Rat-Ta-Tap! Dancing With Ellie

By G.F. Skipworth

Joey has a time problem. Back home, he's seven, but across the dreamline, he's simultaneously thirty, and has fallen for famous dancer Eleanor Powell. That alone brings a big enough share of difficulties, but when the seven-year-old brain bleeds across the line, weaves island fantasies and starts making decisions, it all turns outrageously weird.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.F. Skipworth
• Release date: Feb 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311831170

G.F. Skipworth

George Skipworth has toured much of the globe as a concert pianist, symphonic/operatic conductor, vocalist, and composer/arranger. However, on the day he sat down to write a 4th Symphony, a novel came out instead. 12 books later, and he's still going strong

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RAT-TA-TAP!

-Dancing with Ellie-

Volume 2 of the Dancing Series

G.F. Skipworth

Rosslare Press, Portland, OR

Copyright ©2011 by G.F. Skipworth, Rosslare Press. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles, reports and reviews. For information, address Rosslare Press, 7660 SW Oleson Rd., Portland, Oregon 97223.

First Edition, 2011

ISBN: (10) 0982471084 (13) 9780982471098

To Barbara,

who never questioned why someone who can’t dance at all would write a book like this.

****

Until the past year, I had only a passing knowledge of Eleanor Powell, except that I, like so many, had thrilled to the Beguine, both parts of it. As I researched details of her life, however, phrases like consummate professional, humblegenerous and warm turned up everywhere, again and again. One of the most beloved members of Hollywood’s history, the way she viewed and lived her life has stirred my admiration every bit as much as have her dancing skills, which transcend even the extraordinary. From a sickly beginning to mega-athlete and artist, from a childhood cursed with shyness to box-office gold, her kindness to all who crossed her path earned her the nickname of Baby among the thousands of curtain-pullers, set builders and non-speaking parts, all of whom were off-limits to actors even for normal daily greetings on and off the set. Able to endure twelve hour dance rehearsals, her art was so powerful and dominant that partners were generally unnecessary and difficult to find when they were. At last, she was paired with the great Fred Astaire in Broadway Melody of 1940, and the final scene between these two champions is said to be the most famous piece of dance ever put on film. Every word of the following is pure fiction and was intended to be interlaced with humor throughout as it collides with a seven year old boy’s autobiography. However, I took the project very personally. Since I’ve gotten to know her a little in the last few months, however indirectly, not having had the opportunity to meet her has become an enormous disappointment.

-What we are is God’s gift to us

What we become is our gift to god-

Eleanor Powell

Episodes

Prologue

Reunion

Picked Out of the Chorus

‘Til We Do It Right

Attack of the Studebaker People

The Destiny Bridge

Tell Old Pharoah

Burger and a Six Tap

With Friends Like That

Bear Woman and Baffin Root

My Richer, Smarter Self

Le Jeu de Robin et Mario(A)n

Oh, Wobbin!

Go Home Before You Become an Old Folk

So Let It Be Written

That’s My Girl

So Let It Be Done

I’m Gonna Tap That Man Right Outta My Hair

Gizmo on Schmo

Show and Tell

Tier Five

Rocked Cradle of the Deep in the

I Found a Million Dollar Baby

What Is It That You Really Do?

You May See a Stranger

Lord of Oregon

How to Get Married in Elizabethan English

Catch the Cadillac

Alone Again…naturally

Epilogue

G.F. Skipworth

Ra-ta-tap

! Dancing With Ellie Ellie

More Childhood Tangentry and Trans-Dreamline Intrigue

PROLOGUE

Time has obligated each of us to cash in our beautiful, superficial exuberance for a more distinguished, doddering complacency. Where we were once certain, now we opine. When love breezes into town and knocks on the front door, the youthful buccaneer drops to his knees and breathes, "Bella!" But now, with the glory of his physique behind him, if he ever had any, he winks as if to an old friend…Ah, you’re back. How was Paris? Sit here and I’ll put on the kettle. Take off your shoes…such a lovely bonnet. Will you be spending the night?

Mind you, for the buccaneer, age is not all about loss and aching knees. The imagination still burns, no matter how dim the eye. What should be inspires the same thrill as it always did, even though the legs are slow to follow. The wise old buccaneer knows that across the great line requiring no muscle for passage…lies reality. In terms of style, though, he can’t recapture childhood’s stupidly perfect ecstasy any more than youth can understand his sleepy profundity.

There are exceptions to this. Some bonds of adoration not only stand the test of time (a weaker enemy across the dream line in what we call second tier), but grow more magical with each uplifting or discouraging change. Second tier consists of everything and everyone that we have created, even though we don’t command our imaginary worlds as well as we think should be the case. This is a good thing for the lover who seeks to create a new life in that country, for no one enjoys the bovine obedience of another for long. In this specific case, both child and man know of a treasure there that can be shared between the ages. I had one…and still do… wherever she might be.

****

When I speak of my imaginary life with Ellie Powell, don’t let the word fool you. It happened, all right…maybe not right out where you can see it…maybe not out where she could see it either, but it happened. Perhaps it would be best to envision the word in the context of…shall we say, "Well, will you imagine that?" There, that’s good.

Your waking self doesn’t always have the same dream that someone else is having with and about you, but the sleeping self can, and when the dance fever really got rolling at The Green General, an island club I created single-handedly, Ellie and I were already thick as thieves. She’d seen my world collapse with Rita Hayworth. Rita was under the illusion that I was Fred Astaire, although that seems difficult to believe. Beyond the imagination line, he pales before my skills and artistry, but they still want to dance with him…every last one of them. I was under the illusion that Rita, like every other inhabitant of my tropical island, was a concoction of my own imagination. As it turns out, she and Jimmy Stewart were stowaways there. In fact, they sneaked in from another island where they were shooting some soon-to-be abandoned film entitled Some Like it Fuzzy (a sequel to Harvey, if I’m not mistaken). Anyway, Rita took a gig as the Rita Hayworth of the waking world and finally lived her dream of dancing with Fred…big deal! Well, all right. After a while, I was able to be happy for her, and I guess he can shuffle ‘em around better than most. It galled me, though, that after my efforts to make The Old-Fashioned number a classic at The Green General with Rita at my side, he took all the credit for it out amongst the wakers. All of that is ancient history, though, and I was sure this time that Ellie was one of my concoctions, unlikely to suddenly angle for promotions or climb the dream ladder. Her status as a tier two creation also provided a guarantee that my wishes wouldn’t ever be trumped. The characters I designed were tangible ideas, employees of my self-created Caribbean scene, servants of my imagination. Of course, that’s how Rita started out, and as I became more and more fond of her, I learned a painful lesson in equality. As a matter of fact, maybe it’s a little dangerous to start a new story by holding these people (that I now call friends) in such slight regard.

RENUNION!

Why in the world would an imagination such as mine create a character like Eleanor Powell, a person with such a ruthless work ethic? It’s not that I don’t have one, but it can be eerily selective. Whenever I don’t want to do something, or if something just doesn’t ring the right bells for me, I develop the reflexes of a glacier, and if it does ring for me? Well, you’ve never seen passion such as mine. But Ellie! My word, the poor woman was born without oxygen debt or an off switch.

Once I finally decided to revisit my island paradise, it was approached with the most nonchalant appearance I could imagine. When I popped into the Green General’s ballroom, it was going to be an embarrassing entrance at best, facing my old creations (one of whom had snubbed me). But, it was my place, and anyone who got smart about it would find himself on the sidewalk. I only hoped that it wouldn’t be Gable…wasn’t entirely sure that I could take him on. Well, my place or not, it sure didn’t feel like it once I arrived. The old oak chandelier had been removed, with a glittering ball put in its place. The curtains and bandstand were changed as well, and I wondered who it was that had the guts and money to redecorate my club. Whoever had been running the joint was admittedly doing a crack business. The restaurant was full of diners, but nothing was jumping like it used to. A lot of them I’d never seen before, and a few old regulars looked up from their meat balls to study me. Rita’s Johnny stood motionless at the bar as if he expected a gunfight to break out. It surprised me that he continued to exist without her, but I’d been there before, too. Better to give him a break.

When did the General become an old folk’s home? Had Feral come back? No, she had a hundred years of rehab to go. Whoever it was, it was time to get some action, or at least ask a few questions…but someone beat me to it. The sound of a rapid-fire series of taps commanded my attention. The sub-conscious knew exactly who it was before my literal brain responded, and I turned to the dance floor in the hope of greeting the best friend I’d ever had on this side of the imagination line.

Much as the case of the General itself, my expectations just weren’t going to work out tonight. Oh, it was Ellie all right, but it was an Ellie Powell that no one wants to meet…the Ellie who’s just been lied to or betrayed. I couldn’t think of anyone else who could move from sweetest person in the world to Mt. Rushmore at thirty below in a heartbeat. We all know the rules, and they applied to owners as well. Don’t lie to Ellie Powell. As it turned out, the situation was worse than I thought. May we help you? What is it that you want? Did Ed let you in?

The urge to pick up, kiss and twirl my friend around ran into a brick wall, and I hadn’t thought of a Plan B. Clearly, she didn’t know me, and with dazzling rhetoric not at the ready I picked my way carefully through the possibilities. Ed? Oh…I just, well you know…I just bypassed him. Just popped in. You know how I like to do. At this, her head jerked in suspicion, and she took off the naval Captain’s hat, throwing it aside. Maybe I’d ask her about that some other time. For right now, one of my servants had me on the ropes in my own place. I’d fashioned her that way, but I still had to face the music. I’m sorry…sir. Well now, that was a little better. But only invited guests are admitted here. Do you have an invitation? By now, the club was coming to life. I felt every ear in the place waiting to hear what I’d say. I’d better get tough, I thought, having forgotten for the moment an important second rule. Don’t get tough with Ellie Powell, for she can get tough right back. I’m the designer and proprietor of The Green General, and I don’t need an invitation…ever. Ellie pulled herself into a warrior’s pose without moving one muscle, then took three or four unimpressed steps toward me. I didn’t know if I was to be kicked, lectured or physically tossed out of my own establishment. The air was thick for a few seconds, that was for sure. The General? The Green General? I nodded and she studied me again. That club was shut down forty or so years ago. Owner disappeared. The longest silence passed as she continued to think the whole thing over. Are you first tier? I nodded again. Two more menacing steps, and I offered my hand in hopes of at least a formal greeting. Please keep your hands to yourself, sir. I withdrew the offer. Ellie, however, did not keep her hands to herself. Boring her eyes into mine, she lifted an index finger and stuck it into the center of my forehead. A few flutterings of the eyebrows and a smirk of surprise, and she retreated a step. Oh…it’s you.

Oh, it’s you? Oh, it’s you? And that’s what I get after everything that’s happened? I could have sworn that a small puff of steam escaped from Ellie’s ears. "And what were you expecting, applause? What should you get after betraying and abandoning your people, a tickertape parade?"

But Ellie!

The name is Eleanor, sir…or better yet, Miss Powell.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean, ‘betraying and abandoning?’ And why is everything in The General changed?

"You are referring, of course, to The Beguine, Miss Eleanor Powell proprietor, and as for your cowardly question, which I anticipated, I’ll tell you, although you already know. It will feel good to hear myself say it. The illustrious owner of The Green General took a leave of absence forty four years ago and hasn’t appeared in his club, as you put it, since that day. His corporation continues to send its recycling waves to reclaim the island every nine or ten years, and have only agreed to wait while I negotiate with them for an extension. Oh yes, sir, I know all about that. You set up an arrangement for our survival, which was all well and good, and then disappear, leaving us to the mercy of the wrecking ball for forty four years? What kind of man are you to do such a thing? What was so important that you could just sail off and forget us with a snap of the fingers? Joey, we were friends. There isn’t anything we wouldn’t have done for you, and now you’re allowing us to be removed from existence. So talk to me, Joey. What happened? You have the gall to come back here and strut around the place claiming ownership just because we’re products of your imagination? Even in your waking world, they call that slavery. You create something Joey, and you’ve got an obligation to take care of it. So talk! What’s your story? Why did you do this to us?"

Forty four years?

And two months, six hours.

But I was here last week!

Oh swell! So, it was forty four years, two months minus a week!

No Ellie…Miss Powell. It all happened a week ago in my time. Here, I have a pocket calendar.

She snatched it out of my hand like a border guard demanding my passport at the end of a gun. Motioning for Johnny and Maxie Blumenfeldt to come over, they studied it together then glanced back and forth at the wall calendar. Indeed, forty four years had elapsed on the island if the year on the wall was correct.

"One week?

"And six hours. Ellie, that’s why the recycling wave only comes every ten years. They’re on my time, or at least on something a lot closer to it than you are. And haven’t you noticed that I didn’t let anyone age? Ok, give me a second to get into my waker’s age. Ok, you see? Out there, I’m still seven. It was a week ago! Ellie and her sidekicks just stared, until little Maxie broke the awkwardness underneath his breath…So that’s what you look like out there? Hmm."

It’s so difficult to be that person who’s in the wrong after launching half the arsenal, and doubly difficult if you’re right almost all the other times. More than that, it’s triply difficult to sense two streams of time when you’re only in one of them. Ellie began to tap slowly, then traveled in a circle, increasing the number of soft taps per second. That was the way she got to the bottom of any problem. Her famous quote that she’d rather dance than eat was not overstated. Two or three of these circles and she stood before me again. So, you’ve been out in the waking world for a week while we’ve been dodging your company’s hurricanes, volcanoes and recycling waves. I guess you couldn’t help that, but I’m just curious. What did you do during that week, beside re-attaching the pieces of your shattered heart?

Uh, I went back to the county fair, sat in the orchards some, a little football…you know, the usual.

That’s what you were doing while we fought for our lives? All right, all right…you weren’t to know. So, I suppose you’ll be wanting your club back, right?

I’d appreciate it very much.

"Johnny, would you see if we can find the old blueprints for The Green General? Should be on the bottom shelf of the backroom safe. It has a card on it. Bring it to me, will you? We waited for a few awkward minutes while he searched, but Ellie broke the ice again with a certain forthrightness. I can’t help but notice that you’re a tad overweight, even for a tiny kid. How much did you eat at that fair? You know that stuff will kill you, don’t you. Why not just buy a drum of toxic chemicals with a straw? You probably haven’t tapped a foot or even tried a spin in a long time, either. You’re gonna have to get back in shape to survive trips over here. Good grief, Joey, look at that gut! I’ve made pancake batter tighter than that. Well, I can put you in my regimen on most days. We’ll have you looking like yourself in no time. Hear anything from Rita?

No, she’s half a century behind me. See her movies from time to time. How about you? Any romance in the wind?

No, my friend, not for me. Everybody tells me I have two problems…dominant enough to make it alone, and too dominant to find a partner who can take it. I’m talking about dancing, of course. You know that I’m the perfect lamb otherwise…unless I’m being lied to….or unless I’m being left alone for forty four years with an eroding island…all right, all right. I’ll stop. Just making conversation.

PICKED OUT OF THE CHORUS

In the next couple of days, I learned two things…important things. Number one, the truly courageous buccaneer (and that is, after all, what we’re talking about here) erases