*
If you've ever lindy-hopped, you'll know what I'm talking about. With most girls, you kind of work
opposite them, circling, side-stepping, leading. Whichever arm you lead with is half-bent out
there, your hands are giving that little pull, that little push, touching her waist, her shoulders, her
arms. She's in, out, turning, whirling, wherever you guide her. With poor partners, you feel their
weight. They're slow and heavy. But with really good partners, all you need is just the push-pull
suggestion. They guide nearly effortlessly, even off the floor and into the air, and your little solo
maneuver is done on the floor before they land, when they join you, whirling, right in step.
I'd danced with plenty of good partners. But what I became suddenly aware of with Laura was
that I'd never before felt so little weight! I'd nearly just think a maneuver, and she'd respond.
Anyway, as she danced up, down, under my arm, flinging out, while I felt her out and examined
her style, I glimpsed her footwork. I can close my eyes right now and see it, like some blurring
ballet-beautiful! And her lightness, like a shadow! My perfect partner, if somebody had asked me,
would have been one who handled as lightly as Laura and who would have had the strength to
last through a long, tough showtime. But I knew that Laura wouldn't begin to be that strong.
In Harlem, years later, a friend of mine called "Sammy The Pimp" taught mesomething I wish I
had known then to look for in Laura's face. It was what Sammy declared was his infallible clue for
determining the "unconscious, true personality" of women. Considering all the women he had
picked out of crowds and turned into prostitutes, Sammy qualified as an expert. Anyway, he
swore that if a woman, any woman, gets really carried away while dancing, what she truly is-at
least potentially-will surface and show on her face.
I'm not suggesting that a lady-of-easy-virtue look danced to the surface in Laura-although life did
deal her cruel blows, starting with her meeting me. All I am saying is that it may be that if I had
been equipped with Sammy's ability, I might have spotted in Laura then some of the subsurface
potential, destined to become real, that would have shocked her grandma.
A third of the way or so through the evening the main vocalizing and instrumental stylings would
come-and then showtime, when only the greatest lindy-hoppers would stay on the floor, to try and
eliminate each other. All the other dancers would form a big "U" with the band at the open end.
The girls who intended to compete would slip over to the sidelines and change from high heels
into low white sneakers. In competition, they never could survive in heels. And always among
them were four or five unattached girls who would run around trying to hook up with some guy
they knew could really lindy.
Now Count Basie turned on the showtime blast, and the other dancers moved off the floor,
shifting for good watching positions, and began their hollering for their favorites. "All right now,
Red!" they shouted to me, "Go get 'em, Red." And then a free-lancing lindy-girl I'd danced with
before, Mamie Bevels, a waitress and a wild dancer, ran up to me, with Laura standing right
there. I wasn't sure what to do. But Laura started backing away toward the crowd, still looking at
me.
The Count's band was wailing. I grabbed Mamie and we started to work. She was a big, rough,
strong gal, and she lindied like a bucking horse. I remember the very night that she became
known as one of the showtime favorites there at the Roseland. A band was screaming when she
kicked off her shoes and got barefooted, and shouted, and shook herself as if she were in some
African jungle frenzy, and then she let loose with some dancing, shouting with every step, until
the guy that was out there with her nearly had to fight to control her. The crowd loved any way-out
lindying style that made a colorful show like that. It was how Mamie had become known.
Anyway, I started driving her like a horse, the way she liked. When we came off the floor after the