Last Dance with Mary Jane; Part III

Dancers' legs were monogamously clad by a particular brand of tight during my years of instruction. The era of this tight began in the late seventies, and just until recently, when a more matte finish was popularized, they reigned in every school in America and most Hooters restaurants. The tight I'm talking about is called the "Suntan Shimmer." Holla if you here me, yo.

I am wearing two pair to compress my hamstrings down, for they ache, ache ache with Mary Jane's infernal toe-heel steps and raucous spins. We do them over and over, again and again, and the girls still aren't getting it. Leah and I lead catch up classes during study hall to teach these steps, but the girls don't get it. We have danced for sixty-four straight days (Saturdays and Sundays), but the girls don't get it. Simply put: this musical is a mess.

Tonight, we are finally blocking out "A Little Hotcha," my whore song, and I am not happy about this. We've put it off so that I can get in some "vocal training" time with Lucille, who reels at my inability to hit notes. She refers to my tone quality, or lack thereof, as improving, though we both know she's just being nice. I simply can't sing. I cannot do it and the show goes on in three weeks. "Concentrate!" says Lucille, as she taps out one note and prays I can match it. I match it only a quarter of the time. I am crying on the inside.

After the "warm up," Mary Jane walks me through the scene leading up to my solo. I am to prance on stage, a seasoned chorus girl (read: whore), and teach the fresh young hoofers (not yet whores) how to play the "back door Johnny's," (whoremongers), for free drinks and other such whore currency. Mary Jane says, "Now you do a little spin, and shimmy your shoulders like this." She does a shimmy, and I try to mimic it. She says, "Jesus Christ, woman. You've got boobs. Use em." I channel my inner skank and shake my tiny tits. This is more satisfactory to Mary Jane, the mother of my best friend, an adult female choreographing teen aged kids. "Shake em!"

The scene blocks as me roaming around sluttily, staring at myself in the mirror, engaging in a lesbian tango with Hannah Becker, which I don't quite mind, and then breaking into forty counts of calf cramping spins. Later, Mary Jane says, "Now you come over here and pick up this table cloth and wave it like a matador." I hear Michelle Constantino yell from the darkness of the Reg Lennae Civic Center balcony, "NOT SEXY ENOUGH! COME ON, LADIES!"

I adjust the waist band of my Suntan Shimmer tights, for it is falling down my midsection. I do nothing but dance, and my clothes aren't fitting any longer.

I am yawning. I am an idiot. Michelle Constantino had asked "Can anyone here draw or paint?" and I had raised my hand. Upon my already lengthy list of duties was placed sole responsibility for set decoration. My day now goes as follows.

6am: Wake
7am: Paint sets
8am-Noon: Sleep in class
Lunch Hour: Paint and shove food in mouth
1-3pm: Sleep in class
3-4pm: Teach catch up tap class in auditorium
4-7pm: Paint sets
7-11pm: Rehearse

On Friday and Saturday nights, I spend the night at Leah's house, and we rehearse some more and eat popcorn made by Leah's little molten-haired sister. Mary Jane makes mango popsicles and teaches me Yiddish phrases. I am so caught up in camaraderie, I can't bear to say no to any of this extra work.

"I JUST CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE!"

Michelle Constantino is crying. This is not the first time she has cried, but it is the first time she has grabbed at her roots and flailed while weeping. Shelly Ormick is having a hard time maneuvering with her Ostrich feather fans in the platform heels. It is becoming a big problem.

"YOU'RE NOT GIVING ME ANYTHING TO WORK WITH! TEN MINUTE BREAK!"

We adjourn to the green room in the basement of the Reg Lennae and sit in silence while the stage mic picks up further weeps and transmits them throughout the theater. Betsy the prop master comes in and fits us with white silk spats, fastened with oversized black buttons for the "Shuffle off to Buffalo" number we have not yet learned. Jennie Terreberry begins to cry in the corner. "We've got to get our act together. This is bullshit. We look like crap."

There are thirty dance sequences and we know twenty of them. Of the twenty we know, two look good--the "Lullaby of Broadway" and "Go into your Dance."

Betsy snaps at me for not being able to hold my leg up so that she may measure my ankle. "I'm sorry, Betsy, I'll try." She works day and night to produce the costumes with a team of mothers, including my own mother. They sew several custom sequined leotards, silk skirts, gossamer hoop skirts, zoot suits, toy soldier uniforms, hand cut strapless floor-length dresses in gold lame, and feathery mermaid tails for the under sea number--all of it times thirty, the number of tappers in the show.

Over the stage mic, we hear the clanging of instruments in the orchestra pit.

"EVERYONE ON STAGE! WE'RE DOING A DRY RUN!"

We stand blindly, like deer in headlights, if headlights had pink and orange gels with the custom built cutouts our fancy lighting designer has produced especially for us. The orchestra pit is fully assembled and playing the intro to "42nd Street." Should the curtains be fully operable (they are not because the proscenium is tangled in Michelle Constantino's high wires), we would be obscured from the audience, like we should be. I stand front and center, the tallest of the tappers, and twenty nine other girls flank my left and right, and fill the line behind me. We are dressed in tap shorts and tees, for we are auditioning for the musical within this musical, the one Leah's character will lead with verve at the end of the show. The orchestra picks up tempo and rattles awkwardly into the build we recognize as our cue to begin. It builds, builds, builds, and while still obscured by imaginary curtain, we begin a chunk of stompy, twenties-style Time Steps in unison.

Except we are not remotely in unison. It sounds as if someone lead a herd of Buffaloes on stage and fired a gun, and none of them want to shuffle off to anyplace but a nice soft bed.

Comments

I had forgotten about Suntan Shimmer until just now. I like how you're breaking this down into multiple parts, too.

Posted by: Emmaluscious at September 16, 2006 05:54 PM

Erin -

Fantastic. This is by far the best piece of yours that I've read. Hell, I liked it so much I surrendered my email to the spam-gods to tell you my first impression: If David Sedaris were a pretty blonde, and perhaps slightly more interested in women, he would write like this.

Posted by: Ziggy-san at September 17, 2006 12:06 PM

It's not even done yet, and this is perhaps my favorite story you've written. Maybe it's because I know how it ends, or maybe it's because during my recent "purging" for goodwill I found two pair of suntan shimmer in my dresser. Who moves to three different cities with suntan shimmers in her dresser? WHO?

Posted by: TheTrixie at September 17, 2006 07:38 PM

So glad you are finding time to write again. I've missed your voice and style.

Posted by: jbs at September 17, 2006 08:42 PM

My bad, I didn't realize there was going to be more (see comment in part 1). Can't wait to see how it turns out! Love it so far. I remember my sister wearing the same 'summer shimmer' - I just didn't know that was what they were called.

Posted by: SteveinBoston at September 18, 2006 10:00 AM

What's invisible and smells like carrots?
Bunny farts.

Posted by: amphibious at September 19, 2006 10:51 AM