You look at your watch and wonder if it would look bad for you to take a powder after so short a stay, but you decide to stick it out a while longer. Only you wish someone would take off that record of dull mood music and get something with life and kick. Your boredom gives you enough heart to leave the chair and walk to the phonograph where you spot this record. You put it on and...cha cha cha, you fix your tie, polish the tops of your shoes on the back of your trousers, loosen your neck muscles with a well-coordinated twist of your shoulders and walk back to where the chick is still sitting. This time you don't talk, you just hold out two arms, and she comes, man: left, right--left/right/left.
"Great, man," she says. "Sounds like Ros."
"It is Ros," you say, never at a loss for words.
She doesn't look so bad after all, and you throw her out for a few solo turns, giving her a once-over.
"I felt what this party needed was a little Ros."
"That's using your head, man," she says. "I got me a great collection of Ros stuff at home."
"Yeah?" you question, putting her to the test. "Which ones?"
"High Fi-esta, LL 3000; Rhythms of The South, LL 1612; Ros On Broadway, LL 3048..."
"I got that one too."
"I also got," she continues with a pride that adds a new dimension to her femininity, "Hollywood Cha Cha Cha, LL 3100, and More Ros On Broadway." "That's LL 3126. I know because I got that one too," you say throwing yourself back for a few solo turns, and when you step back into a close position, you say: "You want to hear two I got that you ain't got?"
"You're on," she says, giving you a wink of the eye.
"I got Ros At The Opera, LL 3104 and a great one called Show Boat and Porgy and Bess."
"Oh yeah," she smiles. "That's next on my list. LL 3137, isn't it?"
"Yeah," you reply with a knowing air.
There are plenty of couples on the floor now, talking a little more to each other and having a better time than they were having before.
"Ros magic," you say, pointing them out to the chick.
"Nothing like it," is her smart answer.
She looks at the watch that sits prettily on her small wrist.
"Take you home?"
"All right," she says.
"Look," you whisper to her. "I see you got one of those big purses with you. What do you say you walk over to the stack there and take the record. Like a souvenir of our meeting."
"Okay," she says, and walks across the room and takes it. She glides back to you and there's the sweetest samba movement to the steps she's taking.
"Ros fever," she says, winking prettily at you.
So you take her home and you reach her place and you walk her to the door where she stands all nervous, rubbing the sleeve of her dress. She looks down at the floor: "Thanks for an immense evening," she says.
"Don't mention it even," you say. "We'll do it again sometime."
She looks at the door. "Guess I'11 have to go in now. They're probably waiting up." She makes a move towards the door, but you stop her. You figure you better ask in a nice way first.
"You, er..heck." You begin again. "I don't know how to ask you, but..."
"Yes?" she says, twisting the straps of her large purse with her hands. "Go ahead and ask it...whatever it is, it's okay; actually, I mean, like I feel we're friends a long time now."
"Okay, I will then," you say. "Can I have the record that's in your purse?"
You don't know why she gets so sore when she gives it to you and why she charges into the apartment, slamming the door without even saying "good night"; but, man, all you can think about when you're bouncing down the stairs and into the street is that you got yourself a great record here!
Edmundo Ros: Dancing with Ros LP © London Records LL-3183
© 1996 Hip Wax