈥檚 been by my side for so long to marry me. I have no ring and no plan. I鈥檓 as surprised by my words as she is. We set the date to make it almost ten years since that first party which marks our beginning. On that late summer day, we鈥檒l both say 鈥淚 do鈥 to every vow we agreed upon. After the outdoor ceremony, we arrive at the reception hall which smells of roast beef and baked ziti. On the tables and mantles burns hundreds of pillar candles she鈥檚 poured by hand. By then, we鈥檇 lost touch with our Chesterfield crew and the DJ we hired will play 鈥淭he Electric Slide鈥 and 鈥淲e Are Family鈥 instead of the funky deep house set we once imagined it鈥檇 be. Also, we鈥檒l be compelled to perform our newlywed couple dance in front of a few hundred friends and family. Luckily, a bridesmaid teaches at Arthur Murray and agrees to help. In the weeks leading up to the big day, after a few vodka and tonics, we鈥檒l be shown the basics of a waltz鈥檚 box step. Forward-side-together, then backwards-side-together. Those nights of practice, we find our feet move well on the kitchen tile though we seem to wrestle with who gets to lead. When the moment arrives and the spotlight finally shines on us, I hold my new bride firm around the waist, the fingers of our free hand interlaced. We stumble a few times with our timing, but most wouldn鈥檛 know otherwise as we look deep into the other鈥檚 eyes, share an inside joke and smile while Marvin and Tammi sing, I know you can make a man out of a soul that didn鈥檛 have a goal / Cause we, we got the right foundation.
For our wax anniversary, we鈥檒l find ourselves hopped on espresso in a Brooklyn warehouse at 3AM, a favorite DJ, Mark Farina, spinning a jazzy set to wind down the night. The crowd is half our age, vaping and whooping it up as they pogo, shimmy and twirl to the old school tracks we know by heart. Finishing our last drink, she pulls me out near the stage where we find our space, each of us clapping to the beat, my feet finding the memory of those steps I once learned next to my refrigerator, the nearby crowd giving us a full-throated cheer. None of us knows that in a few months, all of this will change. Live music and gatherings will be ruled off limits, the news of underground dance parties being busted will have me cheering for the rebellious impulse to dance. It鈥檒l also sadden me to feel torn over this recklessness I once would鈥檝e been down with. And so, these days, we find what nourishes us in the streaming sounds of hours long sets once spun at parties that ended years ago. It allows me to remember being a kid in my parent鈥檚 kitchen, Mom making dinner while Dad drinks a beer. We鈥檙e listening to golden oldies on 3WS when Dad recalls a high school sock hop and Mom tells of the time her father rolled up their living room carpet to teach her a few Zydeco steps. Meanwhile, I鈥檓 keeping time on the countertop to 鈥淪hake, Rattle and Roll,鈥 tapping away to a rhythm I hear like a pair of open, welcoming arms. This is my first lesson: that when the music calls, it鈥檚 impossible to turn away.
Fred Shaw was named Emerging Poet Laureate Finalist for Allegheny County in 2020. He is a graduate of the University of Pittsburgh, and Carlow University, where he received his MFA. He teaches writing and literature at Point Park University and Carlow University. His first collection. Scraping Away, was recently published by CavanKerry Press. A book reviewer and Poetry Editor for Pittsburgh Quarterly, his poem, 鈥淎rgot,鈥 is featured in the 2018 full-length documentary, Eating & Working & Eating & Working. The film focuses on the lives of local service-industry workers. His poem 鈥淪craping Away鈥 was selected for the PA Public Poetry Project in 2017. He lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and rescued hound dogs.