I walked outside after church and took a deep breath as I felt the pleasantly warm late summer sun. It was warm, but not blisteringly hot. It still felt like summer, but there had recently been hints that the season was starting to change. School had started for me and for children. The University of Jeromeville was on a three-quarter schedule, so university classes would not start for a few more weeks, but a few students who had been gone for the summer were back in church this morning, and others would trickle in over the next few weeks.
Lacey Kilpatrick, who had been in town all summer taking a couple of classes for summer session, walked out of the building just after me. I smiled and waved at her.
“Hey, Greg!” Lacey said. “How are you? Have you started teaching yet?”
“Yes! I’ve been with the students for a week now.”
“How is it so far?”
“It’s going to be a rough adjustment,” I said. “Like this week, I had a student who wanted to be a TA for my class, and a few days later he stole my hall pass and never came back.”
“What? What happened to him?”
“I told the vice principal what happened, she said they would change his schedule and not let him TA for me, but my stolen hall pass is still out there, so I don’t know.” I shrugged my shoulders.
“That’s crazy,” Lacey said. “Are you off tomorrow? This is a holiday weekend, right?”
“Yes! I need a three-day weekend right away after the crazy week I had.”
“Do you have any plans?”
“I’m probably going to go for a long bike ride this afternoon. And I’m going swing dancing at the U-Bar tonight.”
“That sounds like so much fun! I haven’t been swing dancing in a long time! I can’t go tonight, though. I’m going to go see my parents.”
“Oh, that’ll be fun.”
“Yeah. I’ll be back tomorrow night. Enjoy your day off!”
“I will!” I said.
When I got home, I changed into a different pair of shorts, a pair that was already dirty, and an old t-shirt. I zigzagged to Andrews Road, turned right, then turned left on 8th Street, which I followed east all the way to Power Line Road. I turned right and crossed over the freeway, on the overpass with the trees on it, then continued east on Willard Avenue on the other side. Tucked away about a mile east of the overpass was a tiny neighborhood park which connected to a bike path, running parallel to Willard along a dry creek bed. This was the same dry creek bed that had been dammed to form the long skinny lake running through the Arboretum on campus a few miles to the west. Because of those dams, this creek only got water from rain and storm drains, and as was normal for this time of year, it had not rained in Jeromeville in about four months. I continued east on the bike path, about as far from my house as one could be while still being in the Jeromeville city limits.
This trail connected to a larger park in a new neighborhood that had been built just a few years ago. The trail curved to the left around a very old wooden building that looked like a plain shed, but was two stories tall. An informational plaque said that this was a tank house, basically a small water tower, from decades ago when this land had been a working farm. Near the tank house was an area that was left in its natural state, covered with tall grasses and small bushes, with towering oak trees along the bank of the creek. I rode past the edge of this nature area as far as the eastern edge of the park, then I turned and headed north, alongside a grassy athletic field toward a playground. A girl who looked no older than twenty was playing with two young children, a boy and a girl.
I slowed down and did a double take. I knew that girl. But I was confused as to why she was here, or whose children these were. I rode my bike slowly toward her and hesitantly called out, “Hannah?”
Hannah turned around. “Greg!” she called out enthusiastically. “What’s up?”
“I’m on a bike ride. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been working this summer as a nanny,” she explained. “These are the kids I’m watching. This is Ashley, she’s five, and this is Austin, he’s three.”
“Hi, Ashley and Austin,” I said, waving at the kids. Ashley waved back as she slid down the slide, and Austin was too busy digging in the sand to notice me.
Hannah continued, “The family goes to our church, that’s how I found out about the job, but they usually go to first service. That’s why I haven’t seen you there in a while.”
“That makes sense. Did you say you’re going to be doing high school group at church this year?”
“Yeah. The girls I had last year in my discipleship group in junior high are moving on to high school this year, and I wanted to stay with them.”
“That makes sense.”
Ashley climbed up the ladder to the top of the slide. Before she slid down, she looked at us and started chanting, “Hannah has a boyfriend! Hannah has a boyfriend!” I chuckled.
“No, Ashley, it’s not like that,” Hannah replied. Turning to me, she asked, “So how’s teaching going? When does school start?”
“A week ago,” I said. “It’s been kind of chaotic so far. Three of my classes are basically in a converted storage room.”
“No way! I thought that only happened in stories about schools needing more money.”
“It’s really happening at Jorgensen,” I said. “They only use that room for small classes, there are only twenty-three desks in there, but it still feels kind of insulting when most of the school doesn’t know where my room is.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” I said. As I was telling Hannah about Jamal stealing my hall pass, Ashley interrupted us, holding some kind of flower she had plucked from a nearby bush. She handed it to me, smiling, and said, “Give Hannah the flower, because you love her.”
I chuckled and looked at Hannah. “Ashley,” Hannah said firmly. “Greg is not my boyfriend. And don’t pick flowers at the park.” I thought about giving the flower to Hannah, just as a nice gesture, but I figured from her reaction to Ashley that she would not want that. Ashley ran off and got out a coloring book and crayons from a tote bag that Hannah had brought. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” Hannah said, rolling her eyes.
“So how’s high school group going at church?” I asked.
“Good! Do you remember Shawna Foreman?”
“Yeah!”
“She gave her testimony this week. It was beautiful. Sometimes you think those kids who grew up in the church are going to have boring testimonies, like ‘I grew up in the church, I’ve been following Jesus as long as I can remember.’ But Shawna’s story wasn’t like that.”
“I know a little bit of her story. I’m glad she was willing to share. It’s hard getting high school kids to be vulnerable sometimes.”
“Definitely!” Hannah agreed.
Ashley tore a blank page out of the back of the coloring book and put it in Hannah’s lap. Ashley had drawn on it stick figures vaguely resembling Hannah and me sitting on the bench. She added dozens of hearts all around us and the word “LOVE” in typical kindergarten block letters at the top of the page. I snickered. Hannah looked sternly at Ashley and said, “That’s not okay. I told you, Greg is not my boyfriend.”
“Then why are you sitting on the bench with him?” Ashley asked.
“Because he’s my friend. We’re just talking.”
“I should probably get going,” I said, not wanting to get in the way of whatever Hannah might say to Ashley about her supposedly inappropriate, but hilarious, behavior.
“Well it was good seeing you! What are you doing the rest of today? Do you have any grading or lesson planning to do?”
“I’m off tomorrow, so I’m saving it for then. Going swing dancing tonight.”
“Oh, yeah! Well, have fun tonight!”
“I will!” I said. “Thanks!”
About a year and a half ago, swing dancing became a huge nationwide fad. People flocked to bars, dressing in the kind of clothing their great-grandparents might have worn, dancing to music from that era and music from modern bands playing music in that style. It took me a while to get into it, but once I gave it a try, I had fun.
I took a break from swing dancing for several months last year after a bad night. New episodes of The X-Files were also about to start at the time, so I started going to the X-Files watch parties at the De Anza house, as I had done the previous year, only showing up to swing dancing occasionally when The X-Files was a rerun.
The University Bar and Grill, on the corner of Fifth and Andrews across the street from campus, held swing dancing once a week on Sundays. I had been going more often again since May, when The X-Files went back into reruns for the summer and the watch parties went on hiatus. I taught summer school for most of June and July, though, and I was teaching full time now, so for the majority of my swing dancing nights this summer, I had to leave early in order to get enough sleep and get up in time for work. But tomorrow was Labor Day, a federal holiday in the United States, so schools were closed and I could stay all the way until midnight. And maybe someone would go out for a late night snack afterward, as had happened a few times last year.
I arrived about halfway through the beginner lesson. The first half of the beginner lesson was always the East Coast Swing basic step, which I knew well. The second half rotated between a few different topics on different weeks, but I had been here often enough that I knew most, if not all, of those as well. Usually I came for at least part of the beginner lesson, hoping that I would meet a friendly beginner and dance with her later. Tonight, for the second half, Matthew was teaching the basic step of the Charleston, another one I knew already. I started to giggle, thinking of what Candace, my roommate’s girlfriend, had said about Matthew a couple weeks ago, when we were playing The Game of Life with Noah and Cambria.
“Hi,” the girl standing across from me said. “What’s so funny?”
“Don’t ask,” I replied. “Something just reminded me of an inside joke with my friends.”
“Interesting. I’m Lindsay.”
“I’m Greg,” I said.
“Nice to meet you!” she replied. I led her through the basic step of the Charleson, as Matthew and his dance partner had just demonstrated.
When Matthew called for us to rotate a couple minutes later, I told Lindsay, “It was nice meeting you! Save me a dance later?”
“Oh! Sure! Nice meeting you too!”
We rotated partners. “Hi, I’m Greg,” I said to the next girl to be paired with me.
“I’m Esther,” she said. I noted in my mind that she had a classic Biblical name. “This is my first time. I’m not very good.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “Just have fun with it. Are you enjoying it so far?”
“Yes!”
I led Esther through the turn that Matthew was demonstrating, one I had done many times. For a first-timer, she was picking things up quickly. “You got it,” I said.
Esther smiled wide and said, “Thanks!” When it came time to rotate partners again, I did my customary thing and asked Esther to save me a dance later. The next partner to rotate through after Esther was not a good dancer, and she kind of smelled, so I did not ask her to save me a dance.
Once the lesson ended and the actual dancing started, I stepped off the dance floor to make room for people who were actually dancing. I looked around for someone I felt comfortable asking to dance, and came to an unsettling realization: very few of those people were here this week. Bethany Bradshaw was not here; she was taking summer classes and could not stay out late on Sunday nights anymore. Some of her friends that she usually came with I knew well enough to say hi to and ask to dance, but none of them were here tonight either. Lacey had been here a few times before, but she was back home with her family tonight. Courtney, Cambria, and Erica, who had finally talked me into going swing dancing the first time I came to the U-Bar, rarely danced anymore. No one else that I knew from church was here. Jed and Candace were here, but they spent all of their time dancing with each other. I was just going to have to get brave and ask someone on my own.
It was too late to ask someone to dance to the first song, so I waited for the second song of the night to start. Esther had just stepped off of the dance floor, so I walked over to her and held out my hand, asking, “Would you like to dance?”
“No thanks,” she replied. “Maybe later? I need a break. That first song was kind of fast.”
“Okay,” I replied. I walked over to the bar and ordered my usual Roy Rogers and took another break for the rest of this song.
Jed and Candace walked toward me a few minutes later. “Hey, Greg,” Jed said. “How’s it going?”
“Not bad,” I replied, “but most of the people I know who I dance with aren’t here tonight.”
“Don’t let that stop you! Ask someone new!” Candace suggested.
“I tried, but she said she wanted a break. I’ll try again later.”
“Good! Go for it!”
A new song came on, and Jed and Candace went out to the dance floor to dance. I sipped my Roy Rogers for a while and decided to try again a few songs later. Esther and Lindsay were both already dancing, so I walked up to a girl I had seen there a couple times before and asked, “Would you like to dance?”
“No thanks,” she replied.
I started walking around the edge of the dance floor, looking for someone else to ask to dance, when I came face to face with the uncoordinated smelly girl from the beginner lesson. I did not want to sit out another song, so with a bit of desperation, I asked her, “Would you like to dance?”
“Sure,” she said. I led her to the dance floor and began doing the basic East Coast swing step. I knew this song, because Jed had the CD; it was called “The Best You Can,” by a modern swing band called Indigo Swing. I was doing the best I could to lead this girl, but each beat felt like a chore, getting her to smoothly follow my lead. She kept moving in other directions, unresponsive to my leading, and I did not want to hurt to her. The song ended, and I turned her into a dip. I stumbled a little trying not to drop her as she released her body into my arms a bit more forcefully than I was used to.
“Thank you,” I said, pulling her back upright.
“Thanks!” she replied.
I found an empty seat on the side of the room and sat there for a few more songs, observing. The swing dance crowd at the U-Bar these days included a clique of very good dancers who dressed in accurate clothing from the swing dance era and typically only danced with each other. In the past, I had tried asking girls in that group to dance, and most of the time they said no. One of them danced with me once, but I could tell that she was kind of bored with me. I knew the basic step to East Coast Swing and the basic step to Charleston, and I could reasonably fake my way through the basic step of Lindy Hop, but surely that was boring compared to all the fancy moves I had seen her do on the dance floor with more experienced and skilled partners. One of the guys from that clique had complimented my driver cap once, but then pointed out that my pleated pants were not historically accurate. So I did not try to associate with that group anymore. They were fun to watch on the dance floor, definitely, but watching them dance was not as much fun as meeting new people and dancing myself.
About an hour into the night, I went back to Esther and asked her to dance again. She said no, again, and walked back over to the people she was sitting with. I saw Lindsay not dancing, so I walked up to her and asked her to dance.
“No thank you,” she replied. “I’m going to sit this one out.”
“Okay,” I said, going back to where I had been sitting. Before I even got back to my seat, I saw out of the corner of my eye another guy asking Lindsay to dance; she smiled and walked out to the dance floor with him.
Another half hour passed. Candace danced with me once during that time; she was my roommate’s girlfriend, yes, but we all knew each other well enough that it was not weird that I was dancing with my roommate’s girlfriend. Another half hour passed, during which I did no dancing. I could easily just get up and go home. Jed came here with Candace, so he had his own ride home. I was not having fun here; I could be in bed getting sleep, or I could stay up late chatting with any Internet friends that happened to be online, since I did not have to work in the morning. But did I really want to give up on a fun opportunity to be social?
Yes, I finally decided. Yes, I did. At this point, it was time to give up. Swing dancing was not fun anymore. I was tired of the cliques, tired of the rejection, tired of feeling like I had to dress up like someone’s great-grandpa back in the days just to feel like I belonged. I waited for Jed and Candace to finish the song, then I walked over to them and said, “Hey, I’m heading home early tonight. I’m really tired.”
“Okay,” Jed replied. “Sleep well.”
“Good night!” Candace added.
I waved and walked out to the parking lot. I started the car and began driving home.
And I never set foot inside the U-Bar again.
As I mentioned before, I did return to swing dancing eventually, in 2007. Swing dancing at the U-Bar was long defunct by then, but some of the people who had run that swing dance later started a weekly dance across the Drawbridge in Capital City. Unlike that night in 1999 when everyone was unfriendly and rejecting me, I was actually able to make friends through dancing in 2007. My social life for most of my thirties revolved around people I met through swing dancing and friends of people I met through swing dancing. In my forties, many of those people moved away, and most of the ones who stayed in the area stopped dancing at some point. I stopped dancing for the third, and probably final, time in 2019, at age forty-three, for a variety of reasons.
Also in 2019, I read in the local news that the U-Bar, which had been around for almost fifty years at the time, was going out of business. I thought about going back to see it one last time, but that thought lasted about three seconds before I remembered that both of my stints as a regular swing dancer at the U-Bar ended badly. My memories of swing dancing are somewhat more positive now, after the good experiences I had in my thirties and the friends I made then. But not all of my hobbies and activities are meant to stay with me for my entire life, and that was okay. Like the guy said in that song that the uncoordinated girl and I had danced to, sometimes you do the best you can.
Readers: What is something you used to do for fun, but don’t anymore? Why did you quit? Tell me about it in the comments.
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Don't Let The Days Go By 