Long Odds
by Mark Jabo
Diego's hand trembled as he read the letter . . .
My son,
I am a lucky man, Diego. I have not loved often, but I have loved well.
Damon Runyon once said: "It may be the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong -- but that is the way to bet." That quote has served me well throughout my lifetime.
Then there was your mom. If there was ever a long shot worth playing, she was it.
She was a dancer when we met. She had flawless skin the color of dark caramel. She did not have the slender wraith-like build people normally associate with dancers; she had a lean, muscular body that looked as if it had been carved out of teak.
I always enjoyed watching her dance. She danced with joy and passion and, if you knew what to look for, a barely contained ferocity.
She did not move like the other dancers. She was graceful, but it was not the ephemeral elegance of a ballet dancer. Your mom moved with the arrogant athleticism of a gladiator.
I had the privilege of watching her at a rehearsal once. She was auditioning for a spot in Taylor Paulsen's dance company. Taylor's work is what dance was meant to be – a celebration of strength melded with grace.
There were over 40 dancers at the final audition culled from an original group of over six hundred.
The routines presented to the dancers were complex and physically challenging -- long involved counts, quick cuts and expansive leaps intertwined with syncopated rhythms and a myriad of tempo changes. The pace of activity was relentless; the choreography demanded a seemingly impossible combination of speed, concentration and athleticism.
The dancers were to be called to the stage in groups of eight. Most of the dancers jockeyed for position to avoid going first. Seeing the steps just one more time might be the difference between a minor misstep and nailing the two minute routine which could elevate a dancer to the rank of company regular.
I felt as if I was going to hyperventilate as I watched your mom work her way through the throng of dancers waiting to go on. I sat transfixed as she shouldered her way forward like a wolf moving to take over leadership of the pack.
There was never any doubt in my mind she would be part of the first group to go. Not satisfied with being in the first eight, a bit of further maneuvering assured she would be in the front row of four.
A burst of music from the piano accompanist and the dancers were off.
The stage became a cauldron of activity set at an instant boil. Bodies sliced through space. The performers burst upward as if the floor was electrified only to come back to earth already twisting and exploding into the next movement.
Sweat glistened on a male dancer in the front row as he bit his lip in concentration. A girl in the back row lost her footing for an instant and struggled to catch up, tears streaming down her eyes as she danced on, realizing the opportunity she had worked so hard for had passed in a moment.
The music continued. The dancers' breathing intensified. The pace of the movement increased. Watching the leaps and low, tight turns was like watching a cheetah chase a gazelle.
As the piece went on, the group seemed to coalesce into a single entity of focus and movement. Most of the dancers moved through the piece with tightly pursed lips and eyes focused on a point known only to them as they moved through the piece with solemn concentration.
But in the front row was one dancer with a wide, brilliant smile who danced with the unabashed joy of a child at play. She performed the impossible steps with the unrestrained elation of an elite athlete who knew she was at the top of her craft. She didn't ask for the attention of those who watched -- she seized their focus and held it like a birthright.
The dancer was, of course, your mother.
That rehearsal was twenty-five years ago, Diego, and it was the closest I have come in my life to believing in God.
Most of the rest of the story you already know. Your mom and I exchanged vows at the Blue Cove Inn overlooking the Pacific Ocean. My father fired me from the family trucking business for marrying outside of my race and, because he was a thorough and vindictive man, worked hard to make sure no one else in the industry would hire me.
Your mom and I managed to scrape by the next couple of years and I eventually started my own company. No young couple should have to go through what your mom and I were subjected to during those times. In the end, I didn't blame her for leaving. For me, you and she were always enough, but she desperately wanted the only thing I couldn't give her – an extended family that loved her.
Your mom raised you well, Diego. You are her son. You have her fire, her passion and her gift for lighting up a room.
When I spoke to you the other day, I sensed you were a little nervous about your upcoming performance. You needn't be. If she were alive, your mom would tell you to do what she always did: put your heart and soul into the performance so you know you've done your best. Anything else doesn't matter.
With much love and admiration for all you've become and all you will be,
Papa.
Diego carefully folded the letter and slipped it into his jacket pocket before striding onstage. In the front row a thin, aging man straightened in his seat.
As tenor Diego MacNeil appeared, the applause at The Met rose in a crescendo . . . like the running leap of a dancer.
CONGRATULATIONS, MARK! GREAT STORY!
Mark Jabo is a writer and financial consultant who spends time in Florida, New York and Maryland. Originally from Philadelphia, Mark has lived and worked all over the world including Tokyo, London and Australia. Mark's writing has been featured on Apollo's Lyre and Long Story Short websites - both sites have been honored by Writer's Digest as among the "101 Best Writing Sites." Growing up, our family moved about every two years. Moving meant a winnowing of toys and other household goods which were deemed to be expendable but, for some reason, books were not subject to the inevitable streamlining of personal possessions.
I guess you could postulate books somehow gave me a sense of permanence in what was an otherwise itinerant life as a kid. Whatever the reason, I've been interested in reading and writing for as long as I can remember.
After college, I continued to write more as a hobby than anything else, but inevitably found myself volunteering to write market letters and technical manuals for my employers on Wall Street. When I worked overseas in Tokyo and London, writing was a way to introduce myself to the local business community.
I spent a number of years in New York City doing stand-up comedy and discovered I preferred the exercise of crafting comedy material even more than the rush of actually performing it.
Currently, I have my own consulting business and travel extensively. Long past childhood -- chronologically, if not attitude-wise -- my life is still defined by being constantly on the move.
Writing, it seems, continues to be the one of the few constants I'm able to cling to in an otherwise nomadic existence.
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Mark, please tell our readers a little about yourself?
I consider myself primarily a humor writer due to my background in stand-up comedy, but I also write marketing copy and wrote the technical manual for a software company which I helped start.
I co-authored "The Sky is Falling: A Global Warming Survival Guide" with Cal Orey. I have written for a number of blog aggregators including 451 Press and b5 Media as well as a variety of humor sites including PointsInCase.com and DailyComedy.com.
After a hiatus to pursue other interests, I'm back writing my own blog, SonOfBizlevity.com, a humor site focused on business, politics and popular culture.
I'm looking to expand into other writing genres and currently am working on an outline for my first novel.
Q. What would you want our readers to know about you?
I'm kind of a weird mix of a social liberal and laissez-faire capitalist trapped in the same body. I think that accounts for a large part of my slightly skewed view of the world.
Q. Do you write in a particular genre? If so, what genre is it?
Primarily, I tend to focus on humor writing.
Q. What, in your opinion, are the most important elements of good writing?
Clarity of thought, finding your own voice and a good Thesaurus.
Q. How do you develop your plots and characters? Do you use any set formula?
I enjoy plot twists and surprises, so I tend to work backwards from a set ending and try to figure out the most convoluted way to end up at the final resolution.
As far as characters, I find if I can identify personality traits of my characters in someone I know, it helps me have a clearer vision of how that character might act in a particular situation.
Wait, . . . what? There's a set formula you can use?
Q. What do you do to unwind and relax?
Drink beer, go to the gym and either do crossword puzzles or listen to music. Most of the time those are mutually exclusive activities. I try not to mix more than two of those activities at a time.
Q. What inspires you? Who inspires you?
I find I'm inspired by people at both extremes of the talent spectrum. People who are really good at what they do inspire me to strive to be consistently better and to try to come close to their level. People who really suck at something inspire me to try things because I figure, as bad as I might be at something, at least I can't be worse than that person.
Q. Are you working on any projects right now?
I'm working on getting back to a regular writing schedule for my humor blog and working on an outline for a mystery/thriller novel.
Q. What is most frustrating about writing? Most rewarding?
I don't think there's anything frustrating about writing. I enjoy every minute I get to spend doing it. The frustrating thing is trying to shoehorn my writing around other time commitments.
The most rewarding thing is coming up with something original, unique and well-written. I know it's cool to say awards and accolades don't matter, but I always get a thrill out of having my writing singled out for recognition or having someone say they enjoy what I've written.
Q. If I were sitting down to write my very first story, what would your advice be?
First, make sure there's a chair behind you. Then figure out what makes your story compelling and unique and let your excitement for your story make up for any lack of experience.
Q. What advice would you give to writers just starting out?
I'd pass along the best advice I ever got: just write. There's a lot to be said for focused practice and volume of output in getting you to where you want to be as a writer.
