Chapter One
Basic Training

“All rise.”

 

After five years of building a practice on my own, I had left the soothing hue of my space, appearing to many as more of a living room than an office, but for the diplomaed walls.   I landed less than a hundred yards West, where it rests, but unless you spend your days inside, its’ walls invite fear, anxiety, and often only a faint whisper of what laymen think is justice.

 

That day, I already knew the result.  The expert had spoken eloquently on the subject less than a week prior.  This child, the boy for whom I had the honor of advocating, after two years of barely surviving an uninhabitable environment, would finally enjoy the happy, healthy, safety of his father’s home.

 

All we had to do was finalize the terms.  We came so close during our last appearance, but the clock’s cue promptly ejected us mid-negotiation.  We had two pro bono attorneys, a Magistrate and clerk willing to expand the docket, and a translator volunteering his oft-abused time.   

 

I arrived early for that next scheduled appearance, excited for my client’s new life to begin.  But my excitement for the case’s appropriate conclusion was halted briefly by the interpreter’s tardiness.  With most Court offices closed and employees headed into traffic, we struggled to find our man, or at least a replacement for perhaps the most vital part of our resolution.   

 

“Counsel,” he inquired, “how’s your Spanish?”

 

“Non-existent, I’m afraid, Your Honor,” I replied.

 

Such close calls often defined my days and those outside of our tiny, typically unimportant world that serves as the subject of endless legal jokes, barely understand the actual stressors we endure.  People who crave the dramatic interludes expressed through television justice are generally disappointed with the actuality of our cases.  It’s really not much fun, and often quite sad, in the trenches.

 

It wasn’t always this way.  In the beginning, there was intrigue, passion and ambition.  They barely taught us to breathe inside the courthouse walls and certainly not within the cubicled terror of office politics.  They taught theory.  They taught history.  And but for one clinical course, they taught us nothing of the reality of our future.

 

They did not promise excitement but excited us about the years ahead.  We feared the elusive exam, but found solace in the passive statistics of our predecessors.  They offered us assistance for addiction issues and exhaustion tendencies, predicting a fate but failing to advise us of the traumatic chaos of waking hours and of the slow burn towards daily failure.

 

I spent five years paying someone else’s bills, but appreciate all I had learned when I finally walked away.  I set myself up, and for the next five years I made my own rules, set my own schedule and invested in self.  Loneliness aside, it was an amazing part of my career.  And then I wanted more.

 

In the years prior, I had been an avid concert attendee and then a regular at the theatre.  More recently, I had become a fan of travel, new places with old friends.

 

“Perhaps it’s time to phone a friend,” the Magistrate suggested.

 

“May I step outside?” I requested permission.

 

“You are held harmless for fifteen minutes.”

 

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

 

Stepping outside the room, only one name came to mind.  I searched my phone’s directory for an attorney I’d known for many years, but one who had already done more favors than I was comfortable requesting.

 

“Hey stranger,” he answered.

 

“So glad you answered,” I breathed a sigh of relief.

 

“What’s up?” he inquired.

 

“Any chance you’re in the Courthouse?” I cringed.

 

“Office.  Why?”

 

“I’m in Circuit and need a bilingual attorney to finalize a settlement,” I informed my colleague.

 

“Spanish?” he asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Try James.”

 

“James?  Really?” I wondered why he suggested a fellow hustler I barely knew who seemed awkwardly annoyed at my presence at any Bar Association event.

 

“He opened up his own shop across from the Courthouse.  I’ll text you his cell.  Good luck,” he offered.

 

“Thanks.”

 

I awaited the contact and upon its arrival, immediately reached out to a man I had spoken with maybe twice in my career, a man who would feel like an old friend only hours later.  “You probably don’t remember me, but this is Parker.”

 

“Hey, blue dress.  How’ve you been?” he offered.

 

“Good,” I was a bit taken aback by his memory of a fashion choice from seven years ago.  “I’m in the Courthouse and need a bilingual attorney to assist with a settlement,” I held my breath.

 

“What Courtroom?”

 

“What?”

 

“Where are you?”

 

“Circuit, second floor.”

 

“Be there in two.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“De nada.”

 

A few minutes later, the elevator doors opened and a man I barely recognized appeared bundled in a heavy wool coat and scarf covering a third of his bearded face.

 

“Thank you for coming,” I thrust my hand towards him for the typical shake.  I had mastered the art of a professional’s grip that manifested with greater sturdiness than my petite frame warranted.

 

He chuckled, slapped my hand as if offering an open-handed fist bump and inquired, “where do you need me?”

 

I walked him into the Courtroom and approached the Magistrate, introduced James to the man on the bench, then approached the table at the far end of the room where the Defendant sat and introduced James to my client’s mother.  I handed him the written settlement agreement and asked, “can you please translate this document for her?”

 

“No problem,” he indicated and activated the hushing device poised in the middle of the table.

 

For approximately forty-five minutes, James translated the three-page document and answered questions while the rest of us sat patiently and waited. And then James broke the silence with  a “Bueno.”

 

“Ok,” the Defendant directed her agreement to the Magistrate.

 

“Ok,” the Magistrate responded, “let’s go on the record.”

 

The Magistrate accepted the signed agreement, proceeded to voir dire the parties, thanked counsel and removed the trial date from the Court’s docket.

 

“A special thank you to Parker and James for your pro bono assistance this evening.  Be careful out there, it’s coming down pretty hard now,” he suggested of the random snow storm that had engulfed the Courthouse.

 

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

 

The Magistrate disappeared into his Chambers and I walked James out of the Courtroom and down the hall.  The Defendant offered James a final “thank you” as we headed for the exit.

 

“I owe you a drink,” I offered.

 

“Two,” he replied.

 

“That’s fair,” I agreed.  “Let me know when you want to cash in.”

 

“How about now?”

 

I stopped, cocked my head awkwardly to the right and with an incredulous look on my face blurted, “what like now?”

 

James looked nearly as skeptical and with a frown offered, “was that a hard question?”

 

And when I didn’t promptly respond, he added, “should I try asking in Spanish?”

 

“Why now?” was all I could think to offer as I watched the snow fall outside the windows behind him.

 

“Why not?  You were just going to go back to your office, right?”

 

“True.”

 

“Let’s grab a drink instead.”

 

“Ok.”

 

We walked a block to the most accessible venue, a place where judges and fellow attorneys could be found throughout the large cocktail area.  I only slipped twice on the way and caught myself both times, only once grabbing James’ coat to stop myself from reaching full splat across the pavement.

 

“Hey there,” a petite woman offered me a hug as we crossed the threshold, “you want the usual?”

 

“Please,” I responded as I perched on the outside stool of the nearest high top table.

 

“Come here a lot?” my colleague inquired with a look of judgment.

 

“I used to,” I responded, moderately embarrassed, but recalling days in my old firm where the only other young associate and I would often decompress from rough days and rant about what we would do differently in our own firms one day.

 

“And for you?” the woman who had served me my favorite red wine of the moment on many occasions inquired of my colleague.

 

“Same,” he responded.

 

“So, you opened up your own firm?” I asked.

 

“Yes.  As did you, right?” he inquired.

 

“Yes,” I smiled recalling how much I despised small talk.

 

“And how’s it going?” he continued.

 

“Brilliant.  I’ve never been happier,” I responded.  “What about for you?”

 

“Great.  I’m happier.  Right now, I’m working on growth and expansion,” I listened to him present ideas he’d obviously been contemplating and vetting for some time.  He was smarter than I expected and challenged my well-rehearsed responses to prosaic questions.  For hours we talked business, family, friends, goals, life and everything in between, but somehow without any predisposition or recollection that we were, in fact, relative strangers.  And since I could not rely upon my go-to responses, I found myself fairly present in that conversation and seemed to be offering honest answers under his clever cross-examination.  Thankfully, at some point, my favorite restaurant employee returned and I recall James ordering us another round.  I had a chance to regroup and remind myself that I was not, in fact, on the witness stand, and that I could, in fact, hold back information from this would-be stranger.  I did not typically allow people to breach the outer confines of my personality and I often kept to the reserved and formulaic banter of my years of practice and study.

 

I had lost track of time, but upon her setting the glasses before us and offering a simple, “cheers,” James looked at his watch and indicated, “I’m going to miss my class.”

 

“Class?” I asked.  “Do you need me to get the check?”

 

“Nah,” he responded.

 

“What kind of class?” I asked.

 

“Salsa.”

 

I swallowed hard.  “You mean the dance?” I smirked, unable to hide my confusion and interest.

 

“Yes, the dance.  I take a class every Tuesday,” he confirmed.

 

“Are you any good?” was all I could think to ask.

 

“I am.  I’ve been taking classes for about nine months and yeah, I’m pretty good,” he responded.

 

Still stunned for no other reason than my own assumptions about James as gleaned by me during maybe two prior meetings of no more than ten minutes apiece, I found myself excited to talk about anything but law. “Tell me more.”

 

He regaled me with information about the best instructors, the best classes, the people, the feeling you get when mastering a sequence, the events and of course, the music.  James deemed himself a fan of the more traditional, classic music, especially when played live, and I admitted I had barely a recollection of Salsa music played by a DJ in a nightclub once when I was in college.  Understanding his skill as a lawyer, I was not surprised that within minutes, I was ready to sign up for classes.  If only I could dismiss my long-held fear of injury, or re-injury to be exact.

 

Despite the ease in conversation that evening, I was not willing to relay the intricacies of my worst experiences and perhaps childish fears that did not seem to fit the persona of a strong, fearless, independent, professional woman to a man I barely knew.  I had left the courthouse in a perfectly tailored lilac suit (having typically reserved the softer hues for times when I represented children), by my favorite designer, a designer who happened to fill James’ closet as well, but over the course of our first glass of wine, I felt my armor fading a bit.  By halfway through the second glass, I felt exposed and stealthily checked my zipper and buttons a couple of times to ensure I was covered.    

 

Perhaps it was the wine on a seriously empty stomach and with limited tolerance, or maybe that I owed him nothing other than the cocktails of which he was partaking, that we worked in the same courthouses but in different areas of law, that we weren’t financially tied to one another, or perhaps, most importantly, that we both seemed to want to desperately avoid any romantic excursions.  Or perhaps in that moment, it was the start of me not caring so much about what people think or maybe me no longer striving to accommodate, although I didn’t realize it at the time.

 

“You won’t get hurt,” he said matter-of-factly.

 

“You don’t know that,” I responded a bit sheepishly for my own taste.

 

“Yes, I do.  I’m usually right.”

 

I laughed and returned to practiced confidence, “me too.”

 

“Thanks sweetie,” my favorite cocktail waitress offered a hug as I handed her the signed credit card receipt.

 

We left the warmth of the restaurant and headed out into the nearly empty town. The snow had stopped falling and was only slush as we hiked the two blocks towards my office.

 

“So, you said you used to dance?” he asked as I tried to steady my one inch pumps on the unsalted street.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What kind of dance?”

“Just about everything,” I responded.  “Never Salsa, though,” I added after a brief pause.

 

“And you’re not bilingual?” he asked me as we walked.

 

“I am.  French,” I responded with a smile.

 

“Does that come in handy around here?”

 

“Sometimes.  Not often.” I sighed.

 

“You never took Spanish in school?”

 

“One semester in college.  It didn’t stick.”

 

“I guess it’s harder to learn new things as an adult,” he suggested, then added, “if you’re scared.”

 

I shot him a look of feigned disdain.  “Scared?”

 

“Scared.  Scary.  Fear.  You know, fear?  Like your ridiculous fear of getting hurt?”

 

“So, you think you know me now?”

 

He looked down at his phone and declined a call.  I slipped on an icy patch and although I couldn’t feel his hand through my thick, wool coat, I knew he had caught me.

 

“Look, it’s always easier to try something new and risk the fall when there’s a soft place to land.” He paused, then added, “you good?”

 

I steadied myself and yanked my coat back down to its rightful position.  “Good.”

 

“So, why not learn now?” he suggested.

 

“I’ve thought about it many times but it’s hard to practice it without someone in the office who speaks fluently.”

 

“Does everything have to come easily for you?”

 

“No,” I frowned but didn’t believe my own words.

 

“I wouldn’t have thought you were the type of person who didn’t want to work for something.  You always seemed like the type of person who didn’t like hand-outs.  How much did it kill you to make that call to me today?  To neeeeeeeeeeed someone’s help?” he exaggerated and extended such a simple, short word into such a dubious proposition.  “But, you know what, I understand,” he paused and stopped on the corner outside my building.  “How about we help each other?  Even trade.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I’ll help you with Spanish, you help me with dance.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You’ve been going to classes for nine months and I haven’t danced in more than nine years.”

 

“So.”

 

“So, what makes you think I can help?”

 

“I don’t know, but as you’ve already discovered, I’m usually right,” he turned and began walking the remaining block to his office.  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he shouted over his shoulder without turning around.

 

“Thank you for the help today,” I said as he kept walking.

 

He turned, “thank you for the drinks.” He turned again and proceeded down the block.

 

A week later, I received the call.  The timing made me immediately elated because I was so used to telling friends, and sometimes even family, that I’d be available at a specific time and inevitably work got in the way.  I felt like maybe he too suffered the same litigator’s plight of unintended broken promises.  It was a little after 5:00 p.m. the following Wednesday.

 

“How much longer are in you in the office?” he asked.

 

“Two hours-ish,” I responded.

 

“Can you meet me at the gym at 7:00?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Ok.  I’ll leave your name at the front desk as a guest, in case you arrive before me.”  I would later learn that I would nearly always arrive before him, except the one time the Court called me on my way to meet him for lunch.

 

And with that, our first lesson was scheduled.  It wasn’t until I left my office and was walking the two blocks to the gym that I realized I had absolutely no idea how I would assist James, the guy who had been taking classes for months, with an activity I hadn’t enjoyed in years.  I also realized that I had never actually agreed to the deal.  He really was a good attorney and I felt as if my years of education and training were replaced by the seventh-grade girl version of me.  But he was right about me.  I had taken it easy on myself, hadn’t pushed myself, hadn’t enjoyed a challenge in years and inside of one conversation, he had defined me, disregarded his own definition, and incited me for something better.  I had left my suit behind in favor of work out gear and found comfort in one of the four pairs of sneakers in my vehicle’s trunk.

 

The gym was a little crowded when we arrived.  I even saw a few colleagues and one security guard from my office building.  This was a bad idea.  I compartmentalized my work life and personal life and rarely let the two worlds collide.  We should’ve left town.  What would people think if they saw us?  I wondered if James was worried about being seen.  I wondered if he wanted to be seen.  I didn’t really know him at all.

 

He reserved a studio space, a spot where yoga classes were typically held, and when I arrived and filled out the liability waiver so the gym could protect itself from any potential lawsuit, he directed me to the second floor.  Upon entering the room and dropping my bag to the floor, I immediately found my hand at home on the barre.  I slid my fingers across it before dropping to the floor to stretch.

 

“I doubt we’re going to need all of that,” James suggested.

 

“Trying to prevent injury, remember?” I responded.  “So, what, exactly, do you think I can help you with?”

 

“It’s not the steps.  I’ve got the steps.  But the instructor keeps talking about feeling the music.  I don’t think I know what he means.”

 

“Hmmm. Musicality maybe?” I suggested.  “Can you play some of the music you practice to?”

 

“Sure,” he played with his phone a few moments and then what sounded like a version of big band music I had heard as a child, except with lyrics in Spanish, blasted across the room.

 

I stood up, faced the mirror, closed my eyes, and felt myself begin to move.   I could hear James singing the lyrics in a perfect accent in the background.

 

“That!” he shouted across the room.  “That’s what he meant.  You look like you’re enjoying the music.”

 

“I am,” I smiled.

 

“Well, how do you do that?”

 

“Stand before the mirror.  Close your eyes.  And listen.”

 

He followed my instructions and after a moment, opened one eye, “nothing’s happening.”

 

“Relax and listen.”

 

He sighed, closed his eye, and tried again.  He let out a frustrated groan or roar, some sound I’d never heard before and yet understood it as exasperation.  “Got any other ideas?”

 

“Is there a basic step?” I asked.

 

“Yes, let me show you.” He listened to the music, then I could tell he was counting a few beats, and then he proceeded to step nearly in place with his right foot, then forward with his left, then he placed his left back near his right, then stepped back with his right foot, then returned his right foot next to his left.

 

“One more time,” I requested.

 

“Sure.”

“Actually, just keep doing it.”

 

I watched as he performed the basic step a few times, then I joined in.

 

“You have to pause a bit before the right foot steps back,” he instructed.

 

“Ok.” I kept trying.

 

“Two.  Six.  Two. Six,” he counted.

 

“Ah, ok.”

 

“How did you just pick that up?” he asked with an air of mild frustration.

 

“I danced throughout my childhood.  I never had trouble picking things up.”

 

“Well, ok, that’s not fair.”

 

“So, what comes after basic?”

 

“Well, I can show you some sequences, but I’m more concerned about the part that I’m missing.”

 

“Are you counting the music?”

 

“Yes, you have to until you get used to it.”

​

“Maybe stop worrying about that counting and just dance.”

 

“Just dance?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Show me.”

 

“Can we change the music?” I inquired.

 

“How is that going to help?”

 

“It’ll help me show you.  What can you free dance to?”

 

“Ain’t nobody got time for that,” another new tone enveloped his vocal chords.

 

“Ok.  What did you listen to in high school?”

 

“Really?”

​

“Do you have any Go-Go music?”

 

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?” he blurted.

 

Recalling that my favorite pastime may just be when they don’t see me coming, an unplanned yet coy smile ever so slightly parted my lips.  “Let me guess what you’re thinking right now.  Had we matriculated together, we would’ve been friends in high school.”

 

“Not if you used words like ‘matriculated,’” he scoffed.

 

He looked at me, looked at his phone and the next song that permeated the room provided an immediate nostalgic fix.  In those odd initial moments in the studio, I didn’t feel like I was getting to know James, I felt like I was reminding myself of me.  It was a strange and addictive feeling.

 

“Okay.  Do you feel the beat?”

 

“Feel?” he rolled his eyes.

 

“Yes, feel.  I think that is what your instructor is talking about.  Feel the beat and move.”

 

“You move,” he commanded almost angrily.

 

Recalling that despite our seemingly fast friendship, we were in fact mere acquaintances, I figured it would be easier to stand in front of him so he could follow and wouldn’t worry about me seeing his movements.  After a few moments, reminded of my nights out with my best friend in high school, I forgot he was watching.

 

“How do you do that?” he yanked me back to present reality.

 

“Do what?” I turned and kept dancing.

 

“Move like that?” he looked down at my hips.

 

“Oh,” I smiled.  “That,” I kept dancing.  “I don’t actually know,” I offered honestly.  “I just feel it.”

 

“Not this feel it stuff again,” his annoyance was growing.

 

“Okay.  Move your hips.  Follow the rhythm of the music.”

 

“Well, if I knew how to do that…” his voice trailed off.

 

“I think you just need to let go and try.  Nobody is watching.  We’re the only ones in here.  Just go with it.  Failure isn’t failure.  It’s just an opportunity to succeed.”

 

“Wow! Really?!?” he placed his hands on his hips and looked at me like I was the last person with whom he wanted to spend any amount of time.  There was no chance this would work.

 

And then, for no reason at all, it did.  He did.  No hesitation.  No self-consciousness.  No fear.  And I was a bit jealous, actually.

 

We shuffled some music and let it stream while continuing to dance around the studio.  I went back to the basic steps in the mirror and he mimicked.  He taught me a few more steps and I taught him a few not-nearly-Salsa moves before we decided to quit for the night.  It was clear that while I had some natural inclination, James was a worker.  He persevered.  He was brave.  I wanted to be brave.

 

“You hungry?” he asked changing his shoes.

 

“Sure.”

“Let’s go.” His car was parked right outside the gym while mine sat blocks away.  His offer to drive made sense but, despite my honesty during our conversations over cocktails the week prior about injury, I had not fessed up to my, at times, paralyzing fear of riding with anyone.  That fear stemmed not so directly from the injury itself.

 

As seen on an MRI, it was my thoracic spine, T-six through eight to be exact, that plagued my otherwise healthy body.  The pain was manageable.  Rather, it was the rare and debilitating side effect of the injury that caused a year off of school and more than two years of physical therapy:  chronic, constant, persistent, seemingly incurable, and certainly obnoxious, nausea.  Twenty-four hours a day.  Seven days at a week.  For three years.

 

My worry about re-injury had very little to do with pain and very much to do with the theft of a normal, daily routine as I saw it.  I had survived long commutes to and from law school, Bar Exam preparation courses, the Bar Exam itself, and offices where I worked once becoming an attorney, often having to stop multiple times during the commute to steady myself, or waiting for the heavy traffic hours to pass to achieve a shorter commute.  Calling it a form of motion sickness does not do it justice.   Those were the worst times of my life.  I was imprisoned inside a body that was terrorizing me daily.  I kept a bag with me at all times, and a second bag filled with all of the crutches I had learned could get me through a given day:  Ginger Ale, Saltines and two prescriptions typically given to women in their first trimester.  I took no chances, over-planned for all potentialities and never accepted a ride from a-n-y-o-n-e.  My family and friends knew that no matter the occasion, I was the only designated driver and nobody even took a step out of line with the passenger side of my vehicle.

 

James was offering to drive us less than three miles to the only restaurant in the area still serving real food, a place I had been many times for lunch as it was a go-to site for my old boss to reveal bad news.  I opened the door, got in, put my bag on the floor of the front seat, buckled up, took an inaudible deep breath and said nothing.

 

He talked incessantly, the perfect distraction, and I was elated by his stellar and speedy handling of the brief commute.  Once inside the bar area of the restaurant, we each ran into at least two acquaintances before finding a booth and ordering drinks.  I rarely socialized near the office in those days, gotta love those compartments, but I wanted to celebrate the multiple triumphs that evening had already bestowed upon me.  That night, I wasn’t worried that any of the other patrons would confuse James and I with anything other than an odd pairing of friends.  Anyone overhearing our discussions, especially the stark disagreements and bickering, may have thought siblings.

 

The last time I recalled forming such an easy friendship was the second week of my third year of law school in a course known as ‘Writing for Publication.’ I had missed the first class in favor of sitting second chair at a medical malpractice trial and was sure that when I walked into class during the second week, I would be the odd one out.  There were only twelve students in the class and since it only met once a week, I was already incredibly behind.  I recall almost tip-toeing in quietly and surveying the seats, not wanting to take anyone’s reserved spot.  Law students are a bit psychotic and territorial.  There were a few strained looks in my direction and I could not tell the twenty-seven-year-old professor from my fellow students.  But then a gentleman turned around and said, “you’re the one I’ve been waiting for.  I saved this seat for you.”

 

“Thank you,” I sat down beside him confused.  “Have we met?”

 

“No.  But I met all of these other people last week and after that failed experiment, I knew the one that missed class must be my people.”

 

I laughed.  He laughed.  And we’ve been close friends ever since, despite his bicoastal move upon graduation.  His name was Christian and he made friendship look so easy.   Our unscheduled, seven-hour, non-date celebration of writer’s block during final exam week provided the perfect collective inspiration.  Despite our fellow students’ and the even the professor’s distaste for our chosen topics, lack of understanding for our passionate prose and bending of all legal and literary rules, Christian and I were the only students published that year.  We spent each weekend thereafter enjoying Clarendon and the surrounding area near his apartment and, although I couldn’t know it at the time, my months of dedicated friendship with Christian provided a perfect geographic knowledge base for my later excursions in dance.  Christian helped me fear less.

 

James was a bit different.  Something about his friendship made me fearless.  Accepting a ride that night was not the only time I would dive headfirst into situations, experiences and opportunities that previously seemed daunting and, if I had trusted that practitioner who first diagnosed my injury, unfathomable.

 

James ordered at least six different items before he turned to me and asked, “anything else?” I did have to admit to the seafood allergy and although that prevented me from enjoying two of his chosen items, there was enough food to feed four.  After I assured him that no Epi-pen was necessary and that I would not die if the calamari remained on the table, we talked and ate for hours.  When he dropped me off at my office parking garage, it was after midnight.

 

“Do people call you Jimmy?” I asked exiting his car.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can I call you Jimmy?”

 

“No.”

 

And that is how the night ended.  I could not recall the last time I had such a spontaneous and satisfying evening, and of course, I assumed it was an anomaly.  I had learned new steps.  I had taken steps beyond what my condemned self thought possible.  I had begun to awaken from dreamless sleep, and there was so much more to come.

 

Two and half weeks later, on an extremely cold Saturday evening, I once again hitched a ride from James to attend my first Salsa social.  Twelve-mile commute – progress.  In fact, my only fear in the day before the event, because that is how much notice he gave me, was determining the appropriate attire.  I was extremely outside of my comfort zone and despite research across social media (the only viable sites to address these fashion questions), nothing felt right.  My choice, a dress found in the not often used side of my closet, in a not at all subtle shade of hot pink, by my favorite designer, of course, would later prove inconsistent with the attire of just about everyone else at the event.  Not to mention, I was freezing.  I never really learned how to dress appropriately for the weather of these events, later opting to leave the coat or jacket in the car and brave leaving the sauna-like environment of the dancefloor into the early morning, chilled hours of various parking lots for the commute home.

 

It was a warehouse in a neighborhood I’d never been.  Despite growing up in the area, I had lived a somewhat sheltered existence, or so James had once said.  I honestly did not know such places existed.  I was completely at home in the intimidating courtrooms across Maryland and the District of Columbia, but walking into this scene made my blood pressure spike and my knees shake like my chattering teeth.

 

A quick cover payment at the door with small bag in hand, carrying the shoes I’d found packed away in a box that although I hadn’t used since teenaged years, somehow still fit a little loose.  Overwhelmed and excited, I stopped in the hallway to change my shoes before the beginner class started.  I found James chatting with the instructor when I entered the large ballroom-looking space, DJ in the corner, a few strangers awaiting the start to class.  The hosts of such events were smart to offer a free class before the social dancing began, an attempt to entice more people to join in the fun in a more meaningful way.  That class gave me confidence and I noticed James’ looks as I once again easily picked up the basic steps.

 

It was my first time partnering, as even James and I had not ventured into that arena.  I flinched when my first partner’s hand met my spine and that strong grip upon which my handshakes were based forced him to wiggle his fingers until I loosened up a bit.  With the mastery of each sequence, after a few attempts, the instructor ordered us to switch partners, just as I found a bit of comfort.  When I reached James, it was awkward to say the least.  My hand had gotten soft, my frame weak and my attempts to peer over his shoulder at the instructor, caused us to lose our collective balance.  James was annoyed and I was embarrassed.  Dancing with strangers was somehow easier than dancing with someone you know, or at least know a little.  I was relieved when ordered to once again switch after only a few minutes with my friend as partner.

 

An hour later, I was ready to enjoy the social and ready to practice more of what I had just learned.  Sadly, I was an hour or so early.  While the beginner class had concluded, another advanced, footwork workshop was starting and the social would not ‘really’ start until ten o’clock at the earliest.  With time to spare, and to avoid practicing with each other, James suggested I try the higher-level class.  I think he knew that while he could keep up, having been instructed by this award-winning dancer many times before, I’d be out of my league.  He was right and I caught a smile and near laughter at my consistent failures during that hour.  Failed miserably, yes, but I tried.  Another quick break as the music began to play and the lights lowered in the room, and I left James on the dancefloor with his choice of partners.

 

“Have I seen you here before?” the man inquired.

 

Turning to face the voice, I smiled, “I don’t think so.  This is my first time.”

 

“I can tell,” he offered a reciprocal smile.  “Don’t worry.  You’ll feel like a pro in no time.”

 

“I doubt that.”

 

“Well, even if you don’t, it’s about having fun.  Come on, I’ll show you,” he did not wait for my response, instead just took my hand and walked me to the middle of the room.  “A little lower on my shoulder,” he instructed, “follow my lead.”

 

I do not remember the music that was playing.  I recall feeling unsteady, awkward, unprepared and generally absent during the dance.  And then he started advising me in advance of his next steps.  I struggled to follow at first and then my mind started picking up on the cues.  Synapses began firing in rapid succession and by the end of the second song, I had forgotten the fear, or at least I’d been distracted enough not to consider the fear for a few moments.  It wasn’t a good dance for him, but for me, it was a perfect warm-up, getting me out of my head and allowing me to overcome all of the simultaneous newness of the evening.  These warm-up dances were similar to the first two minutes of an oral argument.  I always started off too fast, struggled to catch excited breath and once I got in the groove, it all slowed down to stellar confidence in argument and tone.  I would use warm-up dances to clear out the anxiety, fear and cobwebs, I would purpose to mess around during these warm-ups with no rules, no intention, only half-way paying attention to my partner.  Dear leads, I am so sorry.    

 

“What is your name?” he asked.

 

“Parker,” I responded.

 

He led me in a spin, one time around under his steady hand, and offered, “thank you for the dance, Parker.  Have fun tonight.”

“Thank you,” I nearly curtseyed.

 

“Hey, look at you,” James smiled as he found me on the dancefloor.

 

“That bad, huh?” I cringed.

 

“Do you know who you were dancing with?”

 

“No.  He never said his name.”

 

“That’s the man.  That’s the host.  That’s the guy who started this event.  That’s the guy who brought Salsa to the DMV.  I mean-“

 

“Really?” I looked around to see where the man had gone.

 

“It’s all downhill after that,” he indicated offering a hand.  “Let’s see what you can do.”

 

Over the course of the evening, we completed a few steps together successfully, but failed more of the time.  James tried a few things out that he had yet to master and could fault my inexperience for the lack of successful completion of a sequence.  I tried on a few partners over the next couple of hours and began noticing the different lead styles.  James noticed too.  Some of the tricks he attempted with me, other leads successfully completed.  Maybe it wasn’t just me.  Maybe different leads could prompt different results.  But just as I achieved a modicum of comfort, I was once again thrown into novice territory.

 

“Would you like to dance,” a kind-looking gentleman asked.  I had seen him on the dancefloor and was incredibly intimidated by his capacity.  I nodded and took his hand.

 

As he found the spot he wanted on the dancefloor, thankfully far from where James could watch, he placed my hand on his shoulder and began to step.

 

“On1 or 2?” he asked.

 

“What?” I responded.

 

“Are you On1 or 2?” he repeated.

 

“There’s more than one kind of Salsa?”

 

He laughed, “no worries.”

 

He preferred On1 but recognized my beginner movements On2 and accommodated.  He was kind, generous and forgiving.  And it ended up as my best dance of the evening.  I thanked him for the dance, made sure my photographic memory had secured the dance in my mental vault, found James, and we changed our shoes before exiting the ballroom area.

 

“I hope to see you again, Parker,” a man’s voice called from near the entrance to the warehouse.

 

I took a couple of steps back towards the door and smiled, “thank you for the dances.  I’ll be back.” And I was, two weeks later, and two weeks after that, and a week after that at a different location, and another two weeks later, at times catching that easy ride with James, but more often, completely on my own.  And the host always remembered my name.  He always remembered everyone’s name.

 

And James and I figured out our partnering problem, before my second social event, over lunch a couple of blocks from our offices.

 

“You were trying not to hurt me, weren’t you?” I had asked.  Before he could respond, I added, “none of the other leads that night knew about my injury.”  He didn’t need to respond, but he never again considered my alleged fragility in his lead.

 

And I never again took the beginner’s class at that event, nor the advanced footwork from any of the guest instructors at the scene.  I just showed up, usually after ten o’clock, and danced.  I was beginning to become accustomed to the partnering aspect of the dance, more precisely, the touching.  My aching spine no longer reacted to their hands and a few times, I even felt closer to partners than my walls had allowed in so many years.  I had not yet learned about connection or the intimacy in dance that allowed for a truly wonderful experience beyond the mastered steps and sequences.

 

I recalled that first lesson with James, believing we had somehow effectively taught each other, but I knew it was time for real instructor.  I couldn’t just rely on the steps James had given me, nor the sequences I had picked up from multiple leads.  I knew how to study.  I knew how to practice.  I knew how to let myself enjoy the music.  But I wanted the whole experience and I wanted to be able to do more.  I just needed to remember the name of that teacher James described as the best in the area.

 

“Bennett,” James reminded me.  “Find and then follow him on social media and you’ll see all of the classes.  Or better yet, why not just join me for a class?”

 

“I’m in.”

 

Time to meet the Instructor.