"Shall we dance?" No thanks! The ability to glide across the dance floor has never been a part of my DNA. That, makes it especially strange that I would choose a performing career which included musical theater, because at some point in some show you are going to have to move to the music. I made many choreographers weep in the course of my musical theater career. I once played Buffalo Bill in a production of "Annie Get Your Gun". The choreographer for that show, the wonderful late Toni Kaye, was so frustrated with me, she threatened to kill me. She was not kidding. I did my due diligence to her dance steps by the time we opened. I still think I was more Buffalo than Bill unfortunately. One critic concurred and called me "grotesque".
I was fortunate in that I worked with several gracious actor counterparts who generously held me by the hand to help me get through the dance sequences in stage as well as film productions. I owe a deep debt of gratitude to the lovely and talented Carol Swarbrick, Marilyn Hickey Rhering, and Robin Gehr who helped me through dance numbers and made me look good. I've since made all three of them Honorary Elves at the North Pole. Hopefully they've all forgiven me by now for the crunched toes and bruised knees.
On one occasion, I was part of a production number for a big time charity event honoring Lana Turner. This time the choreographer was show biz legend, Debbie Reynolds. The routine was actually rather remedial, but I just couldn't get my brain to connect with my feet. In frustration, Debbie looked at me, shook her head, and putting her hands on her hips, said, "Shades of Eddie Fisher. He could never dance either!"
Maybe dance class was the answer. Alas, it wasn't. I tried tap and jazz, even a ballet class once. The ballet mistress did say I had good balance. The sad part; not only was I abysmal at the moves, I looked totally ridiculous. The dancing hippos in "Fantasia" definitely came to mind.
Tripping the light fantastic never really worked in everyday life for me either. I escorted Mrs. Santa Claus out onto the dance floor at one New Year's celebration. After a minute or two she said, "This really isn't working, dear." I agreed, and we gave it up as a bad job.
In college the only luck I had with dancing was bad luck. I was asked by a very nice co-ed who kind of liked me to a dance event called the Preference Ball. I accepted her invitation. When we arrived and I stepped out of the car to open the door for her, I slipped on the ice and landed right on my tail bone. The agonizing pain made it virtually impossible for me to dance though I did brave a couple of numbers with her. She had envisioned a romantic evening being whisked around the dance floor by an over sized Fred Astaire; instead she got Humpty Dumpty with a cracked tail bone. I hardly need to mention she never spoke to me again.
On another less than magical night at a college dance I had gone stag to, I perused the room and saw a lovely lass who was quite fair of face. Mind you, the room in which the dance was held was virtually pitch black. Anyway, I gallantly strode over to the young lady and asked for a dance. She then stuck out her arms and legs and I saw that she was a dwarf (or the more politically correct little person) she then asked, "Are you sure?" What was I going to say at that point, "Sorry shorty, there's no way in Hell's half-acre this is happening?" Instead I held out my hand to her and said, "I'm sure. Come on." So here I was at 6'6" dancing with a dwarf. I'm sure she felt as if she were dancing with Gargantua. After a couple of moments, the dark notwithstanding, every other couple in the room stopped dancing to look at us. As my stature challenged friend and I continued to rock out to the beat, I smiled, but in my head I was thinking, "Someone please kill me. Kill me now!" Like I said, bad luck.
I am still trying to discover where my talents actually lie, but I know for certain it isn't with dancing! Anyhow, that's how Santa sees it!
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