W. BRUCE CAMERON - My First Dance

I believe that dancing was invented to give men something to dread. Men counterattacked with beer, but then women counter-counterattacked with video cameras, and now every man on the planet knows that out there somewhere is footage of him dancing at a cousin’s wedding, just waiting to be shown at a retirement party or some other embarrassing occasion.

My first dance was in seventh grade, a phase of childhood so torturous I can’t believe it is still legal. At that time, I had a very specific and obsessive crush on every girl my age. I went into the dance hall — aka the school gym — determined not to leave until I had at least one girlfriend. If I had to get out there and dance to accomplish that, OK, but I couldn’t be held responsible for people’s reactions.

The girls at the party were all arrayed in tight circles with their backs to the boys, as impenetrable as a herd of water buffalo protecting their young from lions. I was wandering past these defensive huddles when a girl named LeAnn broke from the herd and called, “Hi, Bruce!”

I was instantly reminded of how much I loved LeAnn, though to be truthful I’d never really noticed her before. I stood and talked to her while she stared at the people dancing with longing in her eyes until finally I decided that in order to keep her affections I either needed to ask her to dance or knock her unconscious.

The song the band was playing was “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night. I defy any human being to dance to the thing. LeAnn appeared happy to be dancing unless she was watching me, and then she appeared disturbed. I made up several moves — I’m pretty sure that the way I threw out my elbows has never been duplicated by another person unless his arms were on fire.

The song seemed to last as long as dental surgery. The whole time, I smiled at LeAnn so she’d know how much fun we were having. She didn’t smile back — I got the impression she was scanning the dance floor for a different partner, or maybe she was just looking for the emergency exit.

“I like this song!” I shouted desperately. This was not true — to this day, I can’t hear the thing without becoming nauseated. The lyrics make no sense — they’re about a frog who drinks wine, though I gamely pantomimed a frog drinking wine as one of my special patented dance moves.

The band consisted of a couple of guys from the high school who clearly had been studying music for a long, long day. The singer was very talented at being loud. If they hadn’t announced they were playing “Joy to the World” before they started, I probably would have guessed they were trying to play the William Tell Overture, which by the way would have been easier to dance to.

Finally, the song crashed to an end. Most of us had never been to a dance before and didn’t know if we were supposed to applaud and cheer or maybe throw things and start a riot. Someone yelled, “Play it again!” and he was immediately set upon and dismembered.

The band did play it again — it was one of only three songs they knew all the words to. But first they announced, “We’re going to play a slow one now,” which gave me my first-ever case of cardiac arrest. Slow dance? Were LeAnn and I ready for such a step? In seventh grade, it was less of a commitment to get married than it was to slow dance with somebody.

The “music” started. LeAnn stared at me. I stared back. A minute went by. Finally, I sort of held out my arms, and LeAnn reluctantly came into them.

I sagged against her like a bag of potatoes, barely moving. She held me up and tried to wrestle me around in slow circles. I burst into projectile sweating. My knees trembled.

I was deliriously happy.

LeAnn and I went steady for a full 24 hours after that, and then she moved on, but I’ll never forget her.

She was my first dance.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his website at http://www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at http://www.creators.com.

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