The Santa Monica promenade is basically an outdoor mall with a closed-to-traffic, paved-brick road running through it. In the spring and summer it’s packed with tourists watching street performers. There are B-boy dancers, the School of Rock kids, singer/songwriter types. My absolute favorite, though, is Grumpy Clown. He looks like a desaturated version of an actual clown. If he’s not stalking the length of the promenade smoking a cigarette and glowering at small children, he’s sitting on one of the benches constructing the balloon animals you see in your nightmares. Seriously, they’re terrifying.
Fifi chooses a spot right next to one of the dinosaur hedge-sculptures that dot the promenade.
She puts down the tip jar and seeds it with twenty dollars from her purse. “People are more likely to like you if they think other people like you,” she says to my questioning look.
X puts the boom box down next to our tip jar and Fifi loadsa CD.
“Fifi—” I begin, trying to give my objections one last chance to make an impression on her.
But she’s not having it. “To dance on a floor with eleven other couples, you must be fearless. You must hold judges’ attention over other dancers. You must make other couples invisible.”
“Fifi, man, you make it sound like we’re going to war,” Xsays.
“Itiswar,” she says. “And right now you are not good weapon.” She claps her hands together. “Into position.”
I take two deep breaths to calm myself. The air’s a mix of ocean brine, floral perfumes and that new-leather mall smell. The almost-lunchtime sun is high and hot. It feels like a spotlight shining down on us.
“I start you off easy,” Fifi says, and stoops to press play on the CD.
At first, we’re Tin-Man-from-Wizard-of-Oz stiff. I’m hyper-self-conscious and, paradoxically, hyperaware of everyone walking by. I sneak a peek at our potential “audience.” We get vaguely curious glances from tourists. The locals—the people who actually work nearby and are used to all kinds of performances—ignore us completely.
Next to us, Fifi hisses corrections: “Infinity hips! Stronger frame! Eye contact!”
The first song ends, but Fifi doesn’t give us time to rest. She plays three more bachata songs in a row. The tempo increases with each, so that by the fourth I’m concentrating too hard to have time for self-consciousness.
By the time the last song ends fifteen minutes later, X and I are both breathing hard.
Fifi waves us over. “Tell me,” she says. “Why you think no one is watching?”
I don’t answer. I know a rhetorical question when I hear one.
Evidently, X does too, because he doesn’t answer either.
“Not watching because both of you dancing with head, not heart. And too busy paying attention to the people not paying attention to you.” She looks at X. “You are in band. You perform on stage. Where is boldness?”
“Singing and ballroom dancing are not the same thing, Fi,” he says.
“But you have to have charisma, yes? Where is charisma?” she asks.
She turns to me. “Technique is not terrible,” she says. “But you are smoke without fire.”
I’m sure she’s right. Still I want to point out that
smoke is very hot
and
people die just as much from smoke inhalation as they do from actual flames.
However, there’s no way saying any of that will help my case.
