distractions didnât compare to my fascination with the danseurs . I could see myself as one of these princes so much more easily than I could see myself wearing a charcoal suit and tie. These men were strong like I dreamed I would be. They had poise, and shoulders and thighs that looked like they were carved from ivory. They flew, lithe and nimble, through the air. Not like us kids who dropped from trees, twisted our ankles, scraped our shins, or awkwardly leapt across prairie ditches in the spring only to fall short of the opposite bank and have our boots fill with icy water. They only bowed to queens and kings. Their legs were smooth, save for a bulge at the top.
And how could this living statue love a large white bird, when he cared more about his hunting partner? Their big legs bounced them toward each other across the stage, twirled them, too. Then they whispered, touched their hearts and softly stroked each otherâs shoulders, like I had been taught not to do, one Edmonton summer afternoon on my way to the river. Benjamin Weinstein and I walked toward the water, and it was my father who shouted, âBoys donât put their arms around each other.â So we let go and held hands. âAnd boys donât hold hands.â We walked shoulder to shoulder, touching, but never again without shame. But the ballet proved me right; the prince and his buddy embraced each other in front of a whole audience, while the other handsome hunters stood like living statuesâfirm thighs, round butts and bulgesâarms draped on one anotherâs shoulders, waiting for their cue to join in the dance. They didnât mind showing their round butts, firm thighs and bulges.
âWhy wonât they talk?â
âShhh!â
But how could anyone understand the story if no one talked? Or sang?
At the intermission women tipped their glasses of rye and ginger and carefully stuck their tongues in their glasses to keep their lipstick from caking, as my mother explained.
And people kept saying new-RAYE-ev and Fon-TAIN. The men talked, laughed, whispered and belched out words into their rum and Cokes and Scotches, words like commie and ruskie , bohunk and fairy .
âWhatâs a commie? Whatâs a ruskie?â I knew how to be a shit. The women ignored me and stroked my cheeks with the backs of their hands, and I knew, even then, that if I smiled they would say something. âLovely new teethâfitting for a dentistâs son.â
For better or worse, with no brothers or sisters I was the centre of their attention. Everyone said how fortunate my folks were to have such a handsomeâblond-haired, blue-eyed and lovely lippedâand well-behaved young man.
âYour father says you wonât remember, but Iâm sure you will.â
âYour mother has a thing for ruskie fairies.â His jabs had a distinct tone; I knew what to ignore and when to pretend I didnât understand.
No one asked if Iâd ever be the next New-RAYE-ev.
At home my mother tucked me into a grown-up bed in my big room, far away from theirs. Indian rugs covered the cold oak floors. They probably still do. Youâd never know it was well below zero outside the walls of that big warm bungalow in Strathcona, Edmonton.
In my bedroom in the basement, I lay in the dark and wondered what it was they liked about going out. Was it the intermission? Seeing their friends? The same reasons they went to church? Or was it a chance to drink cocktails? I figured the husbands went to make the wives happy, and the wives went to dream of princes. As I dozed, I wished I lived in that world where no one spoke and everyone was beautiful. I slept and dreamt of feathers stuck to women, and closed lips miming secrets, while dancers with rock-hard thighs flew through the sky, their tights full of sticky mints.
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Intermissions, for dancers who happen to be sitting in the audience, are the side-shows of life, where egos bow and
Dick;Felix Francis Francis