Rick Archer's Note:

I sometimes wonder what people think about my unusual stories.  I also wonder if people will believe me. 

"Rick means well, but more than likely he is self-deceived." 
"I think Rick sees what he wants to see."
"My biggest fear is that Rick will turn out to be a complete fraud."

You have my word that I am telling the truth about my Supernatural Events.  I may not always understand what is going on, but I do have the ability to recognize when a strange incident bends the rules of Reality.  That said, I will share a funny story.  A friend named Jane once commented that some of my stories are really weird. 

"In fact, they are beyond weird!" Jane exclaimed.

I replied, "Do you believe they are true?"

"Oh, yes, of course I do.  I don't think you are smart enough to make up all these weird stories by yourself."

Who would have ever thought Jane's low opinion of my imagination would be proof of my sincerity?

Thanks to Yolanda, my Epic Losing Streak had reached double figures.  Yolanda was Victim #10.  I was very discouraged to see my endless problems with women had followed me to Houston.  But I cannot say it was a surprise.  I do not have the words to express just how lost I was following my dismissal from Colorado State.  I was a beaten man.  In addition to being lost, I was also bewildered.  Something very strange was going on with my life.  Now that Murphy's Curse and the Epic Losing Streak had driven me to the edge of sanity, a bizarre combination of events led me to the strangest place to begin my comeback: dance lessons.  Following the Twilight Zone events of July 20, I committed to dance lessons strictly on the belief that this is what God wanted me to do. 

How does one cure a Phobia?  Dr. Hilton had failed.  Jason had failed.  So far I had failed too.  In fact, I had failed miserably.  My inability to make myself call Yolanda after the Stalled Car incident was further proof of my extreme fear of a woman's rejection.  Many people with a Phobia do not require treatment.  Avoiding the object of their fear is enough to control the problem.  However, it may not be possible to avoid certain phobias.  The fear of flying is a good example.  It is one thing to solve an irrational fear by sidestepping a swimming pool or keeping a safe distance from a mean dog, but if I ever intended to have a relationship, I could not avoid women for the rest of my life.  I had to take action, but where to start?  The obvious solution was talk to women at bars.  That's how other guys did it.  However, that was out of the question for me.  I would not know the first thing to say to a woman I did not know.  I had no pickup lines, no clever conversational tricks.  I had to find a way to approach a woman I did not know, some way to get to First Base.  That is when I ran across a story that suggested how 'Dance' could be used to bridge the gap. 

"Dancing is more powerful than Love Potion #9."

To a lonely, heartsick boy, those words were very influential.  Could Dancing break my Epic Losing Streak?  Perhaps.  I still believed in myself to some extent.  If a woman liked me and didn't care about my scarred face, I could open up.  It was bridging that initial gap where I needed help.  Dancing seemed like the perfect ice breaker because it eliminated the need to develop cold-approach conversational skills.  If I could make it to First Base, from there I would be okay.  I would have no trouble speaking to women at that point.  But first I had to know that the scars on my face were not a problem for the woman.  My scar face was the barrier that stopped me cold.  Fortunately, asking a girl to dance is something I believed I could manage.  If she turned me down, it would sting, but I could live with that.  If she took a glance at me and smiled, that meant my appearance was acceptable.  I could take it from there. 

Under ordinary circumstances, a beginning-level dance class should not be an ordeal.  Nevertheless, all week long I tried hard to find a reason to chicken out.  Given that I was skirting the edge of a nervous breakdown, this was no time to be taking risks.   Try as I might, I could not get Connie Kill Shot out of my mind.  Past experience was firm evidence that I was a candidate for the title of world's worst dancer.  So what was I doing headed to the lion's den?  Basing everything on a flimsy hunch, I knew I was taking a real chance with this dance class.  What if I guessed wrong and my depression grew worse?  After all the problems I had suffered through over the past year, I didn't have much courage left. 

Tossing and turning all night, I awoke on Saturday morning, July 27, convinced this was the worst idea I ever had.  Since there was nothing in my past to suggest I had the slightest bit of dance talent, I fully expected to screw up and hate myself even worse by the end of the day.  On the other hand, I was 24 years old and going nowhere.  I had a dead-end job, no career plans, and no friends other than the Clark family.  The suggestion about dance class was the first constructive idea I had encountered in ages.  And so, despite my dire fantasies, I decided to go through with it.  With no idea what I was getting myself into, I was a nervous wreck as I walked into Dance City at 10 am.  Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.  However, Edna, the lady on the phone, had made a persuasive argument.  Edna said this was the perfect class to prepare me to dance at a nightclub.  She also insisted this was the only class of its kind in the city.  Considering the three other studios I called said they had no class in 'Nightclub dancing', I assumed Edna was telling the truth.  Dance City seemed like my only choice.  Committed to a project for which I believed I had little natural ability, I clung to the hope I was not as bad as I thought.

As it turned out, the Universe was playing tricks with my mind.  I had never been to a dance club in my life.  Due to my ignorance, I vaguely knew the difference between Partner Dance and Freestyle (look, but don't touch.) 

Since I was unsure what 'Nightclub dancing' was, I assumed it was the same thing as Fly Me to the Moon where the man embraced the woman in his arms to Sinatra.  Since the story had taken place in a nightclub, I thought it was common for people to partner dance.  In fact, that fantasy was the main reason I finally decided to show up.  I assumed there would be pretty girls in class for me to practice with.  Wouldn't that be nice?

I was about to discover the hard way that 'Nightclub dancing' meant 'Freestyle'.  Here at the start of the Disco Era, 'Freestyle' dominated in the clubs while 'Partner Dancing' was non-existent.  It would stay that way until 1978 when John Travolta and Saturday Night Fever changed the nightclub scene.

Hoping for reassurance, I asked for Edna at the registration desk.  I was out of luck; Edna did not work weekends.  Oh well.  I had promised myself that no matter how afraid I was, I would not back out.  Filled with anxiety, I paid for my class and got directions to the classroom.  

On my way to class, I noticed a group of ten well-groomed, nicely-dressed men lined in a row.  Each man wore a coat and tie.  I assumed the men were Ballroom instructors waiting to greet female students as they arrived.  In Hindsight, I wonder why there were no female instructors.  Noticing two couples who were already dancing on the nearby floor, Saturday mornings were a prime time for lessons.  More than likely these men congregated here as a good place to await their students.  Ironically, the presence of these dance instructors reinforced my belief that I would be learning how to dance with a woman in my arms.  Boy, was I in for a surprise.

The men were standing in front of a knee-high wall that lined the edge of a giant Ballroom dance floor.  As I approached, they stopped talking to each other and turned to look me over.  They eyeballed me so intently that I was taken aback.  Good grief, what is this about?  I could see they were staring at me with considerable interest.  As I got closer, I did a double-take when I realized each man was likely gay.  In my sheltered life, I had never seen more than two gay men together.  Now there were ten in a row.  Without a doubt this was the weirdest welcoming committee I had ever faced. 

Noticing the strange expressions and mixed reaction, I felt very much on guard.  Extremely self-conscious, my fears of being gay resurfaced.  Back in college I had been had been propositioned so many times I lost count.  Last Saturday I had stumbled into the arms of a gay man.  Why did gay men take so much interest in me?  Do they know something I don't know?  I suppressed my panic as best I could, but it was not easy.  Already nervous about visiting this foreign place, I was very intimidated by their stares.  What was their problem?  Based on several frowns, it clearly was not lust.  So what did I do wrong?  Was I invading their space or something?  Are heterosexuals not welcome?  I groaned to myself.  Talk about being put on the spot! 

Well, I wasn't going to let these men stop me.  I had made it this far, so I might as well keep going.  Since the only way I could get to my room was to pass this gauntlet, I gritted my teeth and kept my eyes focused straight ahead.  You know how I am about omens.  As omens go, this reception committee was about as bad as it gets.  My nerves were already shot and I had not even made it to class.  I hesitated in front of the closed door.  Hearing the dance music inside, this was my last chance to turn around.  Possessed by a very bad premonition, I did not want to go in.  Looking at my watch, I was 10 minutes late, a lifelong bad habit.  Why not just leave?  However, I had hit a complete dead end.  Right now that door represented the only hope I could think of. 

The Gay Gauntlet had unnerved me so much I continued to waver.  I turned around to see if they were still looking at me.  Yes, they were.  If anything, those men helped me make up my mind.  Rather than chicken out liked I wanted to, I did not want them to see me turn tail and run.  Nor did I want to pass by them a second time.  Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself as best I could.  Do I really want to do this?  No, but with my luck, God might send another maneater like Yolanda.  My heart was racing and my hand was shaking as I turned the handle.  Stunned by what I saw, I froze on the spot. 

There were eight people in the room, a diminutive dance instructor and seven rich women who appeared to be his students.  Surprised to see the door open ten minutes late, the seven society women turned to stare at me.  Every one of them greeted me with a look of disgust.  I blanched in surprise.   Was I was supposed to dance with these women?  If so, forget it, not with the way they stared at me.  I had a very bad feeling.  Who are these women and what are they doing here??  Why are they so hostile?

The seven women were lined in a row facing the mirror.  They stood behind the instructor.  Noticing how well-dressed they were, one glance was enough to realize these women belonged to the cream of Houston society. 

I knew this for a fact because I spent nine years at a prestigious prep school staring at women like them.  St. John's is located in River Oaks, enclave to Houston's rich and famous.  Afternoon tea at St. John's was the perfect place for extremely wealthy society women who lived in the area to meet for gossip, hobnobbing and status climbing.  Age 10 when I started at St. John's, I was star-struck whenever I noticed this group of attractive, very confident women.  Since my mother lacked the sense to teach me manners, I had a bad habit of stopping and staring.  No one likes to be stared at, so whenever one of the ladies noticed me, she would invariably send a "You don't belong here" hate stare.  Some even came closer and chased me away.

These women were right about one thing.  I did not belong at St. John's.  I was an insecure little boy from a broken home.  Lacking a parent to explain things, I was ill-equipped to deal with rejection from the haughty, imperious women who attended High Tea.  However, because these women met in a reception area that was open to a well-traveled hallway, I believed this 'openness' gave me the right to stop and watch for a moment.  They thought otherwise.  I felt a serious grudge towards several women who made it their mission to shoo me away. 

Bitter at being a poor kid misfit at a rich kid's school, over time I developed a serious chip on my shoulder.   That was then, this was now.  It blew my mind to be met in this dance class by a nightmare from my past.  On a day when I was already a nervous wreck, I was outnumbered seven snobs to one.  I was incredulous.  What are these sophisticated women doing in a lowly Disco class?  Obviously the point of this class was to learn how to shake your booty.  With a grim smile I noted these women were so ridiculously thin they did not have a booty to shake. 

The women took one glance at me and reacted with horror.  Their expression was quickly replaced by intense hostility.  These women did NOT want me in here.  It reminded me of the time an SJS woman had chased me away from the coffee and tea area in a very offensive way.  I was 10 years old and quite harmless.  The woman objected to me standing in the hallway as her group of socialites sipped tea in the Commons area.  I was too young to fight back, but I wanted to tell that lady this was my school and she had no right to treat me like that.

This memory accompanied my unpleasant introduction to the River Oaks Seven, a group of society women who would become immortal to my story.  Since these ladies of privilege reminded me of the mothers of my former SJS classmates, I assumed they lived in River Oaks.  I never learned their names, but I was certain they belonged on the newspaper Best Dressed List. 

Although I grew up poor, I knew about wealth thanks to my school.  Nine years on the bottom rung of the Status Ladder had created a deep sense of social inferiority.  The moment I saw these women, all those years of feeling like the underdog came rushing back.  These women were twice my age, half my size, and a million times wealthier.  They stared at me with utter contempt.  I could understand the irritation at having their class interrupted, but their disdain went way past that.  A homeless person could not have received a more haughty 'get lost' look.  Facing seven gazes directed with laser-like intensity, their dislike felt personal.  These high and mighty women were the very definition of snobbery.  They exuded prosperity.  Gifted with petite figures, each woman wore an expensive tailored dress which fit perfectly on her ultra thin body.  Tasteful scarves, expensive jewelry plus impeccably coifed hair gave these ladies a cultured, aristocratic appearance.  They were so perfectly matched I was certain they all knew each other. 

Their reflexive dislike made me feel like I was trespassing.  Their grimaces were also reminiscent of the stares I received during my terrible acne outbreak ten years ago.  Stuck at a school where every child was groomed to be beautiful, my idiot mother had refused to take me to the dermatologist for four days.  By that time it was too late to regain control.  Do you have any idea what it feels like to have women like these stare at you like a leper for an entire year? 

There was one particular experience I will never forget.  The St. John's Mother's Guild sponsored dance parties after each home football game.  These parties were held in the River Oaks homes of women identical to these socialites.  Although I never danced at these parties due to my stigma, I went anyway just to see what I was missing.  One night I arrived at a mother's doorstep with my blotched face.  The woman who greeted me was so appalled by my Freddy Krueger appearance that she forced me to prove I was actually an SJS student.  I assumed she believed no one who looked like me could possibly go to St. John's.

Indeed, these seven women were so much the spitting image of the women who once intimidated me that I felt transported straight back to High School Hell.  It was uncanny how much these hateful women reminded me of tormentors from yesteryear.  Filled with disbelief, I asked myself over and over what these women were doing here.  Confronted by a wall of seven women united in their desire to see me leave, I told myself this could not be happening.   Why weren't there any normal people in this room?  Seriously, their presence was so weird, I felt trapped in another Twilight Zone episode. 

Unable to fathom what circumstance could possibly have arranged this eerie revival of my high school trauma, a tidal wave of anxiety washed over me.  I despised these memories I preferred to forget, but too late now.  Although St. John's was six years in the rearview mirror, I was forced to deal with painful recollections from yesteryear.  Right now I was facing seven beautiful women whose arms were folded across their chest and stared with scowls of disgust.  The sight of these pit bulls in lipstick sent waves of humiliation through me.  I was reminded of that sad, disfigured boy who was made to feel like he should apologize for his unwanted existence. 

I wanted to run, but then I steeled myself.  I had a right to be here!  So I looked around.  Where could I go to be inconspicuous?  Due to my height, that was impossible.  The room was lined with 8-foot mirrors on three walls.  I was tall, they were small.  Due to reflections in three mirrors, there was nowhere to hide.  That is when it struck me.  This situation was so painful, so bizarre, it was like someone had gone out of their way to make things as miserable for me as possible.  This moment transcended Reality.  Fearful of a woman's scorn, I was one step removed from a nervous breakdown before I even walked in the door.  So what do I find?  Seven gargoyles from my tormented past who have scorn down to a science.  A Hollywood director could not have picked seven more perfectly evil villains.  Faced by beautiful women who made me feel ugly and repulsive, every insecurity in my psyche emerged. 

THESE RIVER OAKS WOMEN WERE MY WORST NIGHTMARE COME TRUE.

The Gay Gauntlet had been bad enough, but this was so much worse.  Given my vulnerability, I was totally blindsided by this frosty reception.  On a day when I had already exhausted what little courage I had left, every demon and fear had risen from their coffins to haunt me anew.  I couldn't take it.  I took one step to leave, then I stopped as a powerful thought raced across my mind.  These women want me to leave!  

I had to hand it to those women, the moment they saw me, they bonded as one.  Greeting me with uniform expressions of horror, did I have the guts to stand up to this kind of hostility?  Of course not!  But then to my surprise I changed my mind.  Why?  During my nine years facing women like these, I had developed a giant chip on my shoulder.  It did not matter that these arrogant women were arrayed against me.  Even though I was an emotional cripple, once my ancient St. John's Defiance returned, all that hate gave me the courage to stand up to these women.  Who do they think they are?  They have a lot of nerve acting like this class is their private country club.  I paid for this class.  I have a right to be here!  Emboldened by burning anger, I finally had a worthy target for all my pent-up Colorado State rage.  Unwilling to back down, I decided to stay specifically to spite them.  Giving the women my best 'Go to Hell' look, I squared my shoulders and walked to the back of the room.  Let class warfare begin.

DAVID

David was just as surprised to see me walk in as the women.  Although he said nothing, David greeted me with a warm smile.  Taking that as encouragement to stay, I was grateful.  Meanwhile the women took note and nearly had a heart attack.  They were aghast to see David give me permission to stay.  Shocked that he wasn't going to toss me out for the sin of existing, the seven women turned their backs to me in a disgusted huff.  No doubt David would face the music later for the crime of allowing vermin in the room.

David was an unusually handsome Hispanic man.  He was a nattily attired, 5' 7" wisp of a guy a year or two older than me.  David was thin and very tan.  His hair was dyed blonde, probably to accentuate his dark tan.  Leaving his shirt open down to the last two buttons on his flowery shirt, David had a hairless chest covered by a gold chain.  With a colorful purple sash wrapped around his waist, he wore the tightest hip-hugging pants I had ever seen on a man.  There was little doubt David was gay, but why should I care?  A quarter of my Child Welfare agency was gay.  My entire apartment project was gay.  This dance studio was gay.  My whole world was gay.  Oops, check that.  The River Oaks Seven were the exception, but they hated me. 

As I stood in back, the seven women formed a barrier between David and me.  However, my view was not blocked.  I was Goliath compared to everyone else.  Although David's back was turned, he and I could make eye contact by using the mirror in front of him.  I noticed the seven women were using the same mirror to stare at me.  Why such intense interest?  Can't they just leave me alone? 

Just then I happened to glance at myself in mirror for the first time.  Oh my God!!

SASQUATCH

Staring back at me in the mirror was the spitting image of a giant mountain man.  Put a beard on me and I was a dead ringer for Paul Bunyan.  It had been so long since I had looked in the mirror, it took a second to realize this was me.  I knew I was a big guy, but I had never quite grasped my size until now.  Then I noticed the tiny Lilliputian women were staring as well.  Mostly in disgust, but partly in terror as well. 

I was intensely ashamed of my appearance.  I looked like a giant oaf in comparison to tiny David and the petite women.  Thick as an oak tree, at 6' 1", 200 pounds, I was not only a head taller, I was twice as wide.  My shoulders were the size of two wafer-thin women placed side by side.  Given my obvious defiance, no wonder they were afraid of me.  With bulging muscles and angry sneer, I could easily snap any one of these nasty toothpicks in half. 

I was quite a sight... and not a pleasant one either.  The worst part had to be the long hair.  Understand that long hair was fashionable in 1974 Colorado.  Lots of young men in Colorado had long hair, but not here in Texas.  The unkempt mop I bore that day was unwelcome in ultra-conservative Houston.  And what about the clothes?  What was a hillbilly doing in a Disco class?  I was wearing blue jeans with a red flannel shirt.  I had on thick mountain boots.  This was appropriate clothing for 40 degree Rocky Mountain chill, but hardly for 100 degree Houston inferno.  I guess in the back of my mind I was still living in Colorado.  Or more likely, I had been so depressed since returning to Houston, I had not paid attention to how I looked or dressed.   

Due to my scarface revulsion, I rarely looked in the mirror.  This was a bad habit left over from my terrible acne years in high school.  Once Vanessa left, I felt so ugly, I stopped looking altogether.  Preferring to shave in the shower, I suppose it had been five months since my last glance in a mirror.  I am not exaggerating.  However, now I had no choice.  Trapped in a room of mirrors, I was shocked by my ghastly appearance.  The shame was overwhelming.  The presence of these perfectly dressed River Oaks women in comparison to a giant clod reminded me of the days I had been the ugliest boy at St. John's.  Every minute I remained here, the nightmare intensified. 

During my miserable year at Colorado State, I did not get a single haircut.  Why bother?  Once Vanessa broke my heart, I stopped caring about how I looked.  In the span of nine months I went from an acceptable Prince Valiant haircut to a macabre behemoth straight out of a horror movie.  I could not decide which was worse, my wild hillbilly appearance or my striking resemblance to Charles Manson.  It was starting to make sense.  I had just learned the reason for my unwelcome reception. 

I noticed how the River Oaks women continued to stare by way of the mirrors.  They tried to disguise their disgust with poker faces, but their eyes gave it away.  Not a pretty sight.  Seeing utter disdain on every face, I turned crimson red with shame.  Now I knew why the gay men had stared at me.  It could not possibly have been sexual attraction as I feared at first.  The Gauntlet gawked for the exact same reason as these women... I looked like a freak.  

Shaking my head in disbelief, I was truly ashamed.  River Oaks was the Land of the Beautiful People.  It was painful to resemble a grotesque backwoods ogre surrounded by model-thin women with perfect figures flawless make-up and tasteful clothes.  Thin was in, stout was out.  Meanwhile I was well aware how much the women disapproved of my presence.  Even worse, my shield was gone.  The shock of seeing how truly ugly I was had removed all remaining defiance.  No longer able to resist their scorn, I was overcome by wave after wave of shame.  Unable to withstand any further eye contact, I looked down at the floor, balled my hands into fists and began to grind my teeth.  There I was, Sasquatch, the hillbilly Mountain Man who towered over a Lilliputian world of tiny rich women and their tiny dance instructor.  A bizarre sight indeed.

Damn it, those women would not stop glaring at me!  And who could blame them?  No doubt it was fear.  With just one misstep, I might fall and crush someone with my clumsiness.  Or worse, I would go Helter Skelter and slash their throats.  Using their blue blood as finger paint, I would smear hideous Disco messages on the mirrors.  Hmm, the way I felt, that wasn't such a bad idea. 

It took a while, but eventually the women decided I wasn't homicidal.  Assuming their lives were no longer in danger, the seven women returned to snobbery, their natural state of being.  Their pained looks made it clear they didn't like having their dance party interrupted by a wilderness monstrosity.  However, since there was nothing they could do about it, they began to pretend I did not exist. 

The damage had been done.  I could not bear to stay here any longer.  I swear to God, I felt exactly like I did back in high school on that terrible day when people stared in shock at my overnight acne explosion.  Memories of walking down the hallway with students staring in horror at my swollen red face came flooding back.  Facing a terrifying rerun of High School Hell, I accidentally looked at myself in the mirror again.   Bad move.  The sight of my sunken pock-marked cheeks made me sick with revulsion.  I should not have looked in the mirror.  The mirror affected me the same way kryptonite crippled Superman.  The horror of seeing my disgusting long hair in combination with inappropriate clothes and my scarred face was more than I could handle.  Sick to my stomach, full of nausea, I wanted to leave in the worst way.  I would have left right there except for my desperation to answer one burning question.  And what question might that be?  Maybe I wasn't as bad a dancer as I thought.  There was only one way to find out and that was stick around and find out.

Down to my last bullet, the wolves were closing in.  Who would have thought my last chance to conquer loneliness would take place in a dance class?  Every ounce of my being longed to flee, and yet I stayed.  Based on a hunch almost impossible to explain, I still believed God had directed me to be here.  Why I could not imagine, but if God suggested these dance lessons were the answer to my debilitating phobia, then who was I to question God?  Damn these women for being here, but I needed these lessons.  Only one problem.  Things were about to get worse.  Much worse.

THE DANCE CLASS FROM HELL

The only reason I stuck around was curiosity.  I wanted to find out if I was as bad a dancer as I expected.  I got my answer soon enough.  No, I was not as bad as I expected to be.  I was worse.  On that fateful Saturday morning, my fear that I was a dreadful dancer was confirmed once and for all.  Just add it to the list of horrors.  There seemed to be no end to my suffering.

The bad news was not exactly a surprise.  My mediocrity was something I had long suspected.  What upset me was discovering just how truly awkward I was.  I had not expected to walk in and find I was ready for Swan Lake.  But I would have been pleased to master some of David's patterns.  Not so.  I could not do anything right.  Stiff and clumsy, I moved with the fluidity of a dump truck stuck in reverse.  The worst part was watching David dance in the mirror.  Comparing myself to his whirling dervish grace, I compared myself to the dancing hippos in Fantasia.

There was one particular dance step that drove me to distraction.  The infamous 'Step Ball-Change' pattern bedeviled me no end.  This triple step move was one of the defining Freestyle moves of the Seventies.  To my dismay, David choose to devote most of his class to this move.  I could not execute this triple step correctly.  Nor did I have any idea what my mistake was.  I was constantly losing my balance which in turn made it impossible to keep up with the rapid Disco beat.  No matter how hard I struggled, I made absolutely no improvement.

In Hindsight I can share what the problem was.  My mistake was allowing my heel to touch the floor whenever I stepped back.  This created too much backward momentum, causing me to lose my balance.  The solution was not difficult.  All I had to do was use the ball of my foot rather than my heel, but I was too new to understand what I was doing wrong.  Making matters worse, I noticed the River Oaks women had no trouble picking up the move.  Although women complain about the discomfort of high heels, they offer an unexpected bonus when it comes to dancing.  Wearing heels teaches women to keep their weight forward over the ball of their foot.  Meanwhile, my basketball background left me flat-footed.  Putting weight on my heel was the most natural thing in the world.  My heavy mountain boots made the problem worse.  This explains why the women picked the move up so much faster than me, but of course I never guessed what I was going wrong.  Instead I blamed myself for being an incompetent clod. 

A good teacher would have noticed my problem and corrected it, but David never said a word.  My guess is the women had intimidated him.  Given the obvious hostility of the seven women, David knew better than to risk their wrath by addressing me.  Making things tougher, David added this frustrating triple step move into every pattern he taught.  Since nothing I tried seemed to improve my balance, I made no progress.  The harder I tried, the worse I got.  My frustration was off the charts. 

Here again the odd make-up of the class worked against me.  If there had been normal students in the room, I would have noticed others who were struggling and felt a little better.  But no, as I floundered, I could not help but notice how the rich ladies handled the move without difficulty.  The ease with which they moved aggravated me no end.  I am sure it gave them immense pleasure to see how much better they were than me. 

No doubt my clumsiness reaffirmed their innate sense of superiority.  I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw one woman smirk at my difficulties.   Given my thin skin, I became rigid with anger and self-contempt.  Bitter at her scorn, I could feel my teeth clench even tighter.  Because their appearance screamed 'St. John's Superiority', the presence of the River Oaks women elevated my anxiety to fever pitch. Their dancing was so impeccable, I could feel every high school insecurity come alive again.  No wonder I was so tense.  I could not bear looking foolish and clumsy in front of women who obviously believed they were better than me. 

Quite frankly I was baffled by the difficulty I was having.  Why was I the only person who could not get this pattern?  How was it possible that I could be an excellent athlete, but pathetic at dance?   My feet worked just fine when I played basketball.  Why could I do a 360 spin move in basketball, yet nearly fall on my butt while dancing 'Step Ball-Change'?  Considering how much desperate hope I had riding on this class, my clumsiness was disheartening to say the least. Screaming at myself for being so clumsy, the worst part was seeing my fond hopes go down the drain.  Now that I knew the truth, the thought of using 'dance' to find a girlfriend was preposterous.  This class had been very important to me, but without Hope, there was no reason to be here anymore.  Sick with rage at my futility, unfortunately those women could tell I was struggling to contain my temper.  The smiles and snickers of my adversaries added exponential hurt to my damaged pride.  It was bad enough when these women had expressed their scorn over my appearance.  Now they were openly contemptuous of my atrocious dancing as well.  This was a painful replay of Connie Kill Shot, the woman who once shared a similar disgust at my dancing.  She had embarrassed me so badly it took two years before I had the guts to try dating again.  The way I was feeling right now, my next siesta would be permanent. 

All kinds of questions raced through my mind.  Why were these women so much better than me?  Were rich people inherently better than me at everything?  Growing more self-critical by the moment, I cursed my inability to keep up with my tormentors.  Ordinarily my solution to every problem was to try harder.  Today trying harder just made things worse.  I had never felt more helpless in my life.  Several times I thought the women were watching me using the mirrors, but it was impossible to be sure.  Then I got my proof.  After one particularly spastic stumble, a woman burst out laughing.  That pushed hard on my hot button because it reminded me of the time Connie's girlfriends had laughed at my dancing.  That did it.  I froze with shame.  In no mood to be a laughingstock, I turned to stone and just stood there.  I wasn't about to give those women anything more to laugh at.

Unable to participate due to my aggravation, I was a pressure cooker ready to explode.  Early on, the only reason I stayed was to show these women I was their equal.  I was bound and determined to prove to these women I could match them stride for stride.  Now faced with their obvious superiority, imagine my frustration to see my defiance backfire on me.  They had every right to act superior because they were superior.  I had never in my life felt more like a failure than now.  First Vanessa, then Fujimoto, then Yolanda, and now 'dance class' of all things.  Discouraged and defeated, I should have left when I had the chance and spared the indignity.

A darkness came over me.  I came here for the chance to do something positive for a change only to see my last hope fade away.  Never before had I been more convinced that I was Cursed.  I am completely serious when I say this.  I had been toying with the idea of being cursed ever since the Stalled Car incident and getting deceived by a drag queen.  I remember thinking, "Well, gee, Rick, dance class can't possibly be worse than Lynn and Yolanda..."  Famous last words.  Coming here had been a terrible mistake.  I had hoped for a long-overdue breakthrough only to be handed this overwhelming nail-in-the-coffin humiliation.  Memories of previous dead ends had warned me this was not a very good idea.  Why didn't I listen?  There was no way I would ever be any good at dancing.  I was so frustrated by my poor dancing that I wanted to walk out.  Just leave now and cut my losses.

I took two steps to the door, then suddenly stopped in my tracks.  A furious debate in my mind had stopped me.  'Leaving' was exactly what I had done four years ago when Connie Kill Shot and her friends had laughed at my dancing.  I recalled promising Dr. Hilton, my therapist at Colorado State, that if I ever faced a situation like this again, I would not quit.  What had I accomplished by leaving the college mixer?  Nothing.  In fact, I had used that defeat as an excuse to postpone dating for two entire years.  Is that really what I wanted to do again?  Was it time to postpone dating again?  I couldn't take it.  I could not bear another minute of loneliness, much less two more years.  But what good would it do to stay?  I had promised myself I would take this dance class seriously, but that was before I realized how bad I was at dancing.  Why subject myself to further humiliation?  I wanted to quit so badly when a solution suddenly came to me.  Why not stay after class and ask David for some help?  I nodded.  That much I could do, so I stayed.

Being lost in thought did me a favor.  I was so preoccupied over the debate to stay or go that my temper cooled down.  I realized it was wrong to quit so easily.  Thank goodness I had a shred of pride left.  Given my failure in grad school, I had lost all confidence.  However, St. John's had taught me the value of persistence.  So I decided to stick around for the remaining five minutes in spite of the panic inside.  That said, I could not take another snicker from these women.  Having endured as much humiliation as possible for one day, I stood there with arms crossed for the last five minutes of class.  Filled with self-loathing, I was dying inside.  What was I thinking?  Coming here had been one of the worst decisions of my life.  Unless David could help, I was not coming back.