Tango, Tangle, or a simple story of a man named Manuel
My town held a Latin Dance Fiesta last weekend. The grocery store clerk stuffed the flier in my paper bag between a dozen free-range eggs and a package of dried pinto beans. Her braided silver bracelet caught the jagged edge of the bag and left a small tear.
"You gotta go. My boyfriend plays guitar with Son Como Son." She popped her gum with a pierced tongue and handed me two dollars and thirty cents change. Her hair hung in dry red-brown ringlets around a short neck. "You don't have to dance. You can just listen to the band and watch the Tango."
I hung the yellow flier on my fridge and stopped and read it every time I opened it for milk or jam or juice. Workshops in Tango, Cha Cha, Merengue, Cumbia, and Flamenco! The biggest dance festival in the county! Live Tejano music! All night dance party! I imagined wearing a dress spun like cotton candy and piling my hair high in a loose clip. I imagined dancing with a tall enigmatic stranger named Frito, a man with hair dark like licorice who would pull me too close, be dangerous with his arms and legs, lead my hips from the dance floor while his breath blew blue flames above my head.
I almost didn't attend. Babysitters aren't cheap and the workshops started at the rooster crack of dawn. But the flier taunted me, whispered dreams of dancing dark men from some crater moon, and I found myself shuttling my young boys to a neighbor's home while I zipped up the back of my sexy red dress with the asymmetrical hemline and buckled my vintage black dancing shoes. I took Avon, too, stuffed fragrance and bright red lipstick samples and two slightly wrinkled brochures in my small velvet purse.
I left my aging green convertible in the parking lot behind the dance party hotel. Two young women in ruffled Flamenco gowns smoked cigarettes, swapped a square compact back and forth. They leaned against a Camaro, wide hips splayed in provocative gestures, dark eyes painted with blue shadow and lined with more mascara than I use in a year. Tiny beaded roses dotted their hair, and I felt underdressed, old, missing the necessary traditional background of ground pork tamales and complicated saints. I stopped for a minute, pulled out my own small mirror and stared at the pinprick of red surrounding my left eye.
I've moved a mountain over the past few months. Feels like forever, like my life is starting over for the hundredth time. Who am I? Why am I doing this? I want to rest. I snapped it shut, even though my lips looked naked and the tip of my nose sparkled like wet glitter. I am ready for something new. I felt something fracture inside me. It thrust lightening bolts through my legs and burned through my feet, a trail of feathered fire. I stepped into the hotel.
The band caught my attention first, grabbed my ears and slung them like gunfire onto the dance floor, three middle-aged Mexican men with an accordion and two guitars, singing a song of loss and betrayal. The wood floor smelled of fresh honey wax, and heavy brocade curtains lined the windows overlooking the boulevard. Six couples faced the curtains, lifted feet and hands in almost unison and moved with the unpredictable wave of wind through an oak tree. My heart couldn't contain the rhythm of boots against floor. I wanted to join them, the band, be a worn guitar, a woman's stacked heel, wanted to melt into the pine boards beneath me in some strange captured surrender, but the sound turned to whisper and the dancers stood still, breathed one shot of air together, as the accordion player flexed his left hand, prepared to play.
"Excuse me, Miss? May I have this dance?" A tall Latino stood before me, the tip of his chin reaching the exact center of my forehead, and I remembered in desperation my collection of Avon samples. I wanted to say No, please sit with me and let's talk Men's Products, but the sadness in his eyes made my mouth say Yes, I will dance. He gently took my hand and led me to the center of the floor, the place usually reserved for the sure-footed and sane, and the strains of Felicia filled the hall.
"Thank you, Miss. My name is Manuel."
To be continued...
9:47:46 PM 
|
|
