TWELVE-STEP TANGO

After talking with a friend on the phone, I typed what he'd told me over dinner.

“It’s a weird dance,” said Marsh. “Once you get started you just can’t stop.”
“What?” I asked my friend over Chinese food.
“I read this article. Martin Sheen travels with his dance instructor so he can work on his dancing at night.”
“You mean she’s his girlfriend?”
“No,” Marsh said. “He takes his girlfriend and the instructor. They dance together. The instructor guides them in improving their tango.”
“That is insane. He must be filthy rich.”
“It’s weird,” said Marsh. “It’s like once you get the tango started it just goes on and on. You can’t really stop it.”
I started to laugh. My egg roll lost its appeal.
“It takes on a life of its own. You just get to one level and then another. It possesses you. You get tangled up in the tango, and you can just never let it go. You want to constantly to improve. It’s like ballet or something. There’s like levels of involvement. You just can’t quit.”
“Can’t quit?”
“No, it’s like an addiction.”

I pictured Martin Sheen and his lovely girlfriend I made up, let's say Melanie, on the way to the location of his latest movie set in Montana. His travelling tango teacher, also the chauffeur, spots a gas station connected by a breezeway to a country and western bar. The red neon sign flashed “DANCIN'.” My mind went nuts.


TWELVE-STEP TANGO

“Quick, pull over,” shouts Melanie. As Ronnie brakes, Melanie's smile radiates through the blacked-out limo window.

“Oh, I thought we’d never find a dance floor. I’ve been about to tango for the last 50 miles since Bozeman,” said Martin.

As the chauffeur pulled up to an empty pump, Martin dashed for the men’s room. He combed his hair left, then right, then straight back. His face showed he had lost weight.

His dancing queen, Melanie, ducked into her cubicle to freshen up and add a little perfume. She pinched her cheeks red. They rendezvoused in the hallway and glided toward the dance floor hand in hand.

“Do you think this juke box will have anything?” Melanie asked.

“Have faith, honey,” Martin reassured. “Have I ever let you down? We’ll play every tune if we have to.”

Six quarters later they found a beat they both agreed would do--“Mini-Warehouse of Misery.”

Martin and his lady gazed over their left shoulders and waited for the beat. Picking up right where they’d left off in another city, they set their posture high and spun into mysterious mastery of the tantalizing tango.

Jim Bob Wilson, the bartender, slacked his jaw. Sean Remington, janitor and cub reporter from the weekly Hip Pocket, stared in disbelief.

“They don’t even know we’re here,” Sean said.

“It’s like they’re in some kinda trance or somethin’,” said Jim Bob, wiping down the bar for the tenth time in as many minutes.

“What do you reckon will stop them?” said the reporter.

“Stop them? Stop them?” Ronnie butted in. “There is no ‘stopping’ the tango. You must be kidding. Ha!! That’s a laugh.”

“What’s so funny, Mister?” asked the bartender through clenched teeth. Just then Martin paused in mid turn.

“Ronnie, help us. What is happening? My balance is off," said Martin. Melanie paced while Ronnie danced with Martin trying to loosen him up.

“You are going to be fine. Just don’t panic," Ronnie said. "I’ll rest my arms on your shoulders. You move and let me feel the flow so I can follow. Go on.”

Martin closed his eyes in prayer then caught the music and spun to the right. Ronnie followed easily.

"What just happened?” asked the bartender to himself.

“Perfect, Martin,” Ronnie complimented. “You’re back.”

“Thanks, Ronnie, that was a close call. I panicked,” Martin said. “Honey, let’s continue.”

Ronnie gave a them a look a proud parent saves for his favorite child starring in the school play. He had the greatest job in the world. Then he went back outside to practice his own front dip as he check the tires and oil on the black stretch.