I WON’T DANCE, PLEASE ASK ME

            The turkey was fresh. They sliced it right in front of you, so how bad could it be.

            “I’ll have the turkey plate, with gravy on the side, please.”

            It had been a long time since I had eaten in a cafeteria/cafeteria-style restaurant; one of those places where you share a table with strangers. I put my tray on the table, nodded a “hello” to the woman across from me and sat down. A few minutes passed.

            “How’s the turkey?” she asked.

            “Not bad,” I answered.

“They make good turkey here, and good salmon. You should come here on Fridays. They make good salmon on Fridays.”

“I don’t live around here, but maybe I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll come by on a Friday, give it a shot.” A moment or two passed.

“What part of New York are you from?” she asked.

I knew she meant the city, not the state. I grew up in the Bronx. I moved to Los Angeles when I was in my thirties. I thought I had lost my accent.

“You’ll never lose it entirely,” she said. “It’s the best place to be – New York. I lived there thirty years. I’m from Poughkeepsie.”

She stood up and walked over to refill her water glass. She walked with her back very straight. My mother used to say of someone who walks like that,”She carries herself well.” I guessed she was somewhere in her mid-seventies.

“Poughkeepsie’s about an hour north of New York. When I moved into the city I lived in the village – Jane Street,” she said. Then she pulled herself up very straight and announced, “I was a dancer! On Broadway!” Her name is Priscilla Nathans, and she was a dancer – on Broadway.

Sometimes you get caught in a situation – on a plane, in a bar, at a table at a wedding – sitting next to or across from someone who keeps talking about stuff about which you could care less. (If it’s about politics, religion, insurance, mortgages, computers, cars – I’m outta there. I don’t care if I’m 35,000 feet in the air, I’m outta there. If you’re talking about sports, literature, history, people – young or old – or about being a dancer on Broadway, keep it coming.)

Priscilla Nathans was never a star. She was an understudy to the lead in a few Broadway shows, and got to perform in the lead role a few times, but for most of her career she was a “gypsy,” the term used to describe a dancer who goes from show to show – if they’re lucky. Priscilla loved every minute of it. She told me all about it – the years in New York, the shows, the fun, the friends, the high kicks and the low times. She danced in some great shows with some great stars.

“Then you get to a certain age and it’s over. There’s ten-thousand beautiful young dancers waiting to take your place,” she said.

She married an actor. They moved to Los Angeles. They had two kids. She got some bit parts in movies and on TV. The kids went to college in San Francisco. They liked it. After college they stayed there. Her husband passed away a few years ago.

“Try to come here on Fridays. They make good salmon,” she said.

We had been talking – she was the one who had done the talking – for about an hour.

“It was a real pleasure meeting you,” I said as I stood up to leave.

“Do you dance?” she suddenly asked.

I smiled and shook my head “No.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“That’s okay. I appreciate the offer, but….”

“Be at Las Hadas in the valley Tuesday morning at 10:30.”

I can dance, at home, alone, to Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, a couple of Elvis songs, The Stones,  Donna Summer – stuff with a recognizable melody and a strong beat  - when I’m alone. There’s no way I’m going to meet a 75-year old woman at 10:30 in the morning in a Mexican restaurant in the San Fernando Valley to learn to dance with a partner.

The place was packed. Gray hair. Mexican food. American music. Priscilla Nathans, sitting in a booth, spotted me and waved me over. As I approached the booth she grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. A seventeen piece band played music from the ‘30’s and ‘40’s – swing music. The musicians were guys in their seventies and eighties who had played with the top bands in the big band era. They were sensational. The couples on the dance floor were great.

“I’ll lead. Don’t be embarrassed,” she said.

I was embarrassed, but I was dancing, with someone who had been a dancer – on Broadway.

The park is across the street from where I live. Baseball and soccer fields, indoor and outdoor basketball courts, tennis courts, an outdoor pool and a track. People of all ages walk and run around the track. I’m one of those who walk.

It was the kind of weather I like – cool and misty.

“I love it when it’s like this, a littler drizzle in the air,” a voice next to me said.

I turned.

“I’m Hal. I’m 86,” he said as he walked beside me. “Who are you?”

“I’m Michael.”

His legs were a little bowed and his shoulders were hunched over a wee bit.

“I have a nephew named Michael. He’s taller than me.  My own son, he’s an inch shorter than me. Go figure.”

Hal told me about himself. He grew up “right here” in Los Angeles. “When I was a kid we lived across the street from a guy who was in the movies – a lot of westerns. I still have one of his hats.”

We walked. I had to pick up my pace to keep up with him.

“I’m in pretty good shape for an old guy, huh.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. I nodded. “You bet your ass I am,” he said. “I played softball till I was seventy-eight, when I hurt my knee. Give me a bat and I can still hit.”

Hal Skovron had been a successful civil engineer. He had three “grown” kids. “My oldest is sixty-two. I guess that’s grown.”  His first wife died after sixty-three years of marriage. “I’ve made one big mistake in my life, I married again. The second one was a pain in the ass. I divorced her two years ago. Irreconcilable differences. I wanted sex. She wanted soup. Imagine getting divorced when you’re eighty-four. Go figure.”

We walked.  “What do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a writer”

“That’s terrific. Without you guys the people in books and in the movies wouldn’t have anything to say,” and he gave me a kind of way-to-go punch on the arm. “I like to write myself, like when I go to the market I always write down what I need to buy.” He laughed at his own play on words. “Matter of fact, my wife, the one who was the love of my life, she and I lived next door to a writer and his wife. We spent a lot of time together. We used to go dancing, the four of us. Oh, could my wife dance. She made a lousy boysenberry pie, but could she dance. Go figure.”

“Do you still like to dance?” I asked.

“If you’re asking me out on a date,” he said laughing, and pointing at my under-nourished scalp, “I don’t go out with anybody who has less hair on their head than me.”

“How about…..”

“How about coffee and a movie first,” and he laughed again.

I waited outside the restaurant. When Hal got there we went inside. Priscilla Nathans waved from her booth. I introduced Priscilla and Hal Skovron to each other. He kissed her hand. Quite the charmer. Priscilla and I danced to a few songs. I actually was dancing. I made a dancing gesture to Hal and motioned for him to come onto the dance floor.

“You’re a swell guy, but, if you don’t mind, I’d rather dance with the lady,” he said, laughing. She laughed, too.

And then they danced.

Priscilla Nathans and Hal Skovron haven’t missed a Tuesday at Las Hadas since the Tuesday morning they met. They haven’t missed many other days either. They dance a lot and laugh a lot.

“We talked it over, and….we’re not going to get married, unless we decide to have kids.” He laughed. She did too, as she playfully slapped him on the arm.

“I never thought I’d ever feel like this again,” she said. “Me, too,” he said slowly, and then kissed her on the cheek.

“Look at me,” he said, “with a beautiful woman like this who was a dancer – on Broadway. Who would’a thought. Go figure.”

“What’ll it be?” the person behind the hot-counter in the cafeteria asked.

“I’ll have a plate of non-stop talking, with a side of feelings.”

The person behind the hot-counter stared at me.

“I’ll have the salmon. It’s Friday. I hear the salmon’s good here on Friday.”

I put my tray on the table and sat down. I said “Hello” to the person across from me. There was no response. After a few minutes the person got up and left. Some people don’t like to talk. Some do. Go figure.