A little night ballet

Just a couple of months ago I was able to ride my bike all over the place, in part because I was training for a longer ride in the summer of 2012 and in part because it feels good to ride upwards of 100 miles a day on warm and sunny days. I discovered a great little diner in Lawrenceville that serves healthy food, mostly gluten free and they don’t mind if you show up after riding, a little muddy, in bike clothes and possibly a little stinky. At least, I am of the opinion they did not mind that I would show up after a day of riding and most defiantly smelling like someone who put on a lot of miles on a humid day riding around the hills of Pittsburgh.

It’s winter now and I am driving. I blew off whatever sort of date I had last night, but it was getting late and I had been unable to find anything to eat since an early lunch, which consisted of a banana and a yogurt. I found my favorite diner, but parking was impossible and I kept driving, expecting to find a space, but the more I drove, the less my chances seemed to grow. Finally, after what seemed like years had passed I found a place and did a magnificent job of parallel parking, just barely pushing up against the car behind me and hardly removing any paint at all from my own fender as I polished a city parking meter.

I got out, pulled on a sweater and a beanie and started the long walk to the small diner. About a block or so into the walk I felt an old familiar sense of confusion and bewilderment. This was a neighborhood I was unfamiliar with, but I knew I would need a quite place to sit for a moment and I began to frantically look for a stoop or a bench. There was an old plumbing supply place that I spotted, closed for the night, half a block ahead of me, still lit up, but closed, I made it to there and slumped into the doorway.

About an hour later a worn tennis shoe was kicking my leg that was dangling recklessly into the sidewalk. My eyes slowly opened and some man was bent over, looking at me, he was wearing strange large framed glasses, but his face was a blur. I blinked a few more times and tried to remember where I was. He was asking me if I was drunk and did I need help. My mouth was dry and my lips were stuck together and were not moving, so at least I knew I was not engaging this idiot who had already kicked me. I tried to regain some composure and figure out where I was and how I had ended up in this store front doorway.

I sat up. I did not have the energy to stand. I leaned by back against the doorway. I looked up, the gangly assailant looked to be about six feet tall, but young, maybe 20 or 25, thin, not too dangerous, even in my delirium I figured if I had to I could kick his ass, but he had backed off a bit when I sat up. I continued to blink my eyes and my lips had parted, but I had yet to speak. I looked at him again, the glasses were not boxy, they were rather stylish, his face almost angelic, surrounded by badly combed brown hair. I asked, “where are we?”

“Dude, you don’t know where you are? I’m calling paramedics.”

“No, we’re in Pittsburgh,” I said. “Where is this place, right here?”

“Penn Avenue, you were passed out. Are you drunk or high?”

“No, I need food.”

I sat for a while. He introduced himself. Marcus, he of the New York City Ballet, visiting his parents for the holidays. After some time I felt strong enough to stand and we walked the few blocks to the diner. I offered to buy dinner, but he refused, but he sat and drank a chocolate shake, which I found disgusting. I ordered a gluten free pasta with free range chicken and a Tuscan inspired red sauce. I had a glass of the house merlot which was both well priced and delicious.

I like dancers. I was once a dancer, not a professional dancer, well, not even a good dancer, mostly just in my apartment, but I think that should count for something. Before we sat down Marcus took off his heavy winter jacket and his fleece sweatshirt, so all that was left with was some wispy t-shirt and a silk neck scarf. Male ballet dancers are incredibly tall and seriously thin. He is six feet two inches tall and weighs somewhere around 140 pounds. I told Marcus I have a lesbian dog that weighs that much and she is a terrible dancer.

I am neither a dancer or a cyclist. That is to say, I do not have a classic athletes body. I am too thick to be either a serious dancer or a cyclist, but in my house I am a dancer without regard to either age or gravity and on the road, I am a cyclist without regard to aerodynamics or dress codes. Marcus had the body of a professional dancer, incredibly lean and tightly would muscles. The tight shirt showed that he was in prime shape and every movement he made, from hanging his jacket to picking up my fallen cellphone was graceful and sublime.

“Tell me something about you,” he said to me. I smiled and immediately filled my mouth with gluten free pasta.

I mumbled that I am an open book, there was no mystery, no closet with skeletons, no tell all books being written by angry lesbian dogs that know too much but have no access to computers or type writers or any other writing implements. With that last part he looked at me like I might be insane. I made a mental note to stop talking about my dog as if everyone knew all about her.

“And you, what is some deep dark secret you feel obliged to tell me?”

“Like you,” he said, smiling dangerously, “I have no secrets.”

The big glass windows on this lovely little diner open up right onto Penn Avenue and I could look out and watch the trendy hippies scurrying to the gallery opening across the street and I could smile. Then I could turn and Marcus would catch me smiling and look out the window too. There was a time I too was a trendy hippy running to galleries and finding art both confusing and inspiring.

I paid for his shake and my dinner, thanked him for kicking my leg and bringing me back to consciousness and assured him that sometimes, in places not of my choosing, I pass out. He again smiled and said he does the very same thing.

Sometimes it is funny how people flow in and then flow out of our lives. I may not ever see Marcus the New York ballet danced again. That said, I may not ever pass out on Penn Avenue again either. Of course, I did add his email to my cellphone, the keeper of all things important and if I am ever in New York City, I may offer to buy him another shake.