Grant Brünner: Bassguy

One - Two - Cock - Twirl - One - Two - Three. That is how I remembered the choreography for the dancing class I took when I was fifteen. It should be noted that the aforementioned “Cock” is that of a gun — not a penis. I was a bit of an odd duckling, and I had decided that I wanted to take a dance class. In my defense, I did take the class with a female, and I never once wore a leotard. I had asked my friend — let’s call her Jane — to come with me to a local ball room dancing class. We walked into the classroom, and instantly noticed that we were the only two people in the entire class that were under fifty years old. Not to be bested by folks almost as old as my grandparents, I left poor Jane at the door as I walked up to the sign in sheet, wrote our names down, and gave my twenty dollars to the lady with her grey hair in a tight bun. I tugged on Jane’s sleeve, and she followed me over to who I (correctly) assumed to be the woman in charge.

After some uncomfortable banter between the teacher and some of the more cantankerous men, we began the class. Jane and I followed the instructions exactly as one would expect complete novices to do. That is to say, clumsily. At the time, I always kept my shoulders in a hunched-foreward position. I can say for sure that this did not help me to learn the art of dance. At some point in the first lesson, the teacher actually had to come over and explain to us that the lady (That would be Jane) shouldn’t be attempting to lead, and the man (That would be me) should take charge. To say that I felt like a dopey asshole would be an understatement.

We kept at it for two weeks, and then I decided it would be an awesome idea to video tape ourselves dancing so that we could critique our performance. Her father dropped her off at my house, and after realizing that there wasn’t enough room to comfortably fit a camera and two clumsy teenagers trying to dance, we moved our shindig to my lawn. I set up my camcorder from 1994 next to the family car, and we began our bizarre ritual. Not fifteen minutes into the act, I began to say my little choreography chant. When I got around to the “Cock,” Jane became annoyed. Very annoyed. Let’s just say that I think she slapped me. Not hard, but if memory serves, my cheek was the same shade of red as diaper rash. Like a jackass, I tried to explain my chant, but I didn’t get very far. Perhaps my chant wasn’t so helpful after all. We practiced in the midday sun for about forty minutes, and then we gave in and got something to drink. I don’t think I ever got around to watching that tape, but it certainly would have been a site to see.

We returned to dance class two more times. I could tell that we were making inroads. However, I got a call from Jane that said that she was going to be starting driver’s ed., and that she would no longer be able to make it to our dance lessons. That phone call essentially killed any desire I had to dance. Without a partner, what good are fly West-Coast swing moves? My brief life as a dancer was over, but it sure does make for a great story. “Remember that one time when I became a dancer?”