My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

19.

When I first toured Seaside Fitness before signing up, the assistant club manager encouraged me to try as many exercise classes as possible. “Even if you think you won’t like a particular class format, you might surprise yourself,” she said at the time. “I guarantee you’ll get more out of your membership if you keep an open mind and you’re willing to experiment.”

I decide this is a good time to follow her advice. I’d like to avoid Charlie for the next few weeks at least, for both our sakes – and a change in routine might help lift me out of the doldrums in which I’ve been drifting since I stopped seeing him. I review the schedule with my eye on late afternoon and early evening non-yoga classes, geared toward the younger after-work crowd. I won’t run into Charlie then.

For starters, I will give Zumba a whirl. The five o’clock class is packed to capacity, but I squeeze into a space near the back and pull a sweatband on to contain my hair, which has changed in the warm summer weather from its usual moderate waviness to frizzy curls. The dance moves are energetic but easy to follow, broken down into simple Salsa-like patterns that quickly become obvious to me. The music is up-tempo, loud, and Latin-sounding, which I don’t care for. The participants all gyrate, shimmy, jump, and spin with unflagging zeal, shouting, whooping, and laughing as they move. In the short breaks between musical numbers, they continue to bounce on their toes and applaud with wild excitement. It’s like everyone is at a big nightclub party but with no alcohol. I try to maintain a positive outlook. Maybe after half an hour the endorphins will kick in and I’ll start enjoying it. Or maybe I’m too much of a tight-ass and I need to let go of my inhibitions, the way I did with Charlie the time that—

No. I mustn’t go there.

By the end of class, I’ve gotten a good cardio workout, but the exaggerated moves and the overenthusiastic whooping and hollering strike me as false and even embarrassing. I half want to chastise the class for engaging in this stupidity, and I half want to apologize for being the only woman in the room incapable of sharing in the fun.

It’s not you, it’s me.

Okay, Zumba isn’t my thing. No big deal. Unintimidated, I zero in on a hip-hop class two nights later. On the printed schedule is a little red asterisk flagging it as a new class taught by a new instructor billed as Jax. Great name.

Jax lives up to it. He is a cool-looking dude of medium height, with a compact golden-skinned body, curly black hair, and a sweet, toothy smile that I find irresistible. I guess him to be of mixed ethnicity – maybe part Asian and part African American, like Tiger Woods. His age could be anywhere between thirty and thirty-five, though who knows? These days, I’m lucky to guess within twenty years. I slip into the back of the studio to observe the class from a small gallery area in the rear. Jax is fascinating to watch. His feet move swiftly in an intricate pattern as he lifts one shoulder and alternately lowers the other. His head whips to the left, then right, then left again. He balls one hand into a fist and extends the other outwards in a “stop” gesture with the fingers spread wide. He angles his upper body forward, then moves into a sinewy backward curve with his hips thrust out. He orchestrates all these motions with consummate style and precision.

I’m lost in concentration as I observe him, so at first, I don’t know Jax is addressing me when he says, “Hey, Curls. Come dance with us.” I’m oblivious that he’s referring to me until he walks to the rear of the room and pulls me out onto the dance floor. Fortunately, he leads me to the back row where I won’t be seen. Jax dances in the row in front of me for a while, giving me a close-up view of the dance moves before resuming his place at the front.

During the time I observed the class, I was memorizing the steps. Now that I’m physically working my way through the routine, I flush with pleasure to discover I am actually getting it. I’m dancing in unison with the group, I’m not making mistakes, and I’m even throwing a little personality into the moves. This is fun. I glance at myself in the side mirror and note that I look pretty damn good. You go, girl. I’ve found my perfect dance class.

At the end of the hour, Jax threads his way through the crowd, high fiving some of the dancers at random as he makes his way to the back. He rewards me with a dazzling smile and a double-high-five as he says, “You killed it, girl. Where’d you learn hip-hop?”

“Right here, tonight,” I say. “This was my first class.”

“Did you hear that?” he says to the dancers around us, drawing them into the conversation. “Curls here is a natural. It must have something to do with the hair.” He points at my ringlets. “The girl’s got more rhythm than I do.”

I beam at the attention. It’s like I’m fourteen again.

“Hey, Curls—”

“Mar. My name’s Mar.”

“OK, Curly Mar, listen up. After class, a bunch of us like to go over to Bobby G’s for a drink,” he says, naming a popular bar a few miles away. “Why don’t you join us?”

“Sounds fun, but I don’t have a car. I walked here from my apartment.”

“You can ride with me.”

Twenty minutes later, eight of us – five women and three men – gather around a long table in the dimly lit bar at Bobby G’s. Jax takes the seat next to mine, which I believe is a deliberate move on his part to keep me in his sights. When it’s time to order, a blond man at the far end of the table asks for a draft beer. Everyone else, including Jax, opts for mineral water or Coke. I expected them to be bigger partyers somehow. I don’t trust the house wine at a joint like this, so I order a vodka and soda with a splash of cranberry juice. As the oldest one at the table, I worry whether I’ll be able to hold my own in a group of hip-hoppers.

“How long have you been going to Seaside Fitness?” the beer-drinking man asks.

“About six months.”

“Have you tried any of the other dance classes?”

“Just Zumba,” I say, trying not to look nauseated.

“Whoa, I hope you don’t make that face when you talk about hip-hop,” says Jax.

“Your class is great. I mean it. I can’t wait to come back.”

“That’s why we all followed Jax to Seaside from the dance studio where he used to teach,” says a long-haired, pretty South Asian woman to my left.

“Is that what happened?” I ask. So, these are all new members.

“Yes. We’ve been dancing with Jax for a couple of years. The old studio closed. When he got the job teaching at Seaside, most of his students signed up for memberships.”

“Except the ones that couldn’t pay the freight,” says a dark-skinned African American man with a shaved head seated across from me. “At the studio, we could pay by the class. The Seaside monthly dues . . . man, they are high.”

“Yeah, I was lucky my parents bought me a membership to Seaside as a birthday present. I turned twenty-nine last week. Ugh,” says one of the others, a heavy-set woman sporting a small nose ring and short, spiky hair dyed in multiple shades of electric purple and blue.

“Girl, you’re a babe in diapers,” says Jax. “Twenty-nine. Hah. I’ma turn forty-four next month.”

Forty-four? It’s hard to believe.

We talk for a while about Seaside Fitness. The rest of the conversation is benign chitchat on a range of topics. People discuss their jobs – the African American guy sells advertising for a local newspaper and shows interest in my editorial position. The South Asian woman has fraternal twins a year older than Benny, though I don’t volunteer that I’m a grandmother. When the group discusses music videos and clubs, I’m out of the loop, but the rest of the time I’m comfortable with the conversation. These are nice young people.

When he drops me off in front of my apartment, Jax says, “Thursday night I’m going out to hear some friends of mine who play in a band. They do a mix of R&B and pop . . . great for dancing. Wanna come with me?”

Is this another group activity or a date? He’s been flirting with me from the moment I walked into his class. With my own interest in sex so recently rekindled, I’m pleased by his attention. If Jax were as young as his students, I wouldn’t be inclined to take up with him, but I’m only about six years older than him. Not enough to put me in cougar territory. Maybe he holds the potential to turn into a friend with benefits . . . the sort of relationship I’d hoped for with Charlie before things escalated out of control. Whatever happens, I won’t make the same mistake I made the last time. Jax is a sweet guy, and his attitude seems very casual. Yes, things with Jax will be different. I hope.

Things are different, all right, but not in the way I imagined. Our first night out together, we are a party of two when we go to listen to Jax’s friends, but he knows everyone in the place. Men and women stop by the table every few minutes to exchange greetings, though he doesn’t invite any of them to join us. Nor does he ask me to dance. While he drinks Coke with lemon and I sip chardonnay, Jax informs me he’s landed a gig dancing backup on a new music video involving J.Lo.

“You’re going to dance with Jennifer Lopez?” I ask, impressed.

“She’s not gonna be in the video herself, but she’s one of the backers.” He proceeds with a convoluted story. “I haven’t met J.Lo yet, but my friend’s kid goes to school with J.Lo’s son, and she’s trying to get me an introduction.” The longer Jax goes on, the more confusing it gets. It gradually becomes clear that he hasn’t landed the job yet, and that there may not even be a job at all, or a video. At this point, there’s only an optimistic plan for a video project, more like a plan for a plan.

After half an hour of listening to Jax pontificate on his six degrees of separation from J.Lo, my mind is wandering. Meanwhile, the band sounds good, and I’m thinking it would be a lot more fun to get up and dance. But when I suggest that, he says, “I taught four classes today. I’m too beat to get outta this chair.”

Wait, didn’t he invite me here with the promise of dancing? At least I thought that was the plan. I guess it was more of a plan for a plan.

. . .

Same night, one week later, we return to the hotel bar for another evening of not-dancing. This time, he regales me—no, that’s too flattering a word—he subjects me to a long discourse about a new opportunity to serve as a judge on a television dance competition. “The format will be a lot like So You Think You Can Dance,” he explains, “except instead of a season-long competition, each show is a one-off. There are four new contestants every week and one grand prize winner.”

“Are the judges one-offs as well? Would you be on the judging panel one time or for the whole season?”

He gives a garbled and long-winded response in which he avoids answering my question. When I make a polite inquiry about last week’s big opportunity – “Anything new with the J.Lo video?” – he wrinkles his nose and waves me off with a dismissive gesture as if I’m annoying him with an irrelevant question. He also dismisses, once again, my suggestion that we hit the dance floor.

“Been breakin’ in new shoes this week. My dogs are barking.”

When he pulls his car up to my building this time, I debate whether to invite him into the apartment. Before I can say anything, he treats me to one of his winning smiles and says, “One of these days, I’m hoping you’ll ask me up. But not tonight. Another time. Soon.”

I’m fine with that. Though I’m attracted to Jax, I’m not at all obsessed with him. I continue to enjoy the hip-hop class – every time I go, I’m getting a little better. My life has fallen into a constant rhythm. I work, and I work out with classes and daily walks.

But today I’m limping around the apartment after stubbing my big toe. No beach walk for me. Restless and bored, I give Mum an impromptu call.

“Margy dear, hello. You’re lucky to catch me when you did. I’m off to a birthday party in a few minutes.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Yes, my new friend Nina is turning fifty-eight. I met her in Zumba.”

“I didn’t realize you were doing Zumba. Your friend is in her fifties but she takes a Silver Sneakers class?”

“Why would you assume it’s Silver Sneakers?”

“Uh, because you’re seventy-seven?”

She lets out a snort. “You know me better than that. I still like to work out with the kids.” The kids, I guess, are people who aren’t yet Medicare-eligible. Given Mum’s youthful appearance and attitude, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Zumba is so fun, you must try it,” she says.

“I have, but hip-hop is my thing. I’m taking an advanced class now. The moves are incredibly challenging. You should see me.”

“I don’t think your father would have cared for Zumba,” she says, blowing right past my boastful statement. Daddy was sixteen years older than Mum, and he didn’t live to see eighty. As his health failed, he acted like a tired old man. Had he doddered his way into extreme old age, he would have cramped my mother’s style big-time. But while he lived, my father made enough money to fund an elegant lifestyle for both of them, and for Mum throughout the rest of her life. And for that, she always stayed loyal to him, and he to her.

Unlike Henry.

“Where’s your party?” I ask.

“At Nina’s condo. Darling, I’ve got to head over there now. Talk soon.”

Next, I decide to try for one of my infrequent chats with Michael. We are still semi-estranged. He seldom picks up when I call his cell, but today he answers, sounding relatively cheerful for Michael. “Hi. What’s up?” he says.

“Nothing much. Just checking in. How’s the family?”

“We’re good, business is good,” he says. “I suppose you’re busy with work too?”

“I am now. But actually, a couple of months ago, I quit my job for a while.”

“You what?” He says this in a loud voice, which cracks in an upward inflection. I hadn’t expected him to react to the news with such interest or emotion. “You quit after all this time? Why?”

“The publisher and I had an ethical disagreement about whether to publish an article. But we worked it out.”

“So you’re back together with the publisher guy? Robert?”

“That’s a funny way of putting it, but yes, I’m back in my job as editor-in-chief. Robert pleaded with me to come back. He even gave me a nice raise.”

“I didn’t think it was about the money with you two,” Michael says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

A pause. “Nothing. It’s supposed to mean nothing at all.” I hear Benny’s voice in the background, muffled but whiny. Then Michael says, “I can’t talk now.”

Boy, this sure has been fun. I must remember to call my family more often. I glance at the clock. It’s nearly five. I’ll pour a glass of vino and respond to a couple of emails from Robert. As I do this, my thoughts turn to Michael’s puzzling comment.

I didn’t think it was about the money with you two. What the hell is that supposed to mean?