“You’re sure we’re not going to have to sign any contracts?” I asked Murray — for what he claimed was the fifteenth time — as I executed a death-defying u-turn before an oncoming streetcar full of homeward-bound drones in seersucker suits and nosed my Volkswagen Bug into the curb in front of the Gene Kelly Dance studio on St. Charles Avenue. As we approached the door, Murray assured me, once again, that ten dollars and three introductory lessons were the extent of our commitment to self-enrichment.
Though I myself was in complete control of my own nervous system, as always, Murray did seem to exhibit some hesitation as we passed through the tinted plate glass door with the gold decal of a dancing couple in formal wear. From the outside, the nondescript two-story brick building that housed the studio could easily have been mistaken for a dental clinic or a tax preparer’s office — a fact that had impressed itself upon Murray and me during the half hour that we circled the block before resolving to park and enter. It would be so much simpler, were any of our cynical compatriots to spot us entering the premises, to confess to overbites or underpayments, rather than admit to a noble determination to improve ourselves. The inside, however, was a different story.
Within, the decor was a bizarre combination of discotheque and kindergarten, the overall effect being that of a nightclub for preschoolers. The brief foyer with its plush mauve carpet and chest-high reception desk (reminiscent of an airline ticketing booth) opened on a large ballroom with parqueted floors surrounded by mirrored walls and sidewalk cafe tables, terminating in a dais equipped with sound system. To the right of the dais stood an upholstered red vinyl bar well stocked with discount spirits. The walls were festooned with multi-colored crepe paper, and balloons of varying hues hung from the ceiling fans above the dance floor. Festive cardboard cutouts were taped to the mirrors above each table. Framed photographs of spindly septuagenarians draped in obscenely cut and garishly sequined sheaths, documenting their triumphs at regional dance competitions, adorned the walls in the reception area. Polaroids of playfully posed oldsters being fawned over by the studio’s post-adolescent personnel (inscribed with maudlin or suggestive sentiments) were pinned to a corkboard near the door. — F.R. Duplantier, Quick Quick Slow
Above are the opening paragraphs of Chapter Two of a screwball mystery novella I wrote in less than a month in the attic of a Cajun cottage on the banks of Bayou Teche in 1991. It concerns a murder in a ballroom dance studio and, needless to say, is quite funny. If you want to join an elite group, click on the link and read the whole thing.