Gather Together in My Name - Maya Angelou [40]
I dried my face with dusty hands and lifted my head. R.L. was sitting at the table in the same chair, his head propped up with his hand. The dark-brown face was somber and he said quietly, “Well, anyway, you've got nice legs.”
When we went to a nearby rehearsal hall I was amazed to see R.L. Poole move. The wind seemed to make him dance. I pictured his lean bony legs as being attached directly to his sharp shoulders with skeletal pins. For he would hunch his shoulders and glide across the rehearsal-hall floor, his heels and toes tapping below him in a fusillade of small explosions, his arms dangling at his side, his face a pockmarked oval.
He tried to simplify the intricate tap rhythms by singing them to me in a rough, low voice. “Boom, boom, boo rah, boo rah, boo rah, boo rah, brah, brah.” Sharp slaps on the floor, dust rising from the old wood.
With the polish of a professional, R.L. made it all appear easy. I telescoped my energy on the gliding steps of the flash, with no less purpose than a ballet student mastering a tour jeté. I would rise my arms shoulder-high, then open them out slowly, take two sliding steps, bend one knee and hold the position. An accomplished flash partner frames and highlights the principal dancer when he is tapping out complex rhythms. To be able to let my body swing free over the floor and the crushing failures in my past was freedom. I thanked R.L. for my liberation and fell promptly in love with him.
CHAPTER 22
I committed myself to a show-business career, and dancing and studying dance swallowed me. Charlie Parker's “Cool Breeze” was my practice piece. Flash, slide through the opening riff, then stash during Bird's solo; keeping soft-shoe time by dusting the boards with the soles of my feet, then breaking during Bud Powell's piano wizardry. Break, cross step. Chicago. Fall. Fall. Break, crossover. Apple. Break. Time step. Slap crossover. Then break and Fall off the Log, going out on the closing riff.
I practiced until my ankles ached, without complaint, and was more than rewarded when R.L. told me one day, “After we break in our act out here, I think we'll go East. Big Time. Join Duke's or Basie's road show.”
My concern was not how I'd manage with my son on the Big-time Circuit, but how I could perfect my flash so that R.L. wouldn't go looking for a prettier partner. I used my time at the Chicken Shack to strengthen my ankles. When I was behind the counter I stood on tiptoe, letting one heel down, then raising it, and pressing the other to the floor.
When R.L. decided we were ready to try out our act, I sprang my homemade costume on him. I had gone to a theatrical store and bought a wig, coke feathers, a padded bra and a G-string. I sewed the shiny black feathers on the scanty outfit, then added a few sequins and a little sparkle for show. My costume could be held in one balled fist, and the G-string barely covered my pubic hair and the cleavage of my buttocks.
“Er … no.” He lowered his head and searched painfully for the words he wanted. “Uh … Rita … no. That won't … uh … get it … That's … wh … a shake dancer's rig … I mean, I'll show you … Something like a bathing suit … with spangles …”
I stood before him, my oiled skin gleaming, the fluffy wig trembling with ringlets on my head, withering with disappointment. My costume was a faithful copy of L'Tanya's, the popular interpretive dancer who was a current favorite at the Champagne Supper Club.
“You'll look … I mean, tap shoes are gonna look … I mean, they don't go together …”
I remembered. L'Tanya danced barefoot, with a string of little bells around her ankles and rings on her toes. I reluctantly agreed that my creation didn't fit a rhythm tap routine but put it away for future use.
R.L. rented a red, white and blue costume for me that was cut like a one-piece bathing suit. I added a top hat and cane, and we were ready