Ever since the Wall Street Crash, the Great Depression had ravaged the United States. Poverty reigned, and a phenomenon known as the ‘dance marathon’ swept across the country. The idea behind this contest was to dance without stopping, with the last couple left standing winning a small cash prize. Like many couples with little to live on, Henry and Jane had decided to enter one such competition, driven by desperation to place their physical and mental health on the line.
“I can’t go on! I’m exhausted. I can’t feel my feet, and my head’s about to explode.”
“Stay with me, Jane. Be strong. Otherwise this’ll all be for nothing. At least we can eat here. Remember how hungry we were when we entered?”
“We were hungry, but back then we could sleep for more than eleven minutes at a time. We could sit down. Oh God, I could sleep for days. I’d kill for a good night’s sleep. I want to have a bath, and a cigarette, and to hold our baby in my arms...Henry, this is inhuman.”
“What if we win the marathon? We could walk away with a hundred dollars! Think about that. It would finally give us some breathing room,” Henry enthused.
“Yes, honey. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about that damn hundred dollars. The hell we’ve been through over these past three weeks, the suffering...all that for a hundred dollars,” sighed Jane, resting her head on Henry’s shoulder. “My feet are on fire. I can’t stand up any longer...hold me up, Henry.”
Only five couples remained in the contest. Henry and Jane had a chance to win, especially since the judges seemed to be on their side. They were young and attractive, and obviously in love. The audience liked seeing them fall asleep against each another as they danced, crying into one another’s arms in a long embrace. Henry and Jane had been dancing for three weeks in this gym, which had been specially converted for the marathon. Today it was Jane who lagged behind, and Henry who prevented her from collapsing. She had given birth only months before, and felt weakened. She dragged her feet but held fast to her husband, clinging to him like a life raft that carried over a wide, desolate sea. She tried to forget about the marathon, and to think of her baby who was no doubt crying for his mother. She had to hold on, for him, for little John. They had almost made it to the end of the dreaded forty-five minutes during which they must dance under the amused gaze of the audience, before being allowed to close their eyes for 11 minutes, after which the dance began again. Finally, Jane collapsed into a chair, only half-conscious. Finally she could rest. The minutes went by like a sigh, then they shook her and threw cold water on her face to wake her. Harry pressed against her; it was time to dance again. She thought of her newborn, who she’d left with her own mother. He must be getting hungry; she could feel a let-down in her breast. The milk dripped down her bosom and seeped into Henry’s shirt. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. She hoped that her baby was not crying, that he did not feel abandoned, and that they would return to him a hundred dollars happier. The woman in the couple beside them sank to the ground. She was spent; her partner slapped her as hard as he could, but in vain. Two men came and carried her off the dance floor on a stretcher, meaning she could wave goodbye to that hundred dollars. Three couples remained on the dancefloor. “Thanks to the generosity of our local farmers, the couple that wins the contest will receive three sacks of corn and five sacks of rice on top of the hundred-dollar prize!” they announced over the microphone. More than enough to feed a growing family. Henry refused to give up, despite Jane’s pleas. “We didn’t get ourselves into this for nothing. We gotta keep going till the end!” Jane was barely clinging to consciousness. Her feet were no longer moving, but in her mind she still thought she was dancing. “I’m going mad,” she sighed. Dancing for three weeks was a brutal trial, but this was the Depression, and people were prepared to die for the chance of walking away with a hundred dollars. Henry hoped that the couple tottering to their right would soon collapse. They were in their forties, and the vitality of youth was behind them. Surely they would lose. He felt guilty about wishing them misfortune – after all, they were probably just as desperate as he was – but it was their little baby John against these strangers. This was war, and they were in the trenches. At first John had taken to reading the paper or shaving while he danced, but now it was all he could do to hold his wife off the floor. If his knee touched the wood, he would be eliminated immediately. The audience smiled, amused at the desperation of these families ready to give everything they had in exchange for a pile of corn and a hundred bucks. It was the energy of desperation; the ordinary heroism of the simple folk.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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