The truth is I soon liked—and still like—dancing. By the time I was eighteen the novelty of “Madame's” middle-aged body had worn off, but I studied as hard as before. I soon realized that like opera, the classic ballet is static, incoherent to us, reflecting only the past, the dull glories of a dead era. It is bound by a bric-a-brac tradition completely outdated. But in the modern dance I found my interpretation of life, although even the modern dance is still hindered by many of the silly old ballet traditions. I went in for tap dancing, went crazy over Martha Graham, and even tried ballroom dancing. At one time I thought I was a second Ted Shawn and while at Columbia, the stage bug bit me badly. I couldn't be bothered with college musicals, and decided the best and fastest way to get a break would be to become a chorus boy, where my great dancing ability would surely stand out, stop the show.
One day I tried out for a Broadway show, certain it would only be a few days before I would be the premier danseur. As I was waiting in the wings for the try-out, I looked smugly at the chorus boys about me. To limber up, I did a few turns, followed by an entrechat, all in perfect form. Then some blond nance got up and did a tremendous jete, really a mad leap. I tried a few tap routines and then this joker broke out into a tap dance that would have put Fred Astaire to shame. I quietly took off my dance shoes, put on my coat and hat and walked out.
That was the end of my “career,” but I still dance, mainly for the exercise and self-enjoyment, and of course I attend all the various dance recitals.
I put ten records on the phonograph, a collection of classical, jazz, some Afro-Cuban, and even one be-bop. Then turned down the lights and began to dance—watching myself in the mirror. I did whatever I felt in the mood for; an odd mixture of ballet, tap, rumba, and a great deal of arm and body movements.
It took a half hour for the records to play and then I rested for a few minutes, put on another ten records and danced again. By this time I was wet with sweat and so tired I could hardly move. I put the records away, went upstairs. Outside, it was turning light and I drank a glass of milk, spilled some in Slob's saucer—he was my cat and on the town for the night—and threw myself across the bed. I intended to get up in a few minutes, take a shower and dry off under the sun lamp. The next thing I new, the shrill sound of the doorbell cut into my sleep, seemed to drill through my head. I sat up, saw it was nearly nine.
For a moment I sat there, listening to the bell, wondering who it was, my mind still full of sleep. Then I jumped out of bed, ran to the door. Of course it had to be Flo and I felt like a louse for not calling her. There was a great heavy wooden door, ceiling high, across the front of the living room. It had once been the garage doors, and in this a smaller door had been cut. I flung this open and stared pop-eyed at a plump man in an army uniform, gold major leafs on his shoulders, several bright ribbons on his chest. For a moment we stared at each other, he ran his eyes over my smelly sweat suit and then he suddenly laughed. He said, “Well by Christ I'm glad to see something that hasn't changed. Knew I could count on you, George, to be an institution.”
“Well for—Hank Conroy!” I said as if I didn't believe my own voice. “Where did you drop from?”
“From Frankfort. Landed at 4 a.m. Going to let me in?”
“Sorry,” I said as he walked by me and I closed the door. I'd last seen Hank in 1942 when he came in on a ten-day leave after graduating officer school. Now he stood in the center of my living room, looking about slowly, as if seeing it for the first time, and I thought he was going to cry.
He said, “Ah, George, you don't know how good it is to see you, this room. New York's frightened the pants off me, but you—this room—the house—you're all a wonderful reminder that some things in this world of confusion are still the same. George, you're the goddam backbone of something or other.”
“Hank, carrying a load?”
He took off his hat, opened his jacket and sat down. His hair was still thick and heavy. “Drinking doesn't do me any good anymore, George. Odd, I killed time at LaGuardia, then wandered around downtown, not wanting to wake you. And here you are, up and dancing. Same old George.”
“That's me, the pillar of 74th Street. Come in the bathroom while I take a shower.”
I showered and he sat on the clothes hamper and talked. He'd been in Africa, Italy, and France. Hank had returned to the States once in '45, then back to Italy and Germany. We'd been friends since high-school and I looked at his lined and worried face, his graying hair (and he was five years younger than I—and such important five years when you reach my age), and I wished to hell I hadn't been exempt. No matter what they beefed about, the raw deals they got, the guys in the service had been places, seen things—their life had been shaken... while I had been 41 years old at the start of the war and oh, so necessary to the war effort (whatever that was) because I was editing the house organ of an oil company, doing a job that meant nothing except buttering the conceit of my bosses and the stockholders.
As I dried myself, wondering what Italy and Africa was like, I asked, “Out of the army, Hank?”
“Will be in a few days.”
“Somebody forget to tell you the war was over four or five years ago?” I asked, powdering my toes.
He shrugged his plump shoulders. “No. Don't think I've been through combat, hell, and all that. I haven't, but somehow the war turned out to be the only real thing in my life, and I tried to hang onto it. Only I got sour on the idea of living like an English Sahib in Germany and...”
He was staring at me sadly and I stopped powdering myself, asked what was wrong. “George, you're wonderful! Still using one kind of powder for your toes, another to dust your crotch, and a third for under the arms. My God, you don't know how I'm trying to get a hold of something, of my old life.”
“Got a job in the hopper?” I asked, slipping on a silk bathrobe.
“Oh, I'll get back to selling, I suppose,” Hank said.
We went back to the living room and I stepped into the kitchen, put on the electric coffee percolator, was halving grapefruit, when he called me.
He was standing in the living room next to the heavy woodwork that had once been a door leading to the upstairs apartment, before I had the wall filled in. He pressed part of one of the wooden panels, which slid back, showing an empty space. We used to call it the “hideaway” when we were kids.
Hank said happily, “Imagine, this still being here—still working.”
“Bet I haven't opened that panel—or thought of it—in fifteen years,” I said.
“Remember when this was the garage and the big car was here? We'd sit in the front seat and imagine we were racing like hell along some dark road, every yegg in the world after us, and then we'd jump out and put all sorts of crazy documents in the panel? Had some great times then.” Hank pressed the top of the panel and it slid back into place again. “Like a movie,” he added.