Dance Recital, October 2002, by Carla Weaver
From MemoryArchive
Who: Carla Weaver What: Falling Down the Stairs When: October 2002 Where: Providence, RI
The dancers took their final bow in mechanical unison and flitted offstage like butterflies. The smattering of applause from the few dozen in the crowd died and the low hum of conversation rose to fill the gap. She looked at me, with sleep-drugged eyes and an expression of something more excruciating than boredom. To think I chose this over being grounded, she mused with a painful look toward the stage.
I couldn't have agreed more. The performances were regretful and each girl out of sync, each bone protruding from unnaturally lean bodies shot a jolt of pain through me. This wasn't a performance. This was a massacre. Feeling older than I should have I pulled myself out of the tangerine seat and turned as she rose from hers. Our companions pulled themselves from their cushions and began to wind their way down onto the terrace. She followed, clumping down each stair as cheers and flowers were passed around us. I followed, looking back at my seat, somewhat reluctantly. I'd never had a taste for social niceties.
We slid around the couples clutching and children chattering to the blond-headed dancer just emerged from backstage. Our companions, friends of hers, introduced us. She acknowledged our presence with a vague smile and half-nod. So, she stated with an absent sigh, Whad'ya think?
Knowing she didn't really care and that she'd already forgotten our names, we replied that it was Nice and retreated into obscurity. Impossible slim arms crunched friends of the blond-headed dancer to her. We waited against the rail, as far out of everyone's way as possible. People still asked us to move.
Finally, our companions realized the blond angel would not share the game of reminiscing on past events. Turning, they said it was time to go and would we like something to eat? She looked at me and turned to our companions, responding Cake. The young boy agreed and our group set off in search of some decent dessert.
Gliding through the crowd to the exit and salvation, she and I glanced nervously around. Too many people in too obnoxious a room. The lime, tangerine, and violet began to meld together as we scampered to our escape. Reaching the stairs, I began to follow her down. Turning to state some witty observation, she seemed to grow rapidly shorter. Only she didn't. She had slipped and begun to fall. Performing a half-turn, she grabbed for the elegant railing. Momentum overcoming her, she continued to spin, occasionally catching hold with her foot and pushing off again. Five steps later, she sprawled gracefully on the floor, her swan dive at an end. It was the best performance I'd seen all night.
Our companions finally noticed her situation, and inquired after her health. Are you fine? What's wrong? Are you OK? She nodded but could not speak. Neither of us could. Her performance had been so exquisitely poignant and we hadn't moved in so long. The blood rushing through our veins made speech impossible. Our hysterical shrieks of laughter frustrated the others and our companions hastened through the door, as if to deny our acquaintance. We followed, vibrating with hilarity.
The complaints of the young man broke up the party and we all set out for our own homes. The entire time I was thinking, She should have been the grand finale.
