Rebecca Vilas cannot believe what she is seeing. This guy is getting just about everyone out onto the floor, even some of the wheelchair cases, who are dipping and swirling with the best of them. Dolled up in his exotic, astonishing outfit, Symphonic Stan — Henry Leyden, she reminds herself — is corny and breathtaking, absurd and convincing, all at once. He's like . . . some kind of time capsule, locked into both his role and what these old people want to hear. He has charmed them back into life, back into whatever youth they had left in them. Unbelievable! No other word will do. People she had written off as shuffling basket cases are blooming right in front of her. As for Symphonic Stan, he's carrying on like an elegant dervish, making her think of words like suave, polished, urbane, unhinged, sexy, graceful, words that do not connect except in him. And that thing he does with the records! How is that possible?
She does not realize that she is tapping her foot and swaying in time to the music until Henry puts on Artie Shaw's "Begin the Beguine," when she literally begins her own beguine by starting to dance by herself. Henry's hepcat jive-dance, the sight of so many white-haired, blue-haired, and bald-headed people gliding around the floor, Alice Weathers beaming happily in the arms of none other than gloomy Thorvald Thorvaldson, Ada Meyerhoff and "Tom Tom" Boettcher twirling around each other in their wheelchairs, the sweeping pulse of the music driving everything beneath the molten radiance of Artie Shaw's clarinet, all of these things abruptly, magically coalesce into a vision of earthly beauty that brings tears stinging to her eyes. Smiling, she raises her arms, spins, and finds herself expertly grasped by Tom Tom's twin brother, eighty-six-year-old Hermie Boettcher, the retired geography teacher in A17 formerly considered something of a stick, who without a word fox-trots her right out to the middle of the floor.
"Shame to see a pretty girl dancing all on her lonesome," Hermie says.
"Hermie, I'd follow you anywhere," she tells him.
"Let's us get closer to the bandstand," he says. "I want a better look at that hotshot in the fancy suit. They say he's blind as a bat, but I don't believe it."
His hand planted firmly at the base of her spine, his hips swerving in time to Artie Shaw, Hermie guides her to within a foot of the platform, where the Symphonic One is already doing his trick with a new record as he waits for the last bar of the present one. Rebecca could swear that Stan/Henry not only senses her presence before him but actually winks at her! But that is truly impossible . . . isn't it?
The Symphonic One twirls the Shaw record into its sleeve, the new one onto the platter, and says, "Can you say 'Vout'? Can you say 'Solid'? Now that we're all limbered up, let's get jumpin' and jivin' with Woody Herman and 'Wild Root.' This tune is dedicated to all you beautiful ladies, especially the lady wearing Calyx."
Rebecca laughs and says, "Oh, dear." He could smell her perfume; he recognized it!
Undaunted by the steamy tempo of "Wild Root," Hermie Boettcher slides into a back step, extends his arm, and spins Rebecca around. On the first beat of the next bar, he catches her in his arms and reverses direction, spinning them both toward the far end of the platform, where Alice Weathers stands next to Mr. Thorvaldson, gazing up at Symphonic Stan.
"The special lady must be you," Hermie says. "Because that perfume of yours is worth a dedication."
Rebecca asks, "Where'd you learn to dance like this?"
"My brother and I, we were town boys. Learned how to dance in front of the jukebox at Alouette's, over by Arden." Rebecca knows Alouette's, on Arden's Main Street, but what was once a soda fountain is now a lunch counter, and the jukebox disappeared around the time Johnny Mathis dropped off the charts. "You want a good dancer, you find yourself a town boy. Tom Tom, now he was always the slickest dancer around, and you can plunk him in that chair, but you can't take away his rhythm."
"Mr. Stan, yoo-hoo, Mr. Stan?" Alice Weathers has tilted her head and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Do you take requests?"
A voice as flat and hard as the sound of two stones grinding together says, "I was here first, old woman."
This implacable rudeness brings Rebecca to a halt. Hermie's right foot comes gently down atop her left, then swiftly moves off, doing her no more injury than a kiss. Towering over Alice, Charles Burnside glares at Thorvald Thorvaldson. Thorvaldson steps back and tugs at Alice's hand.
"Certainly, my dear," says Stan, bending down. "Tell me your name and what you'd like to hear."
"I am Alice Weathers, and — "
"I was here first," Burny loudly repeats.
Rebecca glances at Hermie, who shakes his head and makes a sour face. Town boy or not, he is as intimidated as Mr. Thorvaldson.
" 'Moonglow,' please. By Benny Goodman."
"It's my turn, you jackass. I want that Woody Herman number called 'Lady Magowan's Nightmare.' That one's good."
Hermie leans toward Rebecca's ear. "Nobody likes that fella, but he gets his own way."
"Not this time," Rebecca says. "Mr. Burnside, I want you to — "
Symphonic Stan silences her with a wave of his hand. He turns to face the owner of the remarkably unpleasant voice. "No can do, mister. The song is called 'Lady Magowan's Dream,' and I didn't bring that snappy little item with me this afternoon, sorry."
"Okay, bud, how about 'I Can't Get Started,' the one Bunny Berigan did?"