By Jim Hagarty
1988
I sat by a wall at the dance Saturday night and watched the proceedings. Few things are more entertaining to observe than good dancers in action and bad dancers in action as well as all the small dramas being played out everywhere in a dance hall – on the bandstand, on the dance floor and at the tables. Especially as the end of the evening draws near.
This night, there was a little unexpected attraction. At the foot of the long bench on which I was sitting, there was a slight step, the same color as the floor surrounding it and hard to see in the dim light. Its only purpose seemed to be to trip people as they walked by on their way from the bar back to their tables. I noticed it was doing its job well.
By the time this undistinguished step had sent its third or fourth man flying, arms extended in front of him with drinks shaking precariously in his hands, I’d given up trying to warn those who were about to take the plunge. I never seemed to be able to get the words out in time.
Instead, I watched potential victims as they turned at the bar and walked my way, eager to see if they’d take a fall. Some, like cats that won’t walk where it’s wet, veered out at the last second and missed the step every time. Others were drawn to it like leaves to an eavestrough.
One fellow tripped gracefully, with all the dignity of an English duke. In suit and tie and carrying a drink in each hand, the upper half of his body lurched forward and his head bobbed down between his arms but the drinks remained upright and level in his hands and not a drop was spilled.
Another man tried to make his trip less noticeable by immediately working it into a dance and waltzing himself off across the room.
And another took the trip as a personal offence. Once he’d regained his balance, he turned, stared at the step and cursed it up and down.
But my favourite guy to watch was a short, dishevelled man in shirt and tie and sagging pants who seemed to accept tripping over the step as a sort of rite of passage for the journey between his table and the bar, a voyage he made with great regularity all night long. A slight trip over a step and the ensuing struggle to stay on his feet didn’t seem to bother him in the least, possibly because, whenever he walked anywhere, he always looked as if he was tripping over something. I saw him go bumbling over the step three times in the short time I was watching.
No women were sent sailing, a fact I found odd since just as many of them strolled by the step as men. Perhaps they have an instinct about such things.
I knew I shouldn’t find mirth in the misfortune of people falling over things but comics from Charlie Chaplin to Chevy Chase have been making people laugh for years using little more than that. So, I excused myself and kept watching. And whenever I returned to my seat, I carefully walked around the step by my bench.
Near the end of the night, I saw a woman I know at the bar and wandered over to talk to her. We discussed the warm weather, mutual relatives, the dance, the music and how busy we’ve both been. Buying a last drink for the night, I bid her farewell, set out for my bench and thought about what she’d said.
When my left foot struck the step, my arms, head and chest lunged forward as if they were going to leave my body behind. I teetered on the edge of collapse, but spun majestically around on my toes and plopped down decisively on my bench. From all areas of the room, men who had suffered their falls before me, seemed to be staring in amusement.
The widest grin was on the man with the baggy pants. He appeared to be welcoming me into some sort of trippers’ fraternity.
They ought to do something about that step before some poor soul gets hurt.
