Chapter 75

The early reviews on the book aren’t great. Mostly, I’ve been accused of covering old ground. One reviewer called it Seusshackery. Another referred to it as cartoonfoolery. Surprisingly, it hasn’t affected the sales. Frank’s thinking we’ll probably go into a second run by the spring, hopefully fanning out to the international markets. He’s interested in Japan. He says they’re crazy about cartoon books, especially ones that help them learn English. Frank figures we’re killing two birds with one stone. “I love this shit,” he says.

Iris is trying to tone down his language, especially in emails. She tells him people could be hacking into their computer. A newscast the other night reported a surge in hacking from Russia and Uzbekistan. “What do those fuckers want with my emails?” he says.

Frank’s even considering an international reading tour. I’m not crazy about the idea. Travelling doesn’t interest me anymore. I’ve gotten used to hanging around the house, doing my own thing. Even dancing is fun now. Silvio still sees me as a klutz, but he does his best, calmly adjusting my stance so I won’t send Mary flying. Two of the older intermediates were held back. Silvio makes them work on their steps in the corner. He tells them they lack machismo. It’s probably arthritis. They dance next to us, and I catch the guy’s eye. I recognize a kindred spirit, a fellow interloper. He’s doing his best, but you can’t fake natural rhythm. Either you’ve got it or you don’t.

I see people dancing on these television shows. The men toss the women around like rag dolls. You’d think they’d all have dislocated discs and pinched nerves. I asked Krupsky about it last week when I went in for my physical. “What have you got against dancers?” he says.

“Nothing.”

He listens to my heart, my lungs, the groaning of my joints. Then he tells me I’m good to go. “You take up jogging or something, Sam?” he says.

“Tango.”

“You tango? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I could tango you under the table.”

“Is that so?”

“I saw you twist, Krupsky.”

“You think I don’t know how to tango?”

“Not if your twisting is any indication.”

“Try me.”

“Come to the studio tomorrow night,” I say. “Seven o’clock. I’ll tell Silvio you’re checking the place out.” I write down the address on his prescription pad. “What are you grinning at?”

“Nothing, Sam,” he shrugs. “See you tomorrow night, amigo.”

“Stop grinning, for chrissake.”

“Why? I’m happy.”

“You’re too happy.”

“Then go forth and multiply.”