Center Floor
Jesse and I would sharpen our dancing skills at my house after school. Shoes off, records on, rugs rolled up, we’d hear opening chords and head straight for center floor. We’d attract an admiring crowd of two; my mom and the family dog, Lady. We were very good.
Jesse stood four inches taller than my 5’4”, perfect for spinning me in under-arm turns. Latin heritage was evident in his wavy, black hair, brown eyes, and toffee colored complexion. He had full lips, a flat nose, and enviably high cheekbones.
I described myself as “early German/Irish peasant”. Fair skin, long blonde hair, hazel eyes, thin face. Both of us had been blessed with rhythm, grace, and far too much energy.
The dances after football games became our performing venues. Jesse would wait for me to change out of my majorette costume, then we’d run together towards the local band (Usually The Morticians.)
“Hi! Could ya’ll please play. . . ?”
“Gloria, right? Van Morrison? We know, we know.”
Gloria was our favorite dance song. Every note, every beat and every cymbal crash was imbedded in our muscle memory. Hearing the opening chords, we’d head straight for center floor. We always attracted a crowd. We were very good.
Jesse signed my yearbook “friends forever”, and that’s what we remained. We didn’t date each other. We commiserated with each other. Jesse was madly in love with my best friend, Cynthia. I was madly in love with Grady. Florence to Jesse late night phone chats were routine.
“Jesse? Word isn’t out yet, but I wanted you to know. Leonard just broke up with Cynthia.”
“Oh my gosh. Is she okay?”
Pause.
“Jesse , you’re too nice to be real. Cynthia is my best friend and I’ve spent hours letting her cry on my shoulder. You’re madly in love with her and you’re supposed to have ulterior motives and ask if there’s any way she’ll fall for you.”
“I’m not stupid. She and I will never be more than good friends. I will forever cherish her in unrequited love.”
“You’ve been reading bad Gothic novels again, haven’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
“Forget this romantic suffering hero stuff. Ask her out!”
Or:
“Florence! Florence.”
“What?”
“Remember this afternoon when you were sitting in the bleachers watching basketball practice and Steve came over the rail and started chasing you?”
I smiled wickedly.
“Oh …yes.”
“Well, Grady was watching the whole time. He threw the basketball into the corner and stalked off into the locker room!”
“Good. I hope he’s thoroughly jealous. Incidentally, Steve and I are going out after Friday’s game.”
Regardless of our romantic misadventures, Jesse and I ended up spending more time together than couples “going steady”. When we weren’t dancing at my house or involved in school activities, we’d drive around town together.
We’d browse through record stores checking out the latest hits from England. We’d go shopping and look for the latest styles from England. We’d grab a pizza at Giovanni’s, and ask the guitarist to play the latest hits from England while we tried to figure out where to get enough money for the latest styles from England.
One afternoon over a pepperoni and mushroom, we heard that Bucky was in the middle of a burger-stuffing challenge with Randy at What-a-Burger and drove over to cheer them on.
“Slam dunk, Miss Florence. Randy outweighs Bucky by 100 pounds.”
“Ah, but Bucky is smarter. He’ll have a strategy. You just watch.”
Crammed into a booth meant for four people were six classmates. Jesse and I slid next to them.
“Go, Randy!” Margaret, Randy’s girl, was screaming in full cheerleader voice.
“Buck-ee! Buck-EE! BUCK-EE!”
The chanting grew louder from Cynthia, Connie, and Steve.
I joined in with:
“Bucky, Bucky, he’s our man
He’ll eat more than Randy can!”
Jesse stared at me.
“That was terrible.”
“You want good poetry, read Emily Dickinson or Shakespeare. This is a heated moment in sports history!”
A heated moment that ended when a green faced Randy lunged for the restroom while Bucky grinned, then calmly and slowly finished his pile of burgers.
I never drove Jesse home. He wouldn’t allow it. He lived with his grandmother in a part of town literally known as No Man’s Land. None of the surrounding cities claimed the area, leaving its residents with dirt roads, no police or fire department, and little sanitation.
Jesse was silent on the subject of where and how he lived. I knew certain facts. I knew No Man’s Land was not a safe place. I knew Jesse had family besides Grandmother, somewhere. I knew he’d been given a scholarship based on low economic level from St. Francis Parish to attend our high school.
I never pressed Jesse for further details. His privacy and his feelings were more important. Besides, we had more important, weighty topics to discuss.
“I really want to develop this with a matte finish. It evokes a much softer emotion.”
“Emotion, schmotion! I’m not looking for emotion, Jesse! I want a publicity photo for the recital. Professional headshots are always glossy 8 X 10’s.”
“So, when you become a professional dancer, you’ll get glossy. Right now, you get matte.”
I got matte.
And:
“I went to the Peter, Paul & Mary concert! My brothers took me, so Mom said I could stay out later! It was great. We actually got to talk to them after. They were so nice. Bob and I mainly talked to Paul and Don was discussing guitars with Peter.”
“That’s too cool. Hey, did you know Grady stayed up all night to get tickets?”
I sniffed.
“He told me. Mind you, he didn’t ask me to go with him. He went with some group from the college. I thought it was funny. If he’d gone with me and my brothers, he could’ve stayed and met Peter and Paul. As it turned out, he had to leave ‘cause the cute little sorority girls had curfew. They were in by 11 when the concert was still going on!”
Talking about Peter, Paul and Mary invariably led to us singing folk and protest songs. We knew the words to Bob Dylan’s Subterranean Homesick Blues; could harmonize through Simon & Garfunkel’s The Sounds of Silence. We were even able to sing the anti-war counterpoint Canticle in Scarborough Fair. We were very good.
We loved to sing. We put our gifts to use in the Glee Club. Jesse was a gifted singer with a pure, perfectly pitched voice and an incredible range. He rightfully had his share of solos. He could sing tenor. He could sing bass.
I had a good range, good pitch, and could read music. I moved from soprano to alto sections, as needed. Jesse and I held the Glee Club together. The director, Sister Clara Frances, probably thought differently, but was too polite to say so.
As mobile vocalists, Jesse and I would be placed side by side during practice – a potentially disruptive situation. We loved to sing. We also loved to talk. We did both.
“Pssst!”
“What?”
“They’re putting my artwork up at the fair!”
“Jesse, that’s too neat!”
“They might even put prices on some of the paintings!”
“Wow.”
“Abigail Marie, BE QUIET!”
“Sorry, Sister, but Jesse was just. . .
“Don’t ,‘but Jesse was just’ me. I saw you talking. We have too much work to do and as usual, you’re disrupting the group.”
“Sorry, Sister.”
“Sister?”
“Yes, Jesse?”
“It’s my fault, really. I was telling Florence about my artwork getting put up at the fair this weekend.”
This pronouncement would be followed by one of Jesse’s delightfully infectious giggles.
“OH, Jesse, that’s wonderful! Choir, everyone needs to go to the fair and see Jesse’s work!”
I’d just sigh and shake my head.
Jesse’s giggle could charm singing nuns or screaming children. He and I taught catechism classes in a tiny, Hispanic, farming community where Jesse became the kids’ hero. Teaching in Spanish, he’d tell stories not necessarily authorized by the Vatican. Gleeful shrieks would be constantly erupting from his young audience
“Jesse, what are you telling them?”
“Oh…just the parable of the prodigal son.”
“I don’t remember that parable as being particularly side splitting. Are you adding something?”
This query would be acknowledged with a sweet smile. (Jesse had the sweetest smile of any creature on God’s earth.) I also knew behind that sweet smile lurked wickedly funny thoughts.
I imagine if questioned today, those pupils might not recall specific church dogma. But they’d remember the laughter.
Jesse could laugh at himself as easily as he could make others laugh around him. About a week before graduation, he and I decided to visit the zoo. Jesse used up a roll of film that day, posing me saluting with bald eagles, preening with peacocks, balancing with ostriches.
Mid-afternoon, I pulled a Dr. Doolittle. A llama was eyeing us across its small pasture.
“Here, llama, llama, llama. Come model for us. Come here, girl, there’s a good llama.”
Trotting over, it stuck its nose in my hand, and whinnied.
I patted it on its head.
“Nice llama. Can you smile for Jesse’s camera?”
Teeth bared, it snorted fiercely at Jesse.
“It’s going to bite me! I can tell she hates me! For that matter, how do you know it’s a she?”
“She’s got a pink collar on. And she doesn’t hate you. You’re just being a wimp. Besides, she’s on the other side of the fence. Come pat her and take the picture!”
“Look at those teeth. I’m going to be ripped to shreds! I’m staying as far away as I can.”
He speedily took the shot – then took off running.
I found him by the monkey cage. We stared at each other. Then the laughter exploded, bringing with it streaming tears, and aching sides.
We had much the same reaction when we saw the photos. For some reason, the llama and I are flashing remarkably similar smiles.
After high school, Jesse and I gradually saw less of each other. We’d go to an occasional rock concert together. And , of course, we’d call late at night.
“I’m madly in love with Sid.”
“Wait, weren’t you madly in love with Rick last week?”
“That was last week. Honestly, Jesse, keep up with the calendar.”
“I’m trying but I think your love life is getting too confusing. Hey, did you see Cynthia this week?”
“Yeah, she’s using her real name now. Did you know it’s Hyacinth? She decided it had more flower power. Are you still nuts about her?
“Well, (long pause) “I still like to hear what she’s up to. Um, actually, I met a girl at church a couple of weeks ago. She’s really nice and really pretty. Her name is Elicia.”
“Well, Hallelujah and Praise the Lord! Have you asked her out yet?”
“Give me time.”
“Jesse, I adore you, but you are a mess.”
We attended Elicia’s wedding (to James) and the baptism of her child a couple of years later.
One Christmas during college ,Jesse and I sang for a candlelight peace rally. Our voices were in harmony; our sentiments were in unison. It was our last singing performance together.
At our twentieth high school reunion, Jesse and I met again. We heard the opening chords and headed straight for center floor. We still attracted a crowd. We were still very good.
Mom sent me the obituary notice.
Name. Age.
Died this day…
Funeral mass, burial, survived by a son, brother, nieces and nephews.
Sang with the choir at St. Francis.
Jesse had a son. Jesse sang…
I never knew.
Died this day…
The silence that enveloped me was deafening.
I still sharpen my dancing skills at home in the apartment. Shoes off, records on, rugs rolled back, I hear opening chords and head straight for center floor. Jesse’s there. We attract a crowd. We’re very good.
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