The Ballerino
By Paul Teodo & Tom Myers
“WHAT’D SHE SAY?”
Melinda looked away. “She’s scared.”
“Of what?”
“You won’t come.”
“I’ll come. What’s wrong with her? I show up... I’ll come, for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Big deal.”
“Noon.”
Johnny’s jaw clenched. “Noon! What kinda people do big things for little kids at noon?”
“That’s what she’s scared of.”
“What does that mean?”
“I should take a picture.”
“Of what?”
“Your face. It’s easy to see. You don’t wanna come.”
“Whatta you talkin’ about?”
“C’mon, Johnny. Everybody knows what you do.”
“I got a right. It’s just four hours.”
“She’s your daughter. Your only child.”
“I work hard.”
“Nobody says you don’t.”
“Can they change it?”
“Change the goddamn ballet recital just for you?” Her voice rose. She thrust her hip sideways and firmly planted a hand on it. “Johnny, that’s how you operate! Change it for me.” Melinda turned and walked out of the room. “Jesus Christ.” The door slammed behind her.
Johnny followed her. Pressing his face to the door, his voice rattled the pictures on the wall. “I work my ass off for this family and I deserve one day, four hours. They’re playin’ the fuckin’ Packers, Melinda!”
Melinda’s voice muffled through the door. “She’s your fuckin’ daughter too, Johnny.”
“I’m goin’ out!” He snatched his car keys and headed down the steps.
✶
”USUAL?” GUS ASKED, WIPING OFF THE STICKY BAR.
“Yeah,” Johnny said.
Gus pulled the bottle of Jack off the shelf and sloppily poured a shot into the glass in front of Johnny. He tilted his head back and threw it down hard like he couldn’t wait for its magic.
“Jesus,” Gus said. “Here’s your chaser. Not that you need it.” He slid the seven-ounce glass, white foam overflowing down its side, in front of Johnny.
“I work my fuckin’ ass off.” Johnny’s voice rose over the background hum of the bar.
“Who doesn’t?” Johnny heard a guy say from far in the back, next to the juke box, nursing a bottle of Budweiser.
Springsteen moaning, ghost-like. One step up and two steps back.
“My wife,” Johnny turned, tapping his empty glass on the bar. “She’s on me.”
Gus poured him another shot of Jack. And drew another shorty off the tap, using a rusty metal ruler to even out the foam.
“You gotta wife?” The guy in the back yelled.
“Oh, yeah,” Johnny said, shooting down the Jack, anxious for that comforting burn.
“I used to.”
“Used to what?” Johnny stood, squinting to make out the commentator.
“Have a wife,” the guy said, “A kid too. But I showed ‘em.”
Johnny stepped towards him. “What’d you show ‘em?”
“That I had a life. And their lives depended on me.”
Gus touched Johnny’s shoulder. His voice quiet. “Yeah, he showed ‘em. He’s here every day. Noon to six. Sits in the corner by himself. He’s got something to say about everybody’s shit.”
Johnny eyed the old guy and turned back to Gus.
“Got fired years ago and blames the world. Don’t fuck with him, Johnny.”
“What’d he say?” The guy stood, bottle of Bud still in his hand, stumbling into the juke box causing Bruce to roar.
One step up and two steps back.
“Nothin’,” Johnny’s voice rose over Springsteen.
“He said somethin’. I heard him!”
“Sit down and shut up,” Gus hollered, pointing the ruler at him.
“Fuck you!” the guy screamed.
The bottle hit Johnny square in the face. He dropped to the floor.
Gus came over the bar like an acrobat.
The guy charged Gus.
One shot and Gus dropped the guy cold.
✶
JOHNNY STUDIED HIS FACE IN THE MIRROR. The zig-zag gash ran from his eyebrow up to his receding hair-line. His tongue conducted an investigation over a busted scraggy tooth, and his nose was turning an ugly purple.
“He got you good,” Gus said, studying Johnny in the mirror.
“Real good,” Johnny said. “You got a phonebook?”
“Phonebook?”
“Yeah.
“This is over, Johnny. Let it go.”
“Phonebook, Gus.”
✶
JOHNNY DROPPED A QUARTER IN THE PHONE. He struggled to yank the door shut in the graffiti-filled, foul- smelling booth. He waited. Melinda answered. “I ain’t gonna be home tonight.”
“Where you gonna be?” she asked.
“I’m okay.” He hung up.
✶
“THAT’S IT?” THE WELL-DRESSED WOMAN ASKED HIM.
“Yes,” he said.
“Are you okay?” She pointed to his face.
“Yes, fine. Thank you.”
“May I ask?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Do you want to try them on?”
“They look like they’ll fit fine.”
“At least try them on.”
“Okay.” Johnny turned and headed toward the dressing room.
He came out of the room looking sideways like a cat burglar.
“They fit?”
“They fit fine.”
“Good,” she said. “Fifty dollars, cash or credit?”
“Fifty dollars?”
“Yes, they aren’t cheap, but they will last.”
“Great.” He needed them to last. “Cash.” Johnny said, handing her two twenties and ten singles. Half a week’s pay.
“I hope you enjoy them.”
“Yeah… sure.”
✶
“WHERE YOU BEEN? IT’S BEEN TWO DAYS.”
“Sorry, I’m an asshole. I needed to think.”
“What happened to your face?”
“I’m an asshole.” His voice lowered. “I deserved it.”
“What happened?!” Melinda’s voice loud enough to make his ears hurt.
“Is Olive here?”
“What’s going on, Johnny?”
“Melinda, please. Is Olive here?”
“No, she’s at practice. What’s in there?” She pointed to the box tucked under his arm.
“New hobby. Talk later. I’m going to see Olive.”
✶
“FIVE-SIX-SEVEN-EIGHT. CHIN UP. ON YOUR TOES. BEAUTIFUL. That’s right, so nice.” The woman’s voice drifted through the studio, mixing with the melodic music.
Johnny watched his daughter from a corner. Her tiny feet struggling to keep balance, her hands awkwardly grasping the air. Her warm smile, Melinda’s smile, the smile that melted his heart, spread across her determined little face.
“One-two-three-four. That’s so nice.”
Johnny studied his little girl.
His heart breaking.
He ducked into the bathroom, box still under his arm.
He exited slowly, cautious, like a child at an audition, stupidly hoping not to be seen.
It was his daughter.
Fuck it!
“Olive!” Johnny’s voice echoed in the hall filled with tiny ballerinas and startled mothers.
His daughter froze, mid-clumsy-pirouette.
“Daddy!” She ran towards him.
“I love you, Olive.”
She leapt into his arms. “I love you, Daddy! You came to watch me dance!”
Even better, my sweet Olive.
“Johnny,” Melinda stormed through the door, “what the hell are you…” she stopped, backing away. Her eyes fixed on her husband. Her hand waived towards him with surly curiosity. “What’s this?”
The room, silent. Little feet making no noise on the dusty wooden floor. The music had vanished. The hovering mothers, observant, like lionesses ready to protect their young.
Miss Crump, the ballet instructor, smiled, her eyes sparkling. “This, I believe,” she waved her hand towards Johnny, “is a father who is ready to dance.”
Johnny’s face, pounded from the Budweiser bottle, nose clogged, and scabs ready to burst, gave way to an immense smile.
He gently placed Olive on the studio floor. He bowed, head still throbbing, struggling to keep balance. “I’m ready, Olive. Show me what you got.”
She curtsied. “Those are the prettiest tights I’ve ever seen Daddy.”
“Your favorite color, Baby. Momma’s too.” He glanced back over his shoulder at his wife, he puckered his swollen lips, and blew her a kiss.
Melinda shook her head, wiping the tear welling in her eye.
Ms. Crump flipped the music back on. Its beat foreign to Johnny.
“This is the best song, Daddy!”
Johnny stood terrified, a frightened scarecrow in the middle of the studio. Olive raised her hands with great dignity and pride, carefully raising her dimpled chin. Johnny followed her lead, and the two of them stumbled around the floor like puppies.
The music took over, sweeping them away in an awkward crawl.
Her in her tutu and tiara and him in his new fifty buck baby blue ballet tights and size 13 dance slippers.
Bruce drifted back, ghost-like, into his head as he tried to follow Olive’s lead….
One step up and two steps back.
Not today Bruce.
Not today.