One

Sunday, January 12, 2011

Ceci

Yes! I absolutely want to hear the story!

Jack

The brutal truth: I'm at Oberlin College pursuing a girl crush who is devoted to modern dance, not me.

As a by-product of chasing her, I am pulled into the Dance Department and taken under the wings of some of the coolest girls I will ever meet. Most are from NYC. East coast. They are like angel hipsters.

During this period, performance art and modern dance nearly converge so that a modern performance can be anything from dancing in unison to throwing feces and naked puppet sex. These girls take delight in exposing me to everything from film and underground music, to art and skinny dipping. My life becomes an adventure guided by mermaids.

Then we graduate. I'm supposed to start law school. But the economy in Detroit sucks. Sucks bad. I can't pay-off college, or my student loans, or start law school. Which is not too bad, maybe just a delay. What sucks more is I'm back in Detroit, living with my parents, crap job, friends all gone away, driving mom's car, and painfully missing the company of cool girls.

My closest modern dance buddy from college calls. She set up a bed for me on the floor of her apartment and has a job lined up. I just have to get to New York City. I load up my 1964 Ford (total value $275) and drive to the bank to cash my last paycheck. Right then, the rust holding my rear wheels to the car disintegrates. The back of my car drops onto the pavement.

Trip cancelled.

That fucking sucks, and, although I'm not usually down, I probably am at least melancholy. Back to my parent's house, and mom's car.

That night, I retreat to the Clutch Cargo's club in Detroit for a weekday dance night. There are about seven people there. Dark. Cold. Beer stank. But two girls walk onto the empty floor and begin to dance. They are being ridiculous, kind of goofy.

Now here, Ceci, you have to trust me for a moment. There are lots of loud blowhards that claim to be trial lawyers, but the reality is that the most elite and lethal are not blowhards at all. Just the opposite. They are often quiet wall-flowers. It's counter-intuitive, but the best trial lawyers are not the best talkers. They are the best listeners and watchers. I mean, how are you going to learn and communicate the intimate truth about a client who is fighting for his life, if you're talking all the time?

Anyway, I am watching these two girls dance. Watching close. Reading their movement like code, like dialogue. Slowly, it starts to become clear that one of them is possibly the coolest girl I have ever seen.

It's you.

After the song, you sit back down.

I wait for my chance. A better song. It comes. I get up. Walk over to where you are sitting. Ask you to dance.

You smile. Nod yes. Smile again.

The other girl (Eileen) is kind of surly. She's rolling her eyes, but you coax her out onto the floor. The three of us dance. No one else. I become pretty sure you are the coolest girl in Detroit, maybe the galaxy. The song ends. We part and go back to our separate seats.

I have no name. No number. Nothing. But I go home happy because, like an idiot from a small college in Ohio, I just figure I'll see you around. Then, maybe in a week or two, we can see what unfolds, naturally, like fish spawning in the wild, or whatever sea turtles do.

Instead, I soon realize, "Shit! Detroit is a huge city. I may never see her again!" I suppose I could try going to the club every night, but that seems kind of creepy, like stalking, and really expensive. I get depressed by the fact that besides living at home, and driving my mom's car, I don't even have enough money to properly stalk someone. I resolve that, on a budget, I will continue to keep an eye out for you.

Months pass. I join a small dance company in Detroit, but it's kind of lame. I meet a pretty fine dancer from Canada, then her boyfriend. I get a full-time job cleaning bird shit off elevated road signs, $5.25/hour.

A full year passes.

The Clutch Cargo's club moves into St Andrew's Hall. I drive there in my repaired 1964 Ford for a concert. Almost immediately, I see you there! I'm sure it's you and I voluntarily and involuntarily walk straight up to you. But I don't have anything to say. So, I just start blurting out the awkward truth about seeing you a year ago, economy stalking, nervous gibberish...

There is a guy there with you. He is looking at me hard, and seems increasingly concerned and protective. But you are patient with me as I try to explain myself in a less-frightening way.

I remember the most important thing: GET HER CONTACT INFO!! This is the only time in my life that I ask for a name and phone number. And, with a guy glaring over your shoulder, you actually give it to me.

And smile.

That was pretty sweet! Like a moment frozen in strawberry ice cream. I mean, honestly, I'm sure I sounded like a complete lunatic.

Incidentally, did you know that women are two times better at picking juries than men, and have four times the ability to read faces and interpret human behavior? The region of their brains that control these faculties is twice as large as the same region in men's brains. Male brains are only larger in the regions dedicated to sex and violence.

Later, when I called, you sweetly explained that you were living with a boyfriend and deftly diverted me to Eileen. She referred to me as, "The boyfriend who showed up at my front door". Anyway, it was the beginning of a turn-around from my lowest point.

I fell crazy in love with Eileen. She liked cool music, dancing, and movies. She even introduced me to beer. I got a raise ($5.75/hr). Moved out of my parents' house. Had Jon Fischer come out from New York to start a band. You started yours . . . . The origins of life!

So anyway, that is the story of my turn-around that you inspired and directed. But what's more satisfying is to see that I was 100% right. You have become the coolest girl in Detroit, maybe the galaxy.

Ceci

It amazes me that I could do so little and have such a profound effect! But to be perfectly honest, you did find really good people when you found us. It feels good to be remembered in such a generous light, so I love this story.

You'd like to think that you don't judge people instantaneously, but...

I know I've relied on judging my surroundings and making split second decisions based upon intuition for as long as I can remember. Some of that is based upon my old country ways, which are definitely in my DNA. What's the rest, street smarts and watching people's faces? Did you read Blink by Malcolm Gladwell?

It's Saturday morning and my mommy duties call.

Thank you so much for sharing this with me, it brings back memories that were more than a few lifetimes ago. One thing I especially loved was the description of our dancing, ridiculous and goofy, it's comforting to know that I really haven't changed that much.

Monday, January 13, 2011

Jack

I'm driving to a remote prison. Left at 4am. Hit a snow storm. Mountain pass is closed. I'm parked on the side of the road, waiting for the pass to open.

I'm so happy you liked the story and the dancing. If there's time, I'll elaborate on your moves.

[Fucking snow plow! It's getting ugly outside. Cop with a flashlight, little fluorescent vest, and a big attitude says there was an avalanche, I have to move, and blah, blah, blah.... Moved. At a gas station, stranded with families and truckers.]

"Good People", you are absolutely right.

"Generous light" no, you are completely wrong. I did not use a single word of flattery.

FACT: You and Eileen walk onto the floor from the right. You are both wearing dark, short skirts, with something dark on your legs, clunky shoes, short jackets, and blonde, shoulder-length hair. On the dance floor, you turn away from each other, with one arm out like an elephant trunk sweeping the floor. When you would look at each other, there was complicity in your goofiness.

The song finishes. You both stop. Hands on hips. Decide the next number is not just un-danceable, it is unworthy, and you walk off.

After a song or two, I approach. When I reach your table and you turn to look me over, I see that both of you are beautiful (and you know for a fact that is no "generous light" or exaggeration, don't even try). To me, both of you still look the same, but what I remember different from that night was your eyes and lips. Whatever you were wearing was dark, striking, and dramatic...Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner.

The music is loud. I lean down to ask you to dance. You smile, but look to Eileen. She grimaces. But you are up for it. You smirk at her, coax with your head, and waive her up. With a sharp glance at me, she gets up.

On the floor, Eileen is making it clear to me that this is not her idea, like I was forcing her to do her homework. This is funny because a year later, we will win a dance contest together. To my left you are dancing and grinning, but not for me, for yourself. Your movement is not beat-driven or a performance, it is entirely an inner conversation.

[The avalanche is cleared. Road is open. Must go. Will finish later.]

Jack

Sorry for the delay. Stopped by prison guards at the gate. Some snafu in my clearance. Happens constantly. Prisons do not value customer satisfaction.

So, I'm on the dance floor with two beauties, one pleasant, and one cranky. You are entertaining yourself, dancing off on diagonals to us. You are aware of me, but you're not going to let that get in the way of whatever fun you're pursuing. And your movement is unique, exploring, clearing, going out and back on an invisible path. Like free-verse. I almost stop to watch you when I notice the detail that completes the spell. Your smile. Combine individuality with genuine warmth, that is very cool.

As promised, I have proven your coolness solely on the concrete, sober, physical evidence. Completely without bias, subjectivity, or "generous light". Even the "Two Beauties" part is a bloodless recount of the cold, hard facts.

Anyway, we are working 7-days a week for a trial in March (middle school hired a mentally ill man to work with kids. In a dark, locked auditorium, he tases a boy, and molests a girl. The girl committed suicide. Our client is the kid who was tased).

Wish me luck.

***

Dear Reader,

Now that we are properly introduced, let the mystery begin!

❤️Ceci & Jack

[⭐Vote⭐ for love at first dance!]

Photo: Cape Verde Sunset by Kikatani, 2014 (Pixabay royalty free image #320788).