American Pie

If this is life after College, I do wonder why I went at all. This is life at it's finest, and all I needed to learn I absorbed from sixteen years at tap class.

I press my shoed toe to the bare wood floor of Madame Lillie's Dance Studio, slipping my feet into their somewhat natural position. I count the beats to my all-too-familiar, scuffed up recording of "Lullaby of Broadway" and go into a short routine. Moments later, I trotted to an exhausted stop and looked back into the mirrors before me, sweaty and satisfied.

Twelve pairs of eyes gawked back apprehensively.

I wince at my vainglorious behavior. Patience is the key to all things, I think to myself, and return to their level. "Now, I'll teach you the steps."

Each of my students are special to me. Half of them dream of Broadway, ballerinas, or life as an Oscar Ceremony dancer. Some will only get to demonstrate their talents to their friends after one beer too many. Two specifically are the victims of their mother's ambition to be some sort of uberhuman machine, all accomplishment and not self-satisfaction. I mark each of them less on their aptitude and most on their doggedness. Within the hour, they've learned a half-step, and how to repeat it. Little heels click along with mine, as they leave the ground leaping and rocking. We're all sweaty, giggling messes by the time Miss Lillian appears at my classroom's doorway.

She returns, smiling, a few moments later. Watching me as I peel back my shoes, she allowed, "Congratulations are in order. You're our most-requested instructor for the month of October."
"Thank you."
Lillian is always hesitant with praise. She pauses for a moment before telling me, "You should be on Broadway or on tour. This one-horse town doesn't have much use by way of dancers."
My lips lifted against my will, beyond my command, "Actually, There are plenty of things to do around here."
Her eyes were far too knowing, "More likely plenty of People to do around here."
"You're a prize, Lillian." I say.
"A gold medal." She proclaimed, smirking, then pressed a thin envelope to my hand. "Your pay for this week."
I smiled up at her, projecting (I hoped) the gratefulness I felt at her benediction. Bidding Lilian goodbye, I tore the rigid envelope open while I walked the hall to the shower room, cursing as my fingers throbbed momentarily. Plucking the numbers, stained in Lillian's bucolic, rural script, I calculated the total. I had made, in the span of a week's time, just enough for our groceries and an eighth of the total our utilities for the month.

The time glared back at me from beneath the mineral dial of my watch, sending me to action. Within five minutes, I had stripped and showered, then shaved. Late, I was late again, and I still had to blow dry my damned hair. Snarled in pain with each rough stroke of my brush as it tripped over and through my curls, until they lay at my shoulders, dry and shining.

I pull free my conservative suit from it's place, stored on my locker; a plain shirt, tie and pants. My socks and loafers are pulled from my gym bag, and by shorts and tee-shirt take their places. Pausing briefly before the mirror, I marvel at my transformation. Staring back at me is a network administrator, annoying my artist's soul enough to force me into leaving.

Traffic rushes past me down 13th Avenue; pushing me along. Crossing town takes too long on a Friday. Tasting freedom, our little beat-up van skids over half-frozen puddles, voraciously chewing up bright red, newly-fallen buds in it's smutty path. Caught against the bright blue sky, my office building stand ashamed, a smoggy gray tower of imprisonment. Steam rises up off of twin towers a few miles away, marking factory and hospital in harmony against the pale blue sky. Found parking, unlimber my briefcase from behind it's place under a back seat, and rush to the back door.

All attempts to look inconspicuous pay off, while my footfalls ring through stilled halls. Seated in my cubical, I pause, taking in their khaki/vanilla walls, plastered with my family's pictures; my cracking and unvarnished desk, it's stack of papers, it's computer, as modern as could be, with blinking screen. My nerves bristle and jump all on their lonesome.

My phone burrs "I covered for you again," Brian announces from his connection, a few feet and several cubicles away.
"Lillian held me up at the studios; sorry about that."
"S'OK. I'm used to it." He responded, subsequently hanging up on me.

Disgust welled in my heart. I hadn't meant to hurt my oldest friend's feelings or reputation, but apparently had.

I would send him a vase of chocolate-chip cookies. That always worked. A satisfactory conclusion, one that allowed me to plug into the rest of my meandering work day.

***

At six, my shift ended. Sweaty and emotionally frayed, I shut down my terminal and made a stop at payroll.

Brian caught me walking out the door, "Hey, I've got three tickets for the Bruins tomorrow. Choice seats, right against the glass."

I shook my head, "Can't, Bri. Steph's got a pagent tomorrow night, and I promised to help pain scenery."
"Not another damned recital," He grunted, "Your whole life is someone else's music."
"Stephanie needs me."
"Why the hell does she need you when she has him?!" He asked, his voice rising temperamentally.
"They both need me."
"I'm not touching that comment. You're compromising everyone who mattered to hang out with the in-crowd."
"The 'In-Crowd'?!" I snort contemptuously, "We've been out of school for six years, Brian. The In-Crowd?!"
"I'm not blind, Mike. You're giving away your heart and passion to people who won't return it."
"I'll see you Monday, Bri." I bite out. "I'm going home to my family."

**

Home is a rebuilt, almost reconditioned Ranch house, stuck out in the middle of what used to be a baseball field but is now surrounded to the sides and back by a shopping complex and supermarket. This was the last of what had been track housing, before empty town coffers demanded urbana replace pastoral. State was going to bulldoze the house until we had stepped in and purchased it with money begged and borrowed from parents and friends.

My first greeting was the usual growl of traffic. The second, opening the door and stepping inside, was the low wail of Stephanie's cello from the music room upstairs. I smile dreamily, floating off in the melody of a Handel chorus.

Passing down the hallway and into the kitchen, Reverently, I touch proof of Stephanie's existence in my life; a wall of cards her students sent to celebrate our "wedding". Her red rain slicker hanging on the wall. In the kitchen, her teacher's edition of "Children Love Music!", stuffed with notations, and a partially eaten stick of Peppermint candy rest side-by-side on the counter next to my bubbling crockpot. I admire the synergy of these objects.

Scent of the beef stew wends to my nostrils, blending with Stephanie's sawhorse craftswomanship at her instrument. Briefly, I stir the bubbling concoction with a fresh wooden spoon, breaking apart the mealy chunks of potatoes and picking splintered beef shards for doneness. Perfectly done; I recap the meal for eating in scant minutes. Someone has already taken care of the bread and salad. Even desert. I touch the tip of a sugary cookie star to my lips, catching sight of a limp, used tube of Pillsbury's sugar cookie dough fluttering from the wastepaper basket.

I stroll up the back staircase, and two rooms down, find Stephanie sitting at her cello. Impressive thighs clutching the instrument, her forearm fiercely slipped her bow across the strings. Her left hand settled far up the throat, fingers consistently active. Dim sunlight filtered through her hair, giving her a fragile, isolated quality. As that song draws to a close, I entered her music room and slipped behind the metal folding chair she's seated on.

Mozart's last movements vibrated through her body, to the chair and into my hips. Released from her muse's grip, her head drooped back onto the chair. I brushed her lips with one of the cookie's five spikes.

Her lips curved into a silent smile, and she nipped a bite of it off.

"Sweet as honey," She sighed. I bent myself in an uncomfortable third and kissed her deeply.

"How about some sugar for Pauly?"

I smile against Stephanie's mouth and pull away, crossing the room and wrapping myself around my husband for a deep kiss.

Did I mention that our family's rather..unique?



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