Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Dancing
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
My teen daughter Brittany and I have dropped into one of her mom’s favorite diners—Lou Mitchell’s. Eating together is something her mom and I did a lot—more than making love, or housekeeping, or watching TV. Vacations were meal-essays punctuated with museums and monuments.
Lou Mitchell’s steamy coffee in a bottomless cup is the best in the world—a fact verified by neon signage above the entrance. Jumbo omelettes, waffles and pancakes, egg combo dishes in iron skillets. Thick slices of toasted Greek bread, hand cut hash browns. Even before we’re given a menu, a waiter slides two complimentary donut holes in front of us. I can feel my arteries hardening.
“Just after your mom and I were married, we took a quick trip to Chicago. On the shiny marble floors of the polished lobbies in soaring skyscrapers, she taught me the fox trot.”
My daughter has heard this family history before. It’s part of her parent’s marriage mythology. I didn’t really learn the fox trot in Chicago. The myth works because life with her mother was like dancing, gracefully and with grace.
I want Brittany to know the most important thing I know about picking a life partner. I learned it from her mother.
I’m a high school history teacher by profession. Brittany’s mom was a teacher by nature.
“What matters is not what you do with your spouse, not whether you agree or disagree on this or that. Your mom is part of me because of what she taught me,” I add between swallows. I can’t stop myself from dadsplaining. Brittany’s eyes dart around the room as if to change the subject.
“Did mom teach you to overeat?” she taunts. I laugh, she giggles.
In Chicago, the restaurants are murdering me, mouthful by mouthful. In my body’s never-ending turf war between flesh and food, waistline and willpower, restaurant gangsters are running a citywide criminal conspiracy. They push calories and carbs, cholesterol and middle-aged circumference.
“Dad, go easy on the bacon. That’s a huge portion.”
Brittany, a mere junior in high school—she could be one of my students—has already started taking responsibility for my health. And, for what I wear. And, for showing me how to use the latest cellphone app.
To burn off a calorie or two, we march along the Chicago Riverwalk. The hard wind lashes across my face turning my cheeks red. My eyes water.
Am I weeping?
I’m sightseeing without seeing. Everything is a blur.
Perhaps to give me some privacy, Brittany opts for shopping at Marshall Field’s.
To keep myself preoccupied, I wear myself out in museums and museum gift shops, art galleries, antique stores, street markets. I don’t know what I’m looking for.
A text from Brittany says she wants to hang out at Navy Pier, maybe get IMAX tickets. Not my thing, and she knows it. With a smiley face, she types, “Dad, you’re free. Liberated. No need for dad duty.”
From my hotel room, the night twinkles with shimmering buildings and auto taillights moving like a river of Christmas trees. Luminous signs and flashy billboards convert the city’s skyline into a nightclub.
Chicago leers, “Come dance the fox trot.” Instead, I order room service.
I’ve forgotten how to dance.
