An acquaintance I enjoyed spending time with from class was a 50-something woman (as a 30-something I thought she was ancient) who had once been married to a mobster. She said she had cheated on him because “You’ve got to do it to them before they do it to you.” She had been married several times.

At a restaurant with a party of friends one night, she noticed a fellow diner across the room who looked familiar. She couldn’t place the face. As she and her party were leaving, she made the connection. He was an ex-husband.

She said please never to buy her anything for special occasions because she didn’t want “things”. Her apartment was almost bare – only the necessities – a bed, table, chairs, a chest – no pictures, paintings, books, memorabilia. She liked things that way.

Inese and Melanie and I, who often hung out together after class at the Flame Coffee Shop down the street from Carnegie Hall, used to chat about the class and if a Marcia came up (there were three), we would keep things straight by referring to them as “Skinny Marcia, “Big Tit Marcia,” “Red-haired Marcia.” That worked well.

The owners of the coffee shop knew us well and knew that we would be drained and dehydrated when we walked in. So the minute they saw us, they would call out “three house salads, bleu cheese, three Tabs with lemon.” So, hollow-eyed and exhausted, we would refuel and watch out for Anthony, Inese’s estranged husband, who was a paranoid schizophrenic (as well as a brilliant sculptor) and stalked her. Sometimes he would show up, stand outside and tap on the café window so she would have to go out and talk with him. He lives in Buffalo, still calls her daily, shows up now and then, stays in her apartment, is verbally abusive, and gets spending money. Can you spell enabler?

I was doing free-lance typing in those days. I made an appointment to pick up a manuscript form Roger Kahn, author of “The Boys of Summer” (about baseball). We were to meet after my class in the Carnegie Tavern. We sat at the bar and discussed the work I was to do for him and in walked Mikhail Baryshnikov. He sat a few stools away, ordered a drink and looked very sad. I considered shoving Roger out the door so I could offer comfort and solace to the disconsolate Mischa but decided that wouldn’t work.

One afternoon, our teacher, George Tomal (now passed) and my triumvirate met in the Carnegie tavern for a beer after class. Jay showed up and George told him, “she’s come a long way under my tutelage.” I added, “George, you could never have done it without me.” I was a laugh and a half.

George also explained that dancers were often clumsy walking as civilians because our ankles were so flexible that we made missteps. Oh.

George sometimes stopped the work to lecture. He asked each dancer, “why aren’t you turning?” When he got to me, I said, with a big smile, “I’m turning.” He used to stand at the side as we did multiple pique turns on a diagonal across the floor. You must spot to do them well (the head turns quickly). George was reminding us, “spot, spot, spot, spot.” Just before taking my turn, I turned to the dancer next to me and said “I think he’s calling his dog.”
Another time, I had the wrong leg forward as I took a grand jete. When I sailed past George, he scowled at me, and I called out, “Next time.”

George liked to "help" students with their stretches at the barre. Picture him lifting your leg a foot or two more than your best. He picked on me once but, truly, he had no body smarts and I felt brutalized. “Who was that masked man?” I muttered as he walked away.

I do miss it all.

xx, Teal