in Tijuana with Sophy
When Sophy and I first met and we were down from LA in Tijuana, we pulled into a supermarket parking lot. It was afternoon, the lot was crowded with vehicles, and the store’s sound system was blasting reggaeton music.
I was in the full flush of joy at having Sophy as my woman. So much joy that I said to her, “Watch this.”
I started dancing in the parking lot, not caring that I was the only gringo within miles, that I probably looked crazy. I didn’t care. I was happy.
Sophy laughed but also said, “Stop. Please. Don’t do that.”
Since then, over the years we’ll find ourselves in a similar parking lot with piped-in music, and I’ll say to her, “I’m going to dance.”
Her response is always along the lines of, “You better not.”
And I don’t, but we always laugh about it.
Two weeks ago, I was sitting in our truck outside a hardware store as Sophy shopped inside. The outside speaker was pumping out reggaeton and American hip hop. The store fronted a busy main street with a continuous flow of traffic. There was a concrete patio outside the store and for a few minutes I wondered what it would be like to get up and dance alone on this patio. A 70-year-old man wiggling around to reggaeton. Feeling it. When I dance I feel the music. I wondered if people would think I was a madman. Or would they holler encouragement? I didn’t move from the truck.
I think I said to Sophy, “I almost got out to dance.” And she said, “I’m glad you didn’t.”
This week, we were at the same hardware store, the same music blasting. Me sitting in the truck while Sophy shopped.
A homeless man in rags wandered along and took up position on the concrete patio. He listened to the music, and after a minute, he started his own shuffling dance, getting deep into the music, grinning (even though he had no teeth).
I thought: That’s how they would have seen me if I had danced. As a derelict—a drunken idiot, a deranged old man. Good thing I didn’t dance.
But tonight, it dawned on me. I missed an opportunity.
I should have gotten out and danced with the homeless man.
Lost myself in the rhythm.
MARK ROGERS 