Mountain Dance

I used to berate myself for my lack of conviction. I am one who wanders blindly down unknown paths, until, like a clown, I find myself face-first in a cream-filled pie.

 At twenty-six, I did take a stand on music. I had always listened to whatever anyone else around me did so I would fit in: rock, metal rock, pop rock, and before that, my mother’s oldie radio station with the whimsical crooners. Some songs I enjoyed; others, a background noise and mood music.

It was the early 1980s when I was about to move into a turn-of-the century Denver townhouse with my fiancé Marc. I peeled layers of wallpaper hidden underneath the green painted bathroom walls. A snappy, unpredictable, uplifting, wiggle-your-hips melody blasted from Marc’s boom box on the floor, the kind of song that required improvisational dance and the use of all limbs. It coursed through me like sugar, a zap of energy as satisfying as my favorite plum jelly on hot, buttered toast. I wanted to wallow in its essence, to have my every molecule incorporate it into its nucleus. I loved this music.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Fusion jazz,” Marc said. “It mixes elements of rock with elements of jazz.”

I stopped the tape and extracted it, noting Dave Grusin as the artist and the song and album titled Mountain Dance.  I played it incessantly, understanding for the first time why people bought records, or went to concerts, or learned every word to a song. It spoke to me.

After we married, Marc, a jazz fan, then introduced me to Lee Rittenour, Jean Luc Ponty, and David Sandborn, also fusion jazz artists, a part of the ‘80s era, a time period with public nakedness in hot tubs, snorting cocaine, downing Quaaludes, and subscribing to Rolling Stone.

I tried cocaine. I liked it at first, the alertness, the desire to socialize and stay up all night talking. I saw it as a party treat, a means of social invitation and acceptance, but the come-down was awful, and the next day was one spent sleep-deprived. Marc, though, found it a means to disappear for days, coupled with drunken oblivion, behaviors I was not aware of prior to marrying him.

His addictions were a horrific drain on our relationship, and I did not cope well. By the third episode, I called his mother, hysterical. I didn’t tell her about the drugs. I asked her if she knew he was a drinker. She didn’t. She’d been clueless. I asked her why I only saw it now, and why wasn’t the behavior obvious before. What did I do wrong, for I must have somehow brought it on? She had no way of helping other than letting me cry. I could tell she didn’t see it a serious problem, thinking I exaggerated.

At work, I complained about my marriage woes to whomever would listen. I waffled, moment by moment, between staying or going.

Between hours of misery, though, Marc and I found music. 

In addition to being an audio visual tech, Marc played drums. He performed with a country western trio, a Devo-wannabe band, and whatever other genre that needed a drummer. I went to his every gig, amazed by his love and skill of simultaneously pounding sticks against canvas with syncopated feet and hands. When I’d heard enough, when I could tell you the punch lines to any joke the lead singer told or the song lineup, I’d move to a faraway corner table with a flashlight and a book.

Music didn’t drown my sorrows. The next time Marc disappeared, my tired-of-listening-to-me friends said, “Leave him.” I disappeared, too, staying at a co-worker’s house for a night or more. I went home; he went on another bender. I left; he came home. Our rocky mountain dance continued until I moved out and into my own apartment near work. We divorced.

Within two months, Marc came courting, swearing he was a new man. He entered an out-patient program where he took disulfiram to make him throw up if he drank. Promising. I clung to hope. We began attending a Unitarian church on Sundays. Encouraged, I remarried him. Everyone deserved a second chance, I reasoned, and look at his effort, his changes.

Too soon, his dependency returned, along with my co-dependency. I wailed and belittled him, forever the suffering martyr. He closed up and disappeared. I tried Al-Anon, which helped me deal with my emotions and look at my own actions. But Al-Anon didn’t mean I could simply tolerate and live with the situation. I could never plan on anything since Marc might or might not return home for dinner, or might or might not show up for our scheduled trip to Breckenridge where friends awaited. I could never trust him. Every betrayal hurt. I hurt him back, telling him what a waste of a person he was, digging at him with every verbal weapon I could conjure, watching him sink, head down, into himself. In less than a year, we divorced . . . again.

I relocated to California, starting a new career in cosmetology after years of office work. We interacted only to deal with taxes. During a phone call, Marc said he’d like to visit. He’d joined Alcoholics Anonymous, was working on the steps, and wanted to talk to me in person. He’d been sober for six months. I had started seeing a therapist. His request seemed reasonable. I could do this. Marc and I had a lovely few days, with him telling me he was sorry for the evenings he’d left me wondering where he was, and if he’d come home. When he returned to Colorado, we phoned each other every few nights. Nice conversations. All too soon we decided we should give it another go. I moved back to Denver.

He remained sober, but the relationship felt disconnected. He urged me to get a better job. Reestablishing myself in Colorado as a cosmetologist was slow going. I had no client base and I worked on commission, thus no income. I hadn’t found my groove in the beauty business. I had little training in hair color, therefore didn’t do it. I tried sticking to only aesthetic work. I gave great facials, but was a terrible waxer. What I really enjoyed was working on the marketing material, trying to promote myself, yet I was too shy and uncomfortable to get aggressive in distributing my flyers. I spent some days in total shut down, depressed, direction-less. We argued. He worked late, avoiding me.

When he told me a woman he’d met before our reconciliation had asked him to her Christmas party, and he had accepted, I moved out and went back to California.

I thought I had retreated to a guarded, unapproachable castle. I met John doing temporary work at his office, then dated him when I quit. We’d known each other five years before I said, “I do.” This time, I wanted to do it right. We did couples’ therapy to make sure we were on the right track. Each day, I loved him more. We were a good fit. Settled and happy, I went back to college to finish my bachelor’s degree, then obtained a master’s.

It took a decade for my drawbridge to lower for Marc. I realized I did not want to hate him, per society’s rule on exes. I owned how I hated his addiction, my angry and immature reaction to it at times, and how unfulfilling the relationship with him was. However, I allowed myself to appreciate Marc’s likable qualities without being his wife. I could extend a palm without destroying him or myself. It started with me sending a Christmas card. Marc sent one in return. We exchanged a few chatty letters, me in California and him in Colorado. He was married to the third wife after me.

Marc embraced sobriety for real after several more attempts, and he asked if we could meet. He was driving to California for a two-week drumming class near where John and I lived. John was away on business, but said he didn’t mind if Marc and I had dinner. It felt good to have John’s trust, to feel the solidness of our union.

Neither Marc nor I ate much. We talked briefly about family, catching each other up, both uneasy. He set down his fork, looked at me, and said, “I’m so sorry for all I put you through. You did nothing wrong. You deserved much more than you got.”

I soaked it in because he seemed sincere. We both had tears in our eyes. I forgave him and myself in that instant.

 In 2013, we three, John included, met for the fifth year for our annual dinner. John liked Marc for the same reasons I did—Marc was friendly, intelligent, adventurous, and interesting.

On that particular evening, we stopped to listen to live music after our meal. The melody overtook us, and I danced one number with John, then danced the next song with Marc. For a couple of fast numbers, we three danced together.

John said he admired my ability not to be like others who consider divorce as a burial. He said he could never have dinner with his ex-wives. They’d end up belittling him, knocking dishes to the floor, or throwing wine. Perhaps that was his fear talking. He never attempted it.

Regarding convictions, I guess after trying other routes, I can take a solid stance. I make good decisions, eventually. I chose John. I’m proud that I also chose Marc. I’m a Libra. We don’t come by decisions easily. I have an idea of what I want, but, like the clown, I have to come upon it, often clueless.

Yes, the clown gets hit with a pie in the face. Maybe more than once.

But then she realizes there’s the deliciousness of whipped cream.