I Will Dance This Dance

By Stephen M. Schaub

The early 1980s were a time of great change in America. A recent invention, the personal computer, was quickly altering the nature of the workplace and reducing the need for jobs and workers to fill them. The runaway inflation of the 1970s was gradually being reined in, but the good news came at a price. As the government vowed to cut back on spending, companies went out of business at a record rate, the worst since the Great Depression of the 1930s. In this powerful story of love, dancing and courage, learn how the author struggled to hold his world together, even as it collapsed around him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 15, 2006
• ISBN: 9781465319265

Stephen M. Schaub

After a lifetime adventure, Stephen M. Schaub has become a writer. For the past fifteen years, he has been a freelance writer with many compelling articles to his credit in regional and national publications. “Live on the edge,” he tells people. “It’s the only place where you feel truly alive.” Stephen M. Schaub is an author with a wide writing experience. In this, his second book, he demonstrates his interest in history as well as humor.

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Copyright © 2006 by Stephen M. Schaub.

Library of Congress Control Number:     2005911142

ISBN 10:     Hardcover     1-4257-0572-3

     Softcover     1-4257-0571-5

ISBN 13:     Hardcover     978-1-425705-72-5

     Softcover      978-1-425705-71-8

ISBN:     ebk     978-1-4653-1926-5

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32803v

For Ann

Excerpts from the AP and UPI wire services

were taken from the Peoria Journal Star newspaper

in Peoria, Illinois, USA.

Tillie the Twirler

Words and Music by Neil Sedaka and Howard Greenfield

© 1978 EMI BLACKWOOD MUSIC INC., DON KIRSHNER MUSIC, EMI SOSAHA MUSIC INC. and SONG OF SJL-RSL MUSIC

All rights for DON KIRSHNER MUSIC Controlled and Administered by EMI BLACKWOOD MUSIC INC.

All Rights Reserved International Copyright Secured Used by Permission

I stand outside the door that is locked and remember. The room on the other side is dark now, dark and silent. Not a hint of the music and dancing and people. You’d never know they were ever here. There’s not a sign of them anywhere. The dance floor is empty, dark and silent. Yet the silence of the room is somehow louder and more telling than the music and laughter ever were.

It was a long time ago, maybe not so much in years, but in those life events that age us all. The Continental Regency Hotel in downtown Peoria had a dinner theater up on the fourth floor, called the Left Bank. It’s never used anymore, but back before the Recession, you had to call in advance for reservations.

We didn’t come here much, except for some special occasion, a Spring Graduation or a Summer Showcase. Thus, we always had a feeling of specialness about the place.

It had windows on one side, opening to a balcony that looked out over downtown. The view was good back then, especially at dusky sunset. The city lights came on, one at a time, illuminating what was a town filled with opportunity—or so it seemed to me.

If you looked close enough, off to the west, you could just see a big brick building. There, on the second floor, was our studio. That’s how it looked back in 1980.

It was on an unusually warm day in late October of that year that I walked north on Main Street—a day more like summer than fall. The sun beat down on the sidewalks of the city, making me perspire more than I wanted to. Or maybe it wasn’t the sun at all, but my own nervousness.

Maybe it was my own tension that made me walk swiftly past people, dodging them, feeling full of anticipation, feeling like someone very special. I was facing a challenge, doing something I had never done before. And it was this act of courage that separated me from the ordinary passers-by all around me.

It was a proud brick building with a white-glazed brick front. It had been there many years. I’d driven past it often on my way downtown without ever really noticing it. On the first floor was a furniture company that made and sold its own furniture. Gilbertt Furniture was the name.

Our dance studio was on the second floor and to the back of the building. The front part of the second floor, just off the landing, held apartments whose occupants were often noisy. They would be heard when you went up the stairs, and at the landing, talking or arguing behind their doors, their television sets blaring loudly in their little rooms. They always seemed like such miserable, unhappy people, living in their rooms off Main Street.

A small and slightly tattered orange canopy hung over the glass door facing the street. I always assumed the orange canopy served as a place to stand under on rainy afternoons in the city. At least that was the practical value I gave it. Or was it just a decoration?

Just inside the door on the right stood the mail slots, ancient brass contraptions set into the granite-faced wall, each slot labeled with someone’s name. These caught my attention the first time I opened the door. But then I noticed something much more breathtaking, much more awe-inspiring.

The stairs.

The stairs were long and narrow and steep, surrounded by light blue walls, with a rickety banister for doubtful safety. At the very top of the stairs was the landing and a glass-framed door. A sheer curtain for privacy, held in place at top and bottom, covered the glass from the inside. It was just dense enough to make it impossible for the apartment dwellers to see inside at our goings-on, but thin enough to be friendly.

Walking up those steps did something to you. They elevated you, but not just physically. They took you to a higher level, a nobler existence that could not be found down on the dirty, cracked sidewalks. You walked up the stairs and entered the world of dance. You became a special person.

That’s how I felt as I walked up those stairs for the first time, each step heavy with destiny, each step one step further away from my former self, and ever closer to my new identity. Inside myself I knew I would never be the same again. I turned the black doorknob and entered.

I saw a young woman in her early twenties, with blonde hair and hazel eyes. She was of a small build and thin. Her hair was cut short, only to her shoulders, so it would stay out of her way when she danced. She was sitting behind a desk, situated just a few steps inside the entrance and at a right angle to it.

Then I saw a man in his late twenties, with brown hair and brown eyes. He was thin like me and lanky. He sat sprawled on the old beaten couch on the other side of the room, facing the desk. Just in back of him was the long vertical, rectangular window of his enclosed office.

Ann Wilson and Ray Cornwell. Two of the finest dancers I would ever know.

Hello, I said. I have a one thirty appointment.

You must be Steve Schaub! I heard Ann Wilson say in that high voice of hers.

Yes. I’m here for my free lesson.

My name is Miss Wilson. I’ll be your instructor. This is Mr. Cornwell. He’s the comanager of the studio.

Hello.

Hello, Steve. We talked on the phone last week, didn’t we?

That was me.

I had phoned the studio about a week earlier. I had been wanting to learn to dance. Dancing is a social skill, and I was trying to find a way to meet people and make new friends. Curiosity had driven me to get some kind of information on costs of dance lessons and other details.

Actually, this was the second dance studio I’d called. I’d phoned another place first, but somehow the conversation didn’t sit right with me. It just sounded phony, insincere. A few days later I called the Arthur Murray School of Dance and talked to Mr. Cornwell. I was impressed with how carefully and patiently he described the program in his low-key, relaxed voice. I made an appointment then and there.

Ann and Ray talked together a bit more while I stood there nervous, anxious to have all this over with. Finally, attention came back to me.

Let’s go out to the dance floor, Mr. Schaub.

Ann was up quickly and taking my hand. But me, I was so tense. I was stiff. That’s why it amazed me as she casually looped her arm around mine and marched me through the double doors out to the far side of the wooden dance floor. How, I wondered, could she be so uninhibited?

She had an energetic walk. Not necessarily fast, though at times she could be remarkably fast, but the muscles of her legs were so tight, so well-trained, that this was reflected in her walk. She was an athlete. Often I could hear the excitement in her footsteps, in her high-heeled shoes on the wooden floor. It was that walk and that smile and that high-strung voice of hers that, I think, captured me from the very start.

A combination record player and PA system stood in the left corner of the dance floor, raised up on a platform about four inches high, so it would be out of the way of the dancers. Next to it was a shelf built into a wall, much like a bookshelf, holding records—45s and LPs—and next to these were some of the students’ files. Every student had a file, a record of the dances learned and the progress made on each one.

She put a record on the player, then came over and joined me.

We’ll begin with a waltz.

OK.

So… you’ve never danced before?

No. Never.

Not even freestyle at some nightclub?

Nope.

Let’s begin with a waltz. Watch my feet. Step, step, step, step, step. Just like that. Got it?

I watch her closely, and then imitate her steps, as we would do so very much, so very often in the future. I was too intense, too serious. She showed me the proper handhold. My right hand went flat on her back. My left hand, enclosing her right, extended out to the left but not too much as to be awkward.

And so I began those first uncertain steps, those first tentative, tense steps toward becoming a good dancer. In a way, it was like learning to walk all over again, like an infant, but this time set to music. I had to learn how to move my body all over again. And this time not rigid, but smooth and flowing and free. And this time, happy and fun loving. And this time, sensuous and artistic. But I had a long way to go. She smiled at me.

OK. Good. Now let’s try something faster. Let’s try a hustle.

I didn’t know what a hustle was and I didn’t know how to feel about it, except maybe a little more nervous. The disco fever of the 1970s had bypassed me altogether, at least up till now.

OK.

This is a four-count hustle. Very simple, and a good one to begin on. Watch my feet. Step, step, step, step. Just like that. Now you try it. Put your left foot back. A little more. Watch my feet. Step, step, step, step. That’s it! Good!

She rushed over to the record player and put a disco record on, He’s So Shy by the Pointer Sisters. Then she quickly came back to me.

Listen to the music. Ready… begin.

I do a four-count hustle for the first time. Incredibly stiff, awkward, and uncertain, it bore no resemblance to what I was to become in the near future. Finally, my first half-hour lesson was over, filled with blunders. She stands with her back to the wall, facing me but intently writing notes about me in a folder. I say nothing, and I’ve said very little all through this ordeal. In a moment she closes the folder and looks at me.

You’re nervous! she declares, patting me on my left arm. Her tone showed an element of compassion that appealed to me, but her words only stated the obvious.

We go back to the lounge and she announces to the optimistic Mr. Cornwell that I did very well on my first lesson. Yes, there was possibly the stuff of a good dancer in me. Mr. Cornwell looked appropriately pleased. I had just had my free introductory lesson and though less than convinced that the studio was the place for me, I compromised. I agreed to purchase the minimum number of lessons.

This totaled three hours of private lessons with Ann Wilson, four hours of group lessons, and seven hours of practice sessions.

I planned on doing my three hours of private lessons and then leaving this place. These lessons would be in half-hour sessions spread out over the next six weeks. I agreed to return next Saturday and sit down with a lady named Denise Kroger, the other comanager of the studio, to sign the contract.

I’ll be here Saturday. Thanks. Thanks a lot.

Goodbye, Steve!

I said my goodbyes for the day and left.

Full of self-pride in my accomplishment, I think I floated down those steps. Out on the sidewalk, I felt like a giant among men. I couldn’t wait to get back to my car and go home and begin practicing my new dance steps. I hardly realized it just then, but a whole new world had opened up for me. Dancing and parties and fun. Dancers and dancing and romance. The simple fact that I would have someone to dance with was a boost for me, but more was to come.

I still clung to my original plan, which was to learn a few dance steps and then get out. I didn’t want to spend the time on dancing when I had so many other responsibilities. I didn’t want to make the commitment. But somehow I just got swept along by events. The problem was I had so many other activities in my life. My lifestyle was practically nonstop.

Horseback riding was a passion of mine. I was on a horse every week. Also, I owned a horse named Magic. He was chestnut in color, with a long white stripe down his nose. I boarded him at a stable located just outside the city. Horseback riding was a hobby I loved. It did me good, both physically and mentally. And as it turned out, I was a natural horseman. I had an innate talent for working with horses.

Magic I had seen as a foal, standing in the pasture next to his mother. But I never really paid much attention to him until months later, when he was brought inside the riding arena, into one of the stalls. It was there that we first established a rapport. One evening inside the arena, after a riding lesson, with the sun gone down and stars in the sky, I had been looking at Magic, a wild young colt, inside his stall. Something just seemed to click between us. The manager of the stable told me Magic was for sale. This heightened my interest, though it was sometime later before I actually bought him.

There then began one of the most wonderful periods of my life. Very few people in this world have had the chance to help raise a young colt. They don’t know about all the training involved. They’ve never brushed and petted a foal in its stall when it was afraid. They don’t know how to get a wild young colt accustomed to a halter, how to lead it around by a rope when it didn’t want to be lead around, how to train it to trust its owner. They don’t know the joy of exercising a young horse on a lunge line on a warm summer day. They don’t know the thrill of placing a saddle on a horse—a horse they helped train—and riding him in bright summer fields. They don’t know or understand the close relationship between horse and rider. It was a one-in-a-million experience.

The horse owners and riders I knew at the stable were some of the finest people I’ve ever known. There never was anything small or petty about them. They weren’t given to meanness. They were helpful and generous toward others, a far contrast from what can be found in the rest of the world. I think we were brought together by a bond of mutual courage, an appreciation of the inherent danger of riding and working with horses. You can get hurt around horses if you’re not careful, and sometimes even if you are. Ultimately they are unpredictable animals. Luckily, I had the income to afford owning and riding horses.

I was a clerk for the Toledo, Peoria, and Western Railroad Company. The railroad had a long, long history in Central Illinois, going back to 1849. It ran from Logansport, Indiana, to the Mississippi River at the Illinois border, thus connecting the eastern railroads with the western lines. In this way, it held a strategic location for carrying freight across the country.

I worked in the TP&W general office, located at 2000 East Washington Street in East Peoria across the Illinois River.

I originally started as a laborer in the mechanical department. The everyday life of a railroad laborer was rough. It was a rough life. It was broiling hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter, with the daily smell of creosote from the crossties and diesel smoke from the locomotives, plus a lot of mud, dust, grease, grime and sweat. There was the constant danger involved in doing heavy labor and doing it around heavy machinery. I’ve worked around many kinds of rail equipment, from engines, cabooses and cranes to freight cars of every type. I knew the different types of rail cars inside and out. I’ve worked every shift, and sometimes double shifts. I’ve thrown switches, cleaned cabooses, and refueled locomotives at three o’clock in the morning. I could drive an engine—or a track spike. Also, in the time that I was there, I came to know very many railroad workers.

I enrolled in Illinois Central College to study accounting and eventually got myself promoted to clerk. I continued my college courses after my promotion. College was tough, and the classes I took required a lot of careful study. This was how I spent my evenings after work. Needless to say, I couldn’t see much time for the dance studio, and that was why I just wanted a few brief lessons.

The first of November was a brilliantly sunny day, and warm for that time of year, for autumn going into winter. As I drove around the block of 700 Main looking for a parking place, I kept wondering why it should be so crowded. As I entered the studio I found out. There had been a 2:00 p.m. group lesson, as there always was on Saturday afternoons, followed by an hour-long group practice session. I didn’t really know anyone or anything and hadn’t been introduced, so I sat in a chair in the lounge, waiting for my lesson. Curious but trying not to show it, I watched this crowd of people, still strangers to me. They were talking and laughing, or dancing to the music, which always seemed to be at just the right volume. There was certainly a lot of life here on Saturday afternoons.

I sat in one of those orange-colored molded fiberglass chairs that they had, dating from the 1960s, and noticed a round coffee table in the middle of the room. I looked at all the trophies on the wall and the big round medals of silver and gold. They didn’t look like real gold or silver, but it didn’t matter. I hadn’t expected them to be.

On the wall, among all the awards, I saw a small brass-and-wood plaque that said, Fraternization between student and teacher is prohibited… It was the no frat rule. It meant that a student and teacher