Raw Material

Dance is a love language, for others and self - Short Story - Rated PG

I love watching Joe dance.

When Joe dances, you can tell his dad liked Roxy Music. Joe’s punk band adolescence is less obvious. His rhythmic roots run deeper than teenage influence.

His shoulders move, but it isn’t just his shoulders, it’s the whole chunk of his torso, controlled from his waist. Sometimes it shifts side to side, and sometimes it rocks front to back - not unlike a standing crunch. It’s a one - two, one - two, movement. Sometimes it’s march-like, with a lot of knee. But unlike marchers, his chin is usually down. When Joe dances, when he really dances, he loses sight of what’s around him.

He, like me, feels something through a song. It’s moving him, he’s not moving to it. But he, unlike me, hasn’t practiced parlaying that movement into something resembling a skill. Joe is raw material.

On Father’s Day, after England scored once against Serbia and I’d had three Negroni Sbagliatos in a pub wannabe on Court Street, the four of us - me, Joe, and our little ones - danced in our apartment. Joe connected Amyl and the Sniffers to the Bose speaker I’d gotten four bosses ago. ‘U SHOULD NOT BE DOING THAT’ at ¾ of max volume.

I moved in a figure eight, my shoulders opposing my hips. My head swayed side to side. Henry jumped and bopped and stomped across the entire living space. Louis crawled over to the speaker, climbed up near the bass and bounced his bottom. Joe, post-queing up the tracks of our post game party, lost himself in motion.

I watched him. Doing my thing. Nearby him, doing his thing. 

I reached out an open hand while I swayed. He stepped away from his thing and took my hand. He embraced me with his latent twist. He didn’t stare into my eyes. His face still looked off. But his soft chuckle let me know he felt what I was feeling. And when he did look my way, and saw the water balanced on my lower eyelids, he said “you cute one,”’ with no element of surprise on either side.

Joe picked up Louis who galloped his body - legs kicking and shoulder thrashing. Gum flashed. Joe revealed his toothy grin in return. Their joyful faces feed off each other. Smiles, smiles, then laughs, cackles.

On my own again, I realized my movements mirrored Joe’s. Untouching, but still connected. 

I’m a sponge to my lovers’ dance language. Years of being taught how to move by someone else, makes you subconsciously pick up steps from those you’re watching. And I am watching. Studying him. Admiring.

The further I get from my youth the more my dance moves look like a conglomerate of all the people I’ve loved. I could feel people I’d not seen in years coming through my necks’ response to the music. This means I dance worse as time passes. Within one track, my long limbs mimic memories spanning decades. Elton John never sang an ode to Frankenstein Dancer. I wondered if that’s what happens to everyone. People’s dance move libraries are an accumulation of gifted steps from past lovers. Dated dates. Dated moves. Except that theory is proven false by Joe. He’s an exception to many rules. Roxy Music’s relevance notwithstanding.

Our first love is our parents. Joe’s moves haven’t been added to since then. He never stops to watch when he’s moving. Joe’s never someone else. 

Henry’s an eight count dancer, like me. He’s an untaught gem, like his dad. From my perspective, all his moves are his own, but maybe his last love will see him more clearly. Henry freestyles and it looks like choreography. He moves with his entire body. Pointed fingers, scowling faces, spinal hunches, shuffles, and leaps. Henry has learned to pose as the music finishes. He got that from me. Finish strong, keep your chin up, let the audience applaud. That’s what I was taught. He has the bug for performance already. Some of us like to be seen. Recognized for our work. 

You should not be doing that is one response to being seen. Some hometown Aussies seem to have told Amyl she shouldn’t be dancing on the bar in Tokyo. I’ve been advised the same. Google Docs is suggesting “on the bar” is a typo (“did you mean ‘in the bar’?”). The authorities of culture have spoken, and I’m in dissent. I’ve never been afraid to climb up onto a table. I don’t consider that a problem. What is a problem is that I listen when requested to step back. The haters got me down more times than I’d care to admit. That’s the thing about watching others - when I follow the moves of those I love, the muscle of remaining myself isn’t as strong when tested against those I’d rather not be moved by. 

None of us were in sync with each other.  The four of us; a crew of motley movers. The Amyl song climaxed and took me somewhere new - I shook so hard, I vibrated. Henry watched me suspiciously. His eyes were squinted. I laughed. Raised my chin and kept doing my thing. Eyes closed. Dance like you’re not watching. Louis clambered over and climbed up my shins. I modified my movements to upper body only - for his stability. Henry grabbed one of Lou’s hands, and one of mine. Joe scrunched his shoulders, raised his fists to his chest, and stiffly dodged jabs. His feet took small offbeat steps.

After the dance party, we collapsed on the living room rug where, eight months ago, Lou was born. Hen on Joe, Lou on me, and me partially on Joe. A mess of personalities, intermingled. We’re all tired. Out of breath. 

I said, “Hey, I love you guys.”

Henry said, “I love youuuu.”

The next day I explained to Joe my fear of listening to the ‘you should not be doing thats.’ I asked how he remains himself. He joked about men’s social ambivalence. Then said, “you have to decide if you love yourself enough to deal with the consequences of being yourself.” I looked ahead. It made sense. 

Who really knows who babies love first? It could be themselves. Raw material.