Chapter Three
Congress

“Where are you?” James asked after I answered his call.

 

“Alexandria,” I responded.

 

“Did you get licensed in Virginia and not tell me?” he asked.

 

“Nah,” I laughed. 

 

“What are you doing in Alexandria?” before I could answer, he added, “No!  You are not at the Congress!”

 

“Actually, I am.”

“It’s two o’clock on a business day.  What are you doing?”

 

“Dancing,” I smiled.

 

“Wait what?  Seriously, what are you doing?”

 

“I’m on a break between workshops.  You should join,” I suggested.

 

“Some of us have to work.”

 

“The social tonight then?” I inquired.

 

“I don’t know.  Maybe,” I recognized his typical version of a ‘no.’

 

“Okay.  I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know all about it.”

 

“Have fun,” he offered half-heartedly.

 

“I will.”

 

I hadn’t planned to attend, not exactly.  I was all set to spend my Friday preparing for next week’s trial, but, like many of my cases, it settled.  They often settled the evening before a trial, since many of my opponent counsel wanted to bill their client until the last minute before caving on issues they’d classified as deal-breakers.  That case, however, involved one of the good ones, an attorney actually trying to serve his client without the typical concern for earning more than the case should’ve billed.  I liked him.  I liked his style.  I hoped to have more cases with him, or someone like him.  Unfortunately, like me, he’s often classified in the anomaly section of the Bar Association.  And at first glance, it’s not always easy to identify the bad actors among us. 

 

Settlement on a Thursday for a Monday trial meant two options for me:  use Friday to catch up and get ahead, or take some time for myself.  Unlike my typical decision when such blessings occurred, I opted for the latter. I had called into my office to check on things before making the commute across the bridge, parking at the closest garage and registering myself for the event. 

 

Somewhat disappointed that James would not be joining, I took a walk around the neighborhood before returning to the ballroom just in time for the next class.  The instructors were new to me and I did not immediately recognize a single person among the thirty or so attendees.  For a moment, I didn’t really understand my choice that day.  What prompted me to venture into this new experience completely alone and unprepared?  I heard bits and pieces of chatter about the Congress during a couple of classes in the weeks prior, but did not fully conceptualize the event in which I haphazardly decided to enroll.  My behavior was strange and I somehow blamed James, even though I gave him no advanced notice of my decision.  I didn’t even invite him to join, at least not before I had shown up to an unfamiliar city, awkwardly unprepared and with limited knowledge of what lay ahead.

 

The class was Salsa, my home base.  A dynamic duo stood before us and made the movements look easy.  We stuck with our initial partners for about half of the class.  Mine, a talkative man named Austin was eager, excited and full of energy.  After we practiced each new sequence detailed by the instructor, he suggested we try again, and again, and again, until they interrupted his plan and showed us another few steps.  He was like a kid on Christmas and each new sequence was like a present he ripped open, while I carefully untied the bow and folded the wrapping paper with sheer organizational prowess. 

 

But along the way, his excitement somehow infiltrated my steps and his elation at each mastered part energized me.  He talked throughout our practice and while I missed a bit of the instruction, I learned more about Austin in that first twenty minutes than I could’ve imagined learning about any fellow dancer. 

 

Austin was a Ph.D. candidate, along with his best friend, who he may or may not have, but absolutely does have a massive crush on.  He grew up in Colorado, loves the East Coast, and would be back in classes in two months after enjoying a well-deserved break from the overloads of coursework and sleep deprivation.  Austin’s crush, Annabelle, was not at the Congress, as she was on vacation with her family, parents and younger sister, in Nantucket, but she’d be back in a week and we should absolutely all meet up and go to some classes, some socials, and I should absolutely join them for the next Congress during the first week of July, at a different hotel, this time near Dulles airport, because it will be absolutely amazing and will, indeed, have a focus on not just Salsa, but the other popular dances, and not just small rooms to the side like here, but massive rooms with so many amazing dancers and I should really book a hotel instead of driving home each night like I planned to do at this Congress, because the dancing really doesn’t happen until late night and I should make sure to take a nap after the workshops end and after dinner, of course, because I will need the energy to make it through the all night dance sessions, which I absolutely cannot miss because it is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before and I just have to be there. 

 

“Ok.  Switch partners.  Follows stay put.  Leads move to your left.”

 

“Your other left,” I indicated to Austin, “nice to me you.”

 

“Hey, lady,” I recognized the man who also seemed to recognize me. 

 

“Hey, I know you,” I responded.

 

“Know me?” he questioned.  “I don’t think you know me, but you probably recognize me,” he smiled.

 

“Right.  From the Academy.  Tuesday.  Salsa class,” I added.

 

“Elijah,” he confirmed.  “And you are?”

 

“Parker.  Fellow attorney.”

 

“How did you…oh,” he indicated looking down at his shirt.

 

“I remember the Georgetown Law t-shirt from Salsa class.  As I recall, you didn’t want to talk about law.”

 

“I remember.  I never want to talk about the law,” he put out his hand.  “Let’s do this.”

 

I was immediately inspired by Elijah’s lead.  He had a very different demeanor than any of my regular leads and I had only experienced a few moments of his lead in Salsa class with all of the prompt partner swapping at the Academy.  To say he had a joyous personality was an absolute understatement.  He was the happiest person I ever met in dance class, then and any time thereafter.  He may be the happiest person I ever met in any setting. 

 

He made everything fun.  We messed up, we laughed.  It was fun.  We mastered a move, we celebrated.  It was fun. 

 

They told us to switch partners, he faked it, moved right back to me and the lead who was supposed to show up at my side was confused for a moment before he just succumbed to Elijah’s antics.  Elijah stayed with me for a few cycles of partner swapping and then finally, legitimately, moved to his left.  And when class ended, we both approached the check-in table to pick up t-shirts that weren’t readily available when the day started.  Told they still were not ready, this lawyer, who didn’t want to discuss the law, argued, better yet charmed, his way into snagging us the t-shirts hours before any other attendees. 

 

After seeking my approval of the fit of a t-shirt sized differently than his norm, or so he said, he invited me to join him and a few friends for a Vegan meal a couple of blocks away. 

 

“Sure,” I responded before walking with him around the corner and onto the cobblestone street. 

 

I confirmed that this was my first experience at a Congress and he provided a few tips and pointers to make the most of the experience.  He inquired as to my knowledge beyond Salsa and I admitted my lack thereof.  When we arrived at the restaurant, his friends, who turned out to be his teammates, his dance teammates, were welcoming and inquisitive.  After understanding how I ended up crashing their meal, that’s Elijah for you, they too shared their knowledge of what I had to see and do while attending this weekend of dance.  They made sure I would attend their performances that evening, sometime between 10:00 p.m. and midnight. 

 

“When does the social start?” I asked.

 

“Around midnight,” one team member responded.  Seeing my eyes widen, she added, “you’ll get used to it.”

 

“Excuse me,” I stepped away from the table to answer my phone.

 

“Hey,” he started, “do you have a referral for a good therapist?”

 

“Are you okay?” I inquired.

 

“Yeah, why?” he paused briefly.  “Oh no, not for me.  For a client,” James corrected me.

 

“Sure.  Just shared contact information,” I responded sending a text message.

 

“Got it, thanks,” James ended our call.

 

“Was that your partner in crime?” Elijah asked.

 

“My what?”

 

“You know, the guy you always come to class with,” he explained.

 

“Oh, yeah, that’s my buddy James.  He’s a lawyer too.”

 

“Buddy?” Elijah asked.

 

“Yes, buddy,” I confirmed.

 

“Excellent.  Let’s go,” he placed cash on the table between us.

 

“Where are we going?” I asked and added my own contribution.

 

“To dance,” he chuckled, “of course.”

 

“I thought the workshops were done for the day.”

 

“They are.  We’re going to go meet up with some friends outside the hotel.  There’s a courtyard.  You’ll love it.  It’s right in front of the courthouse, Madame Lawyer.”

 

“Ok,” was my only response.  Our lunch companions were not joining us on our excursion, or so I presumed after noticing that Elijah and I were alone on the walk back from the restaurant. “So, what’s your problem with the law?  Is it just that you don’t want to talk about something you have to do all day?”

 

“I don’t spend any time doing the law,” Elijah shook his head.

 

“What?” I was genuinely confused. 

 

“I went to law school and passed the Bar, but I’m a physicist by day.”

 

“Oh,” I was surprised.

 

“Not what you expected?” he inquired.

 

“Not at all.” 

 

“So, you’re an actual lawyer?” he asked. 

 

“I guess so,” I responded feebly.  “I mean, I practice law.”

 

“I always wondered why people say that,” Elijah smirked.

 

“What?”
 

“Practice law.  No other profession says that,” he shook his head.

 

“Doctors practice medicine,” I responded.

 

“Sure.  Leave it to the two most pompous professions on the planet to say they are practicing.  Meanwhile, you and those doctors charge ridiculously high rates for your services.  Maybe I’ll pay you all your requested hourly rate when you’re done with all of the practice.”

 

I chuckled.  “So, based upon your apparent distaste for my profession, I guess we won’t be partnering again any time soon.”

 

“Just the opposite.  I gotta knock that law out of you.”

 

“Um,” I offered nervously, “explain.”

 

“Well, now that we’ve confirmed that your head is in the law, through no fault of your own of course, it’s just caused by your chosen profession, which I guess is your fault.  Anyway, now I know how to help you,” Elijah offered.

 

“I need help?” I asked.

 

“Oh yes, my dear Parker, you do.”  He paused for a most before adding, “It’s a fairly obvious problem and not uncommon.”

 

“What’s that?” I inquired.

 

“In words you’ll understand, I’d call it a ‘letter of the law’ problem.”

 

“Wow, you really despise the law, don’t you?” I wasn’t really asking.

 

“Don’t go getting offended,” he started, “I’m genuinely trying to help, ok?  Give me at least a minute to explain.”

 

“Sure,” was my only response.

 

 “The law was and is designed to set rules and punish when rules are broken, right?” he asked looking towards the courthouse half a block away.

 

“Sure,” I responded noticing how approaching a courthouse, any courthouse, somehow put me at ease.    

 

“So, sometimes, when you focus on following the rules or obeying the rules without looking to the spirit of the rules, you get stuck.”

 

“Okay.  So what’s wrong with following the rules?” I asked.

 

“Nothing.  Nothing at all.  But in dance, learning the steps and sequences verbatim is only the first step.  Then, you have to make it your own.  You have to tweak it to suit your style,” he added.

 

What he was saying made sense, but I remained silent.

 

“During the class, you picked up the choreography easily, but you didn’t go any further.  At least, not until I started messing with your steps.”

 

“You were doing that on purpose?” I inquired.

 

“Yeah.  I was trying to loosen you up.  It may be a class but there’s no exam at the end.  Learn the steps and then go have fun with it,” he suggested.

 

“Sounds like good advice,” I shrugged my shoulders.

 

“You’ll have an opportunity soon enough to test it,” he put his hand out and directed my eyes to the scene before us.

 

The sun was beginning its decent behind the beautiful architecture to our right and aside from the random voices from the balconies of the hotel to our left, the only audible sound was the water being guided through a tranquil fountain twenty feet in front of us.  An area of slate surrounded the fountain and provided a smooth surface for what I assumed would be the impromptu dance session to follow.

 

I found a bench at the edge of the slated space and sat with my bag on my lap.  Elijah stood in front of me after dropping his bag next to me on the bench.

“Are you a good lawyer?” he asked

 

“I think so,” I responded, knowing that I actually ‘knew so.’

 

“Does that have anything to do with what you studied in law school?” he continued his cross-examination.

 

“Sure,” I responded.

 

“Not really, though, right?  Did the theory, history, or anything else you read in a book help you know what to do in a courtroom?” he inquired.

 

“A bit, I guess.  Not exactly.  There was a clinical course where the final exam was a trial in an actual courtroom,” I recalled.

 

“Ok.  With the exception of that course, how did you know what to do?” Elijah inquired.

 

“Trial and error.  The more you do it, the more you learn what to do.”

 

“I think law school just taught you, and me actually, how to think a different way.  Then you, not me, had to go out there with your newly minted analytical skills and figure out what to do with them.”

 

“I don’t disagree with that,” I confirmed.

 

“And you’re a litigator, right?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Spend most days in the courtroom?”

 

“Many, not most.”

 

“Okay.  Being in the courtroom even a little bit, I bet you discovered pretty early on that the law has very little to with the books and everything to do with the people,” Elijah concluded, stretching his calf muscle.

 

“I don’t disagree with that either.”

 

“I mean, it’s really all about the people, right?”

 

“Yes.  I’m tasked with advocating for my clients.  I help tell their stories in a way that is admissible under the evidence rules,” I responded sounding like a lawyer.

 

“Hmmm, you know, your voice changes a bit when you’re talking law or acting law,” he smiled.

 

“I’m aware,” I confirmed softly.

 

 “Anyway, in order to advise your client, you have to understand them and effectively communicate with them.”  He doesn’t await my response.  “And in order to advocate for your client, you have to understand the judges and effectively communicate with them.  And, I’m not sure, but I imagine, you have to understand your opposing counsel and effectively communicate with them, right?”

 

“Sure,” I offered.  “That’ all true.”

 

“So, that’s partnered dancing.  It’s just effective communication.  You find a connection and communicate through movement,” I allowed his words to infiltrate my rarely at-rest brain.  He gave me a few moments of peace before adding, “you can dance, Parker, but when you throw out the rule book and learn how to communicate, you’ll be a real dancer.”

 

“A real dancer?” I scoffed.

 

“Yes,” he confirmed, “when you are willing to break the rules, or at least bend them a bit.”  He noticed the somewhat pensive look on my face, leaned in and whispered, “you’ll have more fun when you realize that there are no rules.”

 

A few minutes after we had arrived at the spot he’d perfectly described, as I sat across from the fountain perfectly centered before the grand columns of the local courthouse, I watched as Elijah and a few of his friends took turns dancing.  One of his friends, Zeke, who happened to be a DJ for the evening’s social, provided the music, and another, Sarah, asked me to take photographs and videos with her phone.  I took a perfect shot of Elijah and Sarah mid-spin, as Sarah’s hair mimicked the spray of the water shooting out of the top of the fountain, and they were perfectly centered between two of the courthouse columns.  If it wasn’t so beautiful, my rule-follower brain may have classified this chaotic party scene on the steps of the courthouse as sacrilege.  But I actually loved it.

 

A few tunes later, Elijah grabbed me for a dance and Sarah reciprocated my videography, capturing Elijah and I in a dance that would later make me cringe. “Is that what I look like when I dance?” 

 

“Yes,” Elijah smiled.

 

“I do need to loosen up,” I suggested.

 

“Yes,” Elijah confirmed.

 

My cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing after several songs with Elijah and he suggested I try a dance with Zeke. 

 

“What is this dance?” I inquired after a few minutes with my new lead.

 

“Does it matter?” Zeke responded.

 

“That’s Kizomba,” Elijah chimed in.  “Wait until I show you Zouk.”

 

“Intrigued,” was my only response. 

 

I was struggling to follow again and realized that Salsa, while challenging, would not be the most difficult dance of my first Congress.  A dance I had never heard of before, Kizomba, would take that prize. 

 

After leaving the courtyard, Elijah and I walked together to our cars, parked a few vehicles away from each other in the nearest garage.  I had a change of clothes in the trunk, a comfortable dress with a geometric pattern in blue, black and white, which I changed into in the back seat of my car.  Elijah stood guard a few cars away and was prepared to warn me, or distract anyone else who entered the garage.  I was a seasoned clothes changer in vehicles.  Yes, I know that’s weird and not exactly a resume item.  I had multiple jobs during college and would often quick-change from one outfit to the next while stopped at red lights.  I wouldn’t recommend it, but it saved me a lot of time and I guess, in those days of pre-licensure, attorney licensure that is, I was a rule bender.  I was also fairly talented at it as no bystanders ever caught a glimpse of skin during these maneuvers.  And frankly, I should fess up, I was doing it long before college.  As a high school overachiever, participating in two different teams, both of which performed during half time shows, I spent most of football season changing behind the percussion section of the marching band in between performances.  To my credit, those high schoolers never caught an inappropriate glimpse either. 

 

My camouflage leggings and t-shirt had served me well during the workshops, but I wanted something a little more exciting for the night ahead.  My chosen dress also happened to match the royal blue dance shoes I had picked up online the previous week – nothing terribly fancy, just a bit of my go-to color and a permissible low heel to bring me confidence for the evening.  The new shoes would remain in my small bag until the social began as the pavement and gravel that led to the hotel could and would ruin the elegant suede on the soles before I had a chance to test them out.  Note to future self – always break in the dance shoes before a social.

 

When I approached him a few cars away, Elijah had removed the t-shirt he had procured only a few hours ago and had changed into a new t-shirt and pants, instead of the shorts from earlier. 

 

During our walk back to the site for the performances, I craved more information on our earlier topic of discussion.  “So, if you’re a physicist, how did you end up in law school?”

 

“I get bored easily.  Plus, I wanted to be able to file my own patents,” Elijah relayed.

“Makes sense.”

 

“Does it?”

 

“I got my M.B.A. so I could run a business without relying on anyone else,” I informed my new acquaintance.

 

“Interesting.”

 

“So, physics has a lot of rules too,” I commented.

 

“It does,” he confirmed.

 

“Did that cause problems for you in dance?”

 

“Not at all.  It enhanced dance for me,” he relayed.

 

“How so?” I asked.

 

“Well, my knowledge of physics helps me understand how my actions can cause reactions.  It helps me understand and forecast movement.  That’s part of how I lead my partner.   The rest is, as you said, trial and error.”

 

“So when you watch other people dance, do you see equations instead of people?” I genuinely asked recalling math-centered television shows and movies which included lines, letters and numbers splashed across scenes. 

 

“Maybe a little, but likely not as you’re imagining,” he chuckled. 

 

“If you’re imagining the rules of physics versus the law, I’d say that the rules of physics help me predict and cause reactions.  The rule of law more often requires you to react after the actions have already happened.  That’s your job, right?  To fix after.  I doubt many come to you for the before,” he assumed.

 

“That’s true.  Except maybe prenups,” I informed him.

 

“Have you ever studied physics?” he inquired.

 

“Yep.  Junior year of high school.  AP Physics,” I laughed under my breath.

 

“What?  What’s that about?” he noticed my laughter despite my attempt to hide it.

 

“I remember my first day.  It was also a pep rally day.  The teacher took one look at my dance team uniform and suggested I was in the wrong class.  Most of my fellow students thought so too.” I sighed and then continued, “I guess that wasn’t the first time my attire confused people and pigeonholed me.  But one guy knew better.  He knew me, or knew me enough.  He was the brother of a guy I dated for a bit.  I guess he thought maybe I was more than my uniform.  It’s amazing how one person’s belief in another person’s capacity can change life’s course, isn’t it?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“I wonder what he’s up to now?” I added, but only to myself. 

 

“Interesting blast from the past.  We’ll have to discuss that more later.  Especially the uniform,” he winked.  “I predict that one of these days your attire will perfectly match the real persona of the day.  The real you.”

 

Looking down at my dress and back up at him, I asked, “not tonight though?”

 

“Nope.  I mean, you look lovely, but it’s not you.”

 

“How would you know?” my response was too curt for his comment and I knew the guard that I had temporarily let down over dinner and dancing in the courtyard had reactivated and personal security protocols were back in full force. 

 

“Just a hunch,” he shrugged off my question.  “Anyway, instead of reacting, like you do in law, I try to cause the reaction.  I see connection points, I see movements as data and using those data points, I can more than predict, with near certainty, your movement.  I can actually cause your movement.  I can make you react to my actions.”

 

“I think I need to see what you mean,” I suggested.

 

Without me noticing, he placed his foot in my path, caused me to fall forward, caught me from behind under my arms, stepped his left foot back, caused me to turn over, nudged the back of my knee with his knee and sent my body rolling forward until I was standing once again.

 

“What the-“ I couldn’t finish my thought.

 

“She can body roll.  Excellent.  You’ll like Zouk,” he smiled and released his grasp.

 

Trying to catch my breath and understand the random trip turned dance move that just happened to me, or that I just participated in, or that I involuntarily performed, maybe, I blurted, “alright.”  I brushed my hands down the front of my dress to make sure the skirt portion was still in its rightful position.  Shaking my head, I added, “physics.”

 

“Let’s go,” Elijah suggested, “the performances will be starting soon.”

 

Upon our arrival in the large ballroom, Elijah introduced me to Mel, June, Andy, Lizzy, Raul, Xavier and Victoria.  They had saved a few seats and Zeke and Sarah joined Elijah and I in the front row.  On cue, the lights went low and an impressive and eloquent host took center stage, microphone in hand.  As he began welcoming the room to the Congress and offered his best introduction to the night ahead, I heard a whisper in my right ear from behind. “Front row, really?”

 

I turned to find James smiling and nodded for him to join us.   “Hey there, partner in crime,” Elijah offered leaning over me from the left as James took the seat to my right. 

 

I introduced James to Elijah’s friends and he nodded after each of their names. 

 

Elijah’s teammates left an hour later to prepare for their performance and James and I were left with Elijah, Mel, Sarah and Zeke, who provided the play by play of each upcoming performer, their backgrounds, what they are known for, why we should be impressed and if I was impressed, when I could take the performers’ classes over the next two days.   It reminded me of the theatre.  We watched stories told through dance and James thoroughly enjoyed the music.  It was Salsa and Bachata, nothing from the Zouk or Kizomba categories that Elijah had referenced earlier.  “Just wait,” Elijah warned, “just wait until you see these dancers tonight.”  He meant in the socials, not the performances, and I was, in fact, excited to see what he was talking about. 

 

“Why aren’t you with your team?” I asked Elijah when they took the stage.

 

“I just joined.  I’m not ready yet and I’m not going to embarrass myself by getting up there before it’s time,” he responded. 

 

They were the last team to perform and the end of the performances meant it was time for the social.  Although I had enjoyed my front row seat to some amazing dancers, I was there for the social.  And having my so-called partner in crime in attendance only excited me more.  For the first time that day, I wouldn’t be alone.  Elijah had proven a stellar companion and he had, in fact, welcomed me into the fold without hesitation.  As had his friends.  But this was my first Congress and I wanted to experience every bit of it with James.

 

My imaginations about the event were nothing like the actual experience of it.  The scale of the event was much larger than I had expected, overwhelming in fact, and the people were not at all what I expected. I don’t exactly know what I thought, but whatever it was, I was wrong.  That first day of the Congress, I had become acquainted with very interesting delegates: a physicist, an engineer, an English Literature professor, a Ph.D. candidate focusing on healthcare infrastructure, an officer in the armed services, a fellow lawyer, a defense contractor and self-proclaimed computer genius, and two Federal agency employees.  While I found their varied professions interesting and unexpected, it was their kindness, willingness to welcome a newcomer, no questions asked, and inclusivity that made me want to join this delegation.  If these people were the representatives of dance in the DMV, they had my vote.

 

The Congress was divided into several rooms, with the largest ballroom housing the live band and unmistakably elite Salsa dancing.  Down the hall, in a slightly smaller ballroom, I found Bachata, although it failed to mimic the obviously tame Bachata I had witnessed at the biweekly Saturday socials.  Across the hall, in a smaller room, there were dancers whose moves I did not recognize, although the music was easily identifiable as fairly, popular R&B that seemed tweaked by the DJ in the corner.  Finally, in the last room at the end of the hallway, I found the smallest room, which also happened to be the most crowded.  Attendees lined the walls awaiting their turn and clever music played across the small space.  I did not recognize the language of the lyrics, sounding like a mix of French and Spanish.  It was later identified as Portuguese.  As I peered across the threshold, I was simultaneously intrigued and scared at the sight of this dance.  After a few moments, I decided to return to my home base, the Salsa room, and find James. 

 

Although the traditional move would allow for the lead to ask the follow, I snatched James’ hand and pulled him onto the dancefloor.  After a brief pause, he smiled and the dance began.  The pairs that surrounded us appeared professional, but we didn’t care.  It was the first time we danced for fun and neglected the counts, the steps or the success of it all.  It was our warm-up.  We stuck together for several songs before I thanked him with a curtsey and he with a partial bow, a clear expression of our, at times, comic personalities.  I viewed him easily approach his next partner and begin the dance.  I waited on the sidelines for my next endeavor.  Bennett was performing in the middle of the room with an equally brilliant partner and I caught his eye and received a wink mid-dance.  With a nod, he suggested I get myself out on the dancefloor, to which I shrugged, still awaiting my next partner.  A few moments later, he arrived.  Zeke.  The one who introduced me to Kizomba in the courtyard.  The one who, I thought, was responsible for handling the music for the event this evening.  Apparently, that would come later. 

 

“Let’s go,” he commanded.

 

“Remember, I’m new,” I reminded him.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” was his only response.

 

What we did could not exactly be described as Salsa.  He seemed to incorporate several styles of dance in one session and I struggled to keep up.  He smiled awkwardly each time I failed to follow.  But he kept trying, adjusting his lead, helping me find my footing, and did not let go when the song ended.  Rather, he noticed my spinning abilities and decided to test my capacity.  I worked with Bennett on spins and he too, was impressed with the ease with which I could spin, without stopping, without dizziness, without imbalance, for as long as the lead’s arm could handle.  It was my childhood training and I barely needed the lead for this particular movement.  Zeke spun me for what felt like thirty seconds, at least, and then led me out of the spin momentarily, before changing my direction and completing the test.  When he finally stopped, he offered, “wow.  I’ll find you again later.”

 

As I walked to the sideline, I found James offering applause and an odd look of pride at my success in the spins.  “That was awesome.”

 

“Not exactly Salsa, but I’ll take it,” I responded.

 

‘Thirsty?”

 

“Yes,” I responded and we headed for the closest water fountain.  Fountains were strategically placed throughout each room and never ran dry.  We helped ourselves to a few ounces before heading down the hall to another room to watch.  We briefly checked in on the Bachata room, then what we later learned was the Zouk room, before finally deciding upon the Kizomba room.  We found a spot in the corner with an easy exit, both wanting to watch but neither wanting to attempt this style that neither of us had encountered before. 

 

I was immediately inspired by the music but could tell that James was not feeling it.  “Let me know when you want to go back to the Salsa room,” I suggested. 

 

“Let’s watch for a bit,” he responded.

 

“Why do you think they call it a Congress?” I asked.

 

“It makes sense.  It’s a gathering,” James responded. 

 

“By why not a conference?  Or an assembly?  Or just a meeting?” I suggested.

 

“I don’t know.  But none of that sounds as enticing as Congress.”

 

“True.”

 

“What?” James asked.

 

“What?”

 

“I can still see the wheels churning up there.  What are you thinking about?”

 

“I don’t know,” I shrugged.  “I guess I’m just half expecting some law to be enacted on the dancefloor after the DJ calls for a vote.”

 

“You are such a-“ he stopped himself.

 

“Yeah, I know,” I confirmed.  “But you’d rather put up with me than other people.”

 

“Absolutely,” he nodded.

 

“You know, the word ‘congress’ and another interesting word come from the same root,” he added.

 

“Really?  What word?” I asked.

 

He smiled just as light from an opening door lit his face.  “Look it up.”

 

I made a mental note and would, of course, have the answer in no time.  James knew, or better yet put up with, my fascination with etymology.  I liked that he let me nerd-out.  Don’t get me wrong, he made fun of me for it constantly.  But he let me be me.  And his friendship was consistently making it easier for me to let me be me. 

 

We remained hidden in the shadows, thanks to the dimly lit room, for about twenty minutes before heading back to the main ballroom.  We spent the next two hours trying out various Salsa partners, before we partnered for one final dance of the evening, laughing for most of the final song. 

 

“Are you coming back tomorrow?” he asked as we approached our vehicles.

 

“I don’t know,” I responded honestly.  “I think I want to.”

 

“We can ride together,” he suggested.

 

“Sounds good.”

 

Despite my early morning return to my home, I jumped out of bed excitedly on Saturday morning to get ready for my niece’s dance recital.  I wouldn’t miss it.  I missed so many things, so many important things and when I started my own firm, I promised myself and my family that I would miss less. 

 

After a full day in somewhat restrictive dance attire, I chose a sleeveless, printed maxi dress that would let my legs breathe for a few hours before I would once again don more form-fitting dance attire.  I had picked up that particular dress on a trip with my sister and it had remained in my closet since the trip, at least a year prior, tags still hanging from a seam. 

 

My niece was magnificent and performed with a brilliant smile.  Her cute little baby blue tutu and the beautiful little girl wearing it provided a perfect muse for my phone’s camera.  My niece got all of the photogenic talent in this family.  I met her and my sister in the parking lot after the recital and gave her a multicolored group of Gerber daises.

 

“Well done,” I hugged her.  “You were wonderful!”

 

“Thanks Aunt Parker,” she smiled, one tooth left of center on the top missing in action.

 

“Can we celebrate?” I asked my favorite little dancer.

 

“Yes.  Pizza please,” she responded.

 

“Let’s go,” I snatched her hand.

 

We made the five-minute commute to our go-to spot for most family dinners near my sister’s home.  An Italian restaurant with not a single bad choice on the menu.  We took up position at one of our regular tables with a familiar gentleman assisting us for lunch.  The pizza was perfect as always and frankly provided me with the necessary fuel for the day ahead. 

 

And as we awaited the check and I put my water glass to my lips to finish off my third glass of the meal, my niece spoke up, “you look different.”

 

“Really?  How?” I asked of the seven-year-old across from me.

 

“Your arms.  You have muscles,” she pointed at my bare arms. 

 

After looking down my arm holding the glass, I responded, “I guess I do.  How’d that happen?”

 

“Have you been working out?” my sister looked at me quizzically.

 

“Nope.  Just dancing,” I responded.

 

“Like me!” my niece was elated.

 

“Yes, like you,” I confirmed.

 

“Aunt Parker, you’re strong,” she added.

 

I took one look in those beautifully honest and unjaded aqua eyes and knew she was right.  “Yes, I am.”

 

I hadn’t felt strong in years and I certainly hadn’t felt it until my niece called me out.  She saw it before me and after a quick check in on my inner monologue to ensure I wasn’t lying to either my niece or myself, I felt the strength.  And it had nothing to do with the random and newly, albeit barely, formed definition of my biceps. 

 

A few hours later, I had gone into my office and was handling some accounting for the firm when James reached out with a suggestion, “you want to come with me to my brother’s place for pre-Congress drinks?”

 

“Sure,” I knew that meant his sister-in-law would serve some fantastic food to complete the pre-night-out session.  She was an amazing chef who seemed to put together the most delicious and visually pleasing dishes on a moment’s notice, a seriously helpful talent since her husband rarely gave her advanced notice of guests. 

 

We stopped at the local store for bottles of wine, before arriving at our first destination of the evening.  I failed to notice as James’ brother consistently re-filled my glass over the next two hours and was grateful that the talented chef helped me soak up the excess alcohol I’d ingested before James and I headed South for the event. 

 

“So, what possessed you to skip work yesterday and go the Congress?” James asked as we left his brother’s neighborhood and headed for the highway.

 

“I don’t know.  Just felt like it,” I shrugged.

 

Grabbing my phone from my bag, I opened up a search engine, suddenly having remembered James’ word origin teaser from the night before.

 

“Hey,” James snatched the phone from my hand and dropped it in the driver’s side door.  “No researching on the way to dance.  Besides, we don’t want you getting car sick.”

 

“Fine,” I rolled my eyes.  “So-“ I started but paused.

 

“So?” James looked over at me.

 

“Are you gonna dance with any Senators tonight?”

 

“Oh.  My,” he paused in between each syllable.  “How much wine did my brother give you?” he laughed as he asked.

 

“I dunno.  Seemed like two or three glasses,” I shrugged.

 

“Lightweight,” he shook his head.

 

“You know it,” was my only response.

 

“Well, you need to pull it together,” he suggested.

 

“Whatever,” I grabbed a bottle of water from my bag and took a few sips.  “So, why’d you come last night?”

 

“I couldn’t leave you alone at one of these things,” he responded.

 

“Why not?” I inquired.  “I can take care of myself.”

 

“Yeah, I know, but Bennett warned me things can get a little crazy.”

 

“Really?” I asked.  “Did it seem crazy last night?”

 

“No, but honestly I was sitting in my apartment picturing you and three thousand strangers.”

 

“You were worried,” I decided.

 

“I mean, I guess,” he responded.

 

“You were worried,” I paused in between each word.

 

“We’re here,” James alerted me.  After placing the car in park, he grabbed a bag from the back seat, exited the vehicle and locked the doors with the keyless entry gadget.

 

After a double beep, I turned to him and relayed, “I’m excited.”

 

“Not so fast,” he responded.  “Stop there and throw me your bag.”

 

“Why?” I asked.

 

“So many questions all the time,” he shook his head. 

 

“Okay, fine,” I threw my bag towards his position a few feet away.  “What now?”

 

“Well, this is what people in my line of work call a field sobriety test,” he said in all seriousness.

 

I offered him my most perturbed look, “I refuse.”

 

“Alright,” he turned and walked towards his car.

 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

 

“Getting the cuffs.”

 

“Come on,” I commanded.  James turned and threw my bag to me and we headed into the hotel.

 

I was still a little tipsy when we arrived and that first dance, per James, was a failed experiment. 

 

“Note to self, alcohol and dancing do not mix for Parker,” he suggested. 

 

“Yeah.  I’ll go hydrate.”  I headed to the fountain and then wandered down the hallway, water in hand, and checked out the various rooms.  It was just after midnight and the Bachata room was standing room only, if that, while the remaining rooms seemed sparse.  I approached the Kizomba room and saw Zeke at the helm.  I guess it was his night to serve as DJ.  “Hey there,” he motioned for me to join him.

 

“It looks like you’re just getting started,” I concluded.

 

“One second,” he put his hand up, then removed his headphones, stepped out from behind his station and grabbed my hand.

 

“What are you…”

 

“I know, I know, you’re new.  Come on,” he commanded. 

 

He did not partner with me, he stood beside me and proceeded to show me what I would later learn was the Kizomba basic step.  He ran back, cued up the next two songs, and then rejoined me, this time in partnership stance. 

 

“I’m sorry,” I offered after the first mistake. 

 

“No apologies.”  We continued.  Another mistake.

 

“I’m sorry.”  He gave me a ‘what did I just say’ look.

 

Despite the consistent and persistent errors, he stuck it out for nearly two songs before thanking me and heading back to his assigned position.

 

“Parker,” he hollered in my direction as I headed for the exit.  Then he motioned for me to join him.  “I’m instructing tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m.  It’s early, but you should come.  It’ll be a small class, most of these folks will sleep right through it.”

 

“Ok.  I’ll try.”

 

I ventured back to the Salsa room, licking my wounds along the way, hoping nobody had seen that train wreck of a dance, if you could even call it a dance.  Finding my safe place back with James’ lead, our second dance of the evening proved more successful.  My failure in the Kizomba room confirmed my return to sobriety of the evening and although I tried to stay present in the dances that followed, I was itching to take that class the next morning.  And so, despite my early morning arrival at home after a second night at the Congress, lack of sleep and somewhat lengthy commute back to Alexandria, I arrived, fully caffeinated and ready to learn from Zeke just before 10:00 a.m. 

 

Zeke and his partner arrived at 10:15 a.m. and I was beginning to understand that the scheduled times are never the actual start times for any of these activities.  There were only four other attendees, an odd number total.  I had no practice partner.  So, Zeke gave me his, or more accurately shared his with me:  Sarah.  She was a petite red-head who, based upon her brief warm-up, had the grace and elegance of a Broadway dancer or prima ballerina on pointe, the rhythm of a perfect back-up dancer in any popular music video and who could, before our bloodshot eyes, transition between multiple genres seamlessly.  This was going to be harder than I thought.  I needed more caffeine. 

 

I watched as Zeke showed us the steps with Sarah at his side.  Then Sarah joined me to practice.  She transitioned from follow to lead seamlessly as well.  It must have been quite a disappointment for Sarah who, after being expertly led by our instructor, was forced to accommodate the stumbling mess of my follow.  I was uncomfortable.  I was in my head.  I was a failure.  I was back at the starting block.  The class felt like more than an hour and was the worst hour of my dance experiences to date.  I thanked Zeke and Sarah for the class, assumed they hoped to never see me again, and entered the hallway, hoping to head home promptly without further embarrassment. 

 

“Hey, how was it?” Elijah was suddenly in my path.

 

“Ugh.  I don’t think Kizomba is my dance.”

 

“You looked good in there,” he offered.

 

“You saw that?” my face said it all.

 

“Are you up for trying something different?”

 

“I just did,” I pointed to the room behind me.

 

“Something else, I mean,” he corrected me.

 

“I think I’m done with this Congress.  I’m heading home.”

 

“Come on.  Come with me.  You’re already here and I know you drove an hour to get here this morning.  Come on,” those skills of persuasion were back at work, this time on me.

 

“Ok,” I responded as he took my hand and practically skipped down the hall into the second largest ballroom on site.

 

“What are we doing?” I asked.

 

“This is Zouk,” he responded. 

 

I sighed.  “Ok.”

 

“You’re gonna love it,” he predicted, but I was sure he was wrong.

 

They started with a basic step, which most attendees already had in their skills arsenal.  My instigator of the session was kind enough to break it down for me, still hoping to inspire my love of what I now understood was his favorite style of dance.  His patience and passion prompted my successful mastery of the basic step and I was beginning to feel a bit of confidence.  The instructors were the persona of the dance itself:  welcoming, soothing, easy, passionate and peaceful.  It was unlike the structured Salsa platform in which I’d been training and felt more modern, more fluid, and much more attainable.  Elijah was right.  I was enjoying myself and better, I was able to throw out rules and even at times the steps and lose myself in the music and my lead’s choreographic choices.  Once again, my cheeks were sore from smiling, intermittent laughter and sheer joy in the renewed love of dance. 

 

“Leads to the left,” she instructed. 

 

“Austin,” I welcomed him as he approached, “nice to see you again.”

 

“Hey, before I forget, friend me on social media.  I will connect you with Annabelle too and we can make plans for future classes and events.”  He did not allow my response before taking my hand and leading me somewhat excitedly into the sequences we had just learned.  Two more attempts and then she instructed, “leads to the left.”

 

I took note of each lead’s style, ability and personality, each time looking down the long line of potential partners and hoping to have Elijah once again by my side before the class concluded.  I did, but internally I was contemplating the next Congress and planning for instruction over the next several weeks so that I could keep up with Elijah in his dance of choice.  He was my new favorite lead, but then again, he was everyone’s favorite lead.  I’d later learn that he was one of the busiest leads at any event, but he always saved me a dance. 

 

He also impacted my fashion for events, which I had not yet focused much attention upon.  I was really just getting by.  I had inquired of Sarah where she shopped for these events, envying her choices during that Kizomba class, and she probably wished I’d focus more on learning the steps I was failing than her attire.  Elijah, even in the law school t-shirt that first day, had a knack for appearing casual yet cool, trendy yet timeless, and his interesting choices matched his personality:  clever and comical, passionate and pure, sweet and savory.

 

Before I left the event, I did adhere to Austin’s request, adding him as friend on social media, but not before first adding Elijah.  Austin accepted within seconds and shortly thereafter, had connected me with Annabelle.  Shortly after that, I received a group message, providing me with options over the next two weeks for classes, socials and other events, all related to Zouk, where I could effectively become Austin and Annabelle’s third wheel.  I’d played that role before, many times in my adult life, and wasn’t exactly looking forward to watching as these two friends fought their predictable coupling and eventually succumbed to romantic entanglement.  Although, in my work, I typically saw the break-up and break-down of relationships, maybe it’d be nice to see the alternative.  And, maybe Elijah would attend these events. 

 

I still loved Salsa, but driving home from my first Congress I made a decision to try my hand, or legs really, at Zouk.

 

Time to meet the Doctors.