“Did I Come to the Right Party?” © John Engstrom
What Counts
The mirrored ball shone on empty couches, empty barstools, and an empty dance floor. That was the point, though. I’d finally found the courage to ask Robert to teach me to dance, and Monday nights were quiet.
It was 1980, and discos’ garish vulgarity sparkled and seduced. The boys strutted like peacocks in lycra, but when Robert danced the hustle, they all stopped to watch. He was tall, with big brown eyes, long lashes, and thick, wavy brown hair. His piercing gaze and perfect posture commanded attention both on and off the dance floor.
This grace, popularity and confidence captivated me. I was uncoordinated, unknown, and underage. The clubs’ newest bartender, taking his first tentative steps from the closet, riddled with insecurities.
He always counted “five, six, seven, eight” to start us off. We’d lock eyes and our bodies would move in sync, relying on each other for balance. Over time, I came to understand this connection.
After dancing, we’d drink and talk. He became a friend, mentor, and confidante. Whenever I felt apprehensive or down, he’d unleash his signature catchphrase, “This is your life, not the dress rehearsal!”
A year later, he encouraged me to answer an ad for a ballroom dancing job. I auditioned, they hired me, and I taught for a decade. Whenever my students confided their worries, I told them to remember that life is not a dress rehearsal.
Robert had AIDS. We only ever discussed it when he brought it up. He refused to be labelled an object of pity and couldn’t accept the pointed questions friends often asked, despite their good intentions. One night someone said, “But really, how are you?” Once they left, he turned and said, “That’s it. I’m done.”
He moved to Florida where no one had an inkling about his diagnosis. That autumn, thinking he might miss the change of seasons, I mailed him a handful of red, yellow, and orange maple leaves from the tree in my backyard. He loved them and asked me to send some each fall.
Two years later, I walked into the house and heard Robert’s mother on the answering machine saying he’d passed away. Brightly coloured leaves danced in the air as they fell from my hands.
At his funeral, his parents said he spoke of me often. They knew I’d recently quit dancing to become a flight attendant. I told them I was going to see the world; that this was not my dress rehearsal. I choked on the last words but swallowed the sob, refusing to lose my composure. Robert would have hated that.
Driving home, Donna Summer sang “Last Dance” on the radio. I rolled the windows down and turned the volume up. That, and the last few brown leaves still clinging to the trees, overwhelmed me. I screamed at Donna, ‘Five, six, seven, eight!’
Joe Levitt (he/him) moved to Australia from America in 1996 at the age of 36. He retired from work in clinical trials, but has also been a dance instructor, flight attendant, registered nurse, pharmaceutical rep, and bartender. While working out what to be when he grows up, Joe enjoys biking, swimming, the dog park, and dancing with his husband. Joe has published one short story to a literary website. This story was also performed in a theatre and adapted to a piece of choral classical music with lyrics that Joe wrote.
John Engstrom is a Boston-based artist-author-poet. A retired journalist-museum worker, he serves as Arts critic for the Fenway News. His collages and poems appear on Facebook and Divergents Magazine.