Tango Tonight

Tango tonight and still that little chunk of rotten pukey stuff stuck in my throat. This is not a metaphor. It is real. Just Google “little puke-smelling ball in back of throat” and you’ll see. Tango here in the Sierra is much different than Buenos Aires Tango. I’ve only heard...I never saw any real Tango in the twelve days that I was in the capital, before I was run out of town by my hysterical ex-boyfriend and his even more hysterical girlfriend (one of several) when all I wanted to do was stay and fall deeper in love with the smooth, free-basing junkie Jew that I’d been pining over since Colombia, fifteen years before. I couldn’t dance Tango then and it was probably a blessing that the shit hit that fan and I left town on a late night bus in a flurry of tears and rencor. (I could write a tango about it!) But twelve hours later, I landed here, in San Marcos Sierras, the provincial capital of hippies, honey and traditional Folklore dancing. Where I have incongrously decided to pursue my long-time passion of Tango. In the Sierra, you can dance Tango wearing running shoes or Crocs or gaucho slippers. I’ve even seen a hippy go barefoot once, which pissed me off, making me feel old. In the city, as in Buenos Aires, the birthplace of Tango, it’s regulation footwear all the way. Or so I’ve heard. I’ll go back there and dance someday. And kiss the junkie Jew before he dies.

Sometimes when I close my eyes and a classic Tango comes on, one of the 1349 greats I’ve got on my computer, I breathe in deep and I am THERE, in Mi Buenos Aires Querido, in 1912, clutching onto some mean, greasy fool, in some whorehouse on the riverfront, with a raucous little three-piece playing, wielding, chopping out this new musical form. And the hunger and the longing rush through my chest, hips, then extend down through my leg and my toe (I am wearing heels in my historical fantasy, not Chucks) traces out dramatic eights and fours, soft hooks and violent caresses. I let myself, the forever woman, be entirely led, because that is the key to Tango. And that’s probably been my biggest challenge here, something I face every class—the difficulty of handing myself over to the power of the man, to my partner, and letting him Lead. With a capital L. Not an easy task for the controlling and ultra-independent gringa chick who’d only ever slow danced once with Grampa at a wedding. But I’m getting the hang of it. There are only a couple guys in the class and they’re both pretty strong. There was another guy, that shitbag that I fucked that won’t even say hi to me now, but I’d be willing to bet a bunch of pesos that he won’t ever be back at Tango. And anyway, he fucks way better than he dances. I hope that comes off sounding like the insult I meant it to.

I wonder if Cherry Halls smells too medicinal up close.

I guess I better buy a new pack of mints.