Page 95 of The Rom-Commers

“You’ve got to admire his optimism, though,” Charlie said.

“He also passed out in the women’s restroom that night,” I added. “And got into a fistfight at a bowling alley. And propositioned the bride’s mother.”

“Youdohave experience with hillbillies,” Charlie said.

After we signed in at the bar, got informed of the two-drink minimum, and knocked back two shots called Silver Bullets, we made our way to the crowded dance floor.

The instructor was getting ready to start, messing with the sound system and wearing his Wranglers like they were shrink-wrapped.

If this guy was a hillbilly—I looked around the room—at least we could all agree he was ahothillbilly. Possibly an out-of-work-actor hillbilly just waiting for his big line-dancing break. Which I suddenly realized might actually beme and Charlie.

I elbowed Charlie. “We should cast this guy in the line-dancing scenes.”

Charlie, whose face was busy personifying misery, said, “Writers don’t cast actors in movies. That’s whatcasting agentsare for.”

“I betyoucould, though,” I said, “if you wanted to.”

“This guy’s not an actor,” Charlie said. “He’s somebody’s inbred cousin.”

“Chalk one up for inbreeding, then,” I said, letting my eyes float back in the instructor’s direction.

“Are you ogling him?” Charlie asked.

Yes. Yes, I was.

“Unbelievable,” Charlie said. “Didn’t we just agreeno cowboys?”

“Look,” I said. “I didn’trequesta…” I glanced back to the instructor for reference and then got stuck. “A six-foot-three backwoodsman with a butt like a quarterback wearing a longhorn belt buckle and ostrich boots. But it happened. What am I supposed to do?”

“My opinion of you is plummeting,” Charlie said. “Thisis your type?”

“I have lots of types, thank you. Sexy cowboys. Sexy lumberjacks. Sexy werewolves with tragic pasts. Sexy ghosts.”

“Sexyghosts?”

“That’s the only kind of ghost I like.”

“What about sexy hicks?” Charlie said, tilting his head at the instructor. “Or sexy corncob-pipe smokers? Or sexy mouth breathers?”

“That man can breathe all he wants,” I said.

But this was really bothering Charlie. “This guy,” he said, “is not sexy. He drove to LA on a riding lawnmower eating fried butter and squirrel nuggets.”

“I don’t think you can knock his food choices, pastrami man.”

“Have some respect for yourself,” Charlie said.

I glanced back at those Wranglers. “I think I’m respecting myself just fine.”

That’s when our instructor, ready at last, adjusted his headset mic and turned to face the audience. And then he started speaking. And it turned out he wasn’t a hillbilly at all.

He was Italian.

“Ciao a tutti,”the instructor said.

Charlie and I looked at each other, likeWhat!

Then we both peered over at the easel with the class poster. It had the instructor’s picture. His name was Lorenzo Ferrari. And he was from Venezia, Italy.

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