I had never before been single in Los Angeles. My partner and I had moved here from New York. I worked a very early shift at Sony Pictures, pumping out film grosses seven days a week, and he managed a co-owned restaurant in Hollywood with a shift closing late at night.
Our schedules didn’t match, and his nightly winding-down shift offered far more extracurricular opportunities than my waking-up shift. The inevitable split occurred, and along with the restaurant went the social life, friends, the house and even the cat.
Alone and searching for new friends and romances, it was suggested that the newly opened Home Depot on Sunset Boulevard was a great place to meet gay guys, but alas — the straight guy with the bubble butt in the paint department was commanding all the attention. Ikea indeed had plenty of guys, but almost all were coupled. That left the bars of West Hollywood, where you would line up against the wall like pins in a bowling alley and wait for a strike. This was years before online dating came about. Swiping left or right was done face-to-face, and it was brutal.
My chiropractor enlisted a masseur named Daniel to help with my “back of steel,” as he put it. Daniel offered two options: slow and easy, which would take weeks, or quick and deep, which I opted for until my chiropractor told Daniel to go a little easier as my loud groaning was scaring the patients in the waiting room.
Daniel was going through a breakup of his own and suggested I try country western dancing. “It’s a great way to meet people, and you dance for five minutes and move on to the next. Like taking a test drive,” he said.
Reasonable, I thought, but country music? Maybe a man in my arms would neutralize the sound of steel guitars in my ears. But then I remembered I did dance to the Six Fat Dutchmen in the ninth grade. My school had six weeks of social dancing in the gym during the harsh winter months in Minnesota.
It was mainly square dancing, but we also learned to waltz, polka, schottische and foxtrot. It was the foxtrot that was giving me problems now. Similar to the Texas two-step but with an extra step added, it kept tripping me up on the dance floor along with the poor sap that felt sorry for me and had asked me to dance. A reputation as a bad dancer spreads faster than a wild fire in late November.
So off I went to the weeknight dance lessons at Rawhide, where bad dancers try to improve by dancing with other lousy dancers in hopes of becoming mediocre and then, perhaps if you really concentrate, a step up to adequate.
So back to the main event and the Sunday Beer Bust: We beginners could at least dance with each other and learn to stay out of the better couples’ path. I would dance a few dances but mostly lean against a post and watch the action.
And then, there he was.
Out of all the guys in the crowd, there was just something about him and his tight jeans, his boots and his cowboy hat. His dance card was continually full, and my chances felt empty. It would take at least a month of Tuesday lessons to gain enough confidence to ask him to dance. But I came back each Sunday and tried to apply my improving skills.
As the weeks went by, I was becoming disillusioned by the whole country-dancing saga, and as I was driving over the hill to the Valley one Sunday, I asked myself, “Do you really want to continue with this?” As I entered the bar sober, I looked out over the crowd. Lorrie Morgan had just released a country version of “My Favorite Things,” which was playing.
I saw all these men in jeans, most in boots and cowboy hats, and some in leather chaps. Short, tall, thin and beefy, all were holding someone in their arms and dancing a waltz, no doubt dreaming of cream-colored ponies. It was surreal, but it pulled me in.
As I went to the bar, got a beer and leaned back onto my favorite post to watch it all go on around me, it happened. I noticed he noticed me.
In the arms of another, he glanced and smiled as he whirled by. And then again on the next go-round.
I felt the dizzy rush of adrenaline send my heart into palpitations as long-dormant hope sprang forth from that simple smile. And as the music stopped and the strains of a new song began, he walked toward me and asked me to dance. We danced again, and the following Sunday as well. And the next Sunday, and then many months of Sundays.
It’s been 25 years since our first dance. We’re a little slower, a little less energetic and the years show on our faces as well in the color and/or lack of hair.
Our favorite places to dance have closed. As with most relationships, there have been odd sour notes through the years, but mostly harmonious music. And when we are in rhythm with arms about each other, I don’t need to worry about the steps because my feet don’t touch the ground.
The author lives in Mid-City with his partner Nick. He is fairly antisocial on social media. If you must, he can be reached at ccbartelt@gmail.com.
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This story originally appeared on LA Times
