This is a true story. As true as stories can be.

Sergio was the neighborhood dancer. He’d show up to all the kickbacks, functions, and celebrations with a twelve-pack of Bud Light sitting on top of his left shoulder, ready to get down.

He was a middle-aged man with cinnamon-colored skin and hair the color of soot that curled in intricate patterns. His boyish charm worked to woo the ladies of Nasty City while his cunning worked to charm the men out of their pocket money. Sergio was a jack of all trades, he had to be, with three kids and a wife at home. Sometimes, he’d work at the Naval yard, ship-breaking old vessels that had sailed their final voyage. Sometimes, he’d paint houses. His blending skills birthed colors even a prism would envy. And sometimes, he’d post up on the block.

No one knows where he learned how to be such a great dancer. There are rumors that his mother went into early labor during El Grito because he felt the rhythm of the drums and could not wait a minute more. Others swore he was the reincarnation of the Aztec god of dance Xōchipilli because when he danced marigolds mysteriously appeared at his feet.

The day of little Gabriela’s baptism party, Sergio pressed the steaming iron onto his jeans creating a crease as sharp as a razor. His guayabera hung on a hanger as he inspected every stitch and seam to ensure no loose threads were flailing out of place. No outfit was complete without his escapulario and tear-shaped, pearl pendant that dangled just below the hollow of his throat. Sergio was meticulous. Sergio liked to look good. And since this party was a neighborhood affair, his wife and kids were tending to their own outfits in various rooms about the house. 

“I’m gonna run to George’s Liquor to pick up a 12-pack,” he called out to his wife as he skipped out of the front door. “I’ll be back,” he promised.

There was a long line at George’s liquor. And why wouldn’t there be? Nasty City wasn’t the type of place one showed up to a party empty-handed. As he waited for his turn, the band Bronco began blaring through the store’s speakers.

George cocked an eyebrow. He just finished stacking twenty cans of tomatoes. The last time Sergio heard this song in the store, he took down a whole pyramid display of pineapples.

“This is my jam,” Sergio whispered to himself.

It began with a tingling sensation in his toes. His foot began to tap to the high-pitched sound of the synthesizer. He tried to control it. There were only two people in between him and the check-out counter. When the cowbell began to clink, his hips twisted and twiddled. The metallic beat shot up his spine like a lightning bolt, and before he knew it, he was lost in the first verse.

Sparks flew from the soles of his shoes as his feet began to curve and contort in fantastical patterns. He shouted back at George as he crossed the doorway, “I’ll get you at the party carnal!”

“That’s what you always say,” grouched George as he added another tally to Sergio’s tab.

With the blue box resting on top of his left shoulder, Sergio joyfully cavorted towards the baptism guided by the faint thumping of the party. When he made it into the backyard, the guests erupted in elated cheers.

“Órale, ya llegó Sergio!” hollered Pepe while shoving a cupcake into his mouth.

“Now the party can really start!” squealed Karla.

High-fives and fist bumps were given in mid-shuffle. Everyone gathered around him as he whirled and twirled on the dance floor. Sweat dripped down the center of his nose and over his smile that curved from ear to ear, wide like the Cheshire Cat’s grin. 

Sergio dazzled.

With every rhythmic shimmy and on-beat finger snap, he grew brighter and brighter. Like the sun, you couldn’t look directly at him. Like the sun, you felt his presence encircling you.

By the ninth song, the party patrons began to retreat from the dance floor. Ankles ached and toes swelled from being crammed into pointy dress shoes. Even little Gabriela was done. She lay slumbered in between two chairs pushed together. The rise and fall of her dress, a tangle of white tulle and gold ribbon, synced with her breath. Sergio continued. He urged and cajoled as many people as he could to get back on the dance floor. He was on his fourth wind. He was just getting started. It was no surprise that when the music came to a screeching halt, his nimble legs kept on crisscrossing to an aphonic beat.

Mariana, with her arms held high, came rushing into the middle of the dance floor.

“Se está quemando una casa!” she announced. 

There was a flurry as all of the adults rushed in her direction to investigate. Sergio looked up toward the heavens and saw the unmistakable marker of a fire. Black smoke spiraled and ribboned up into the evening sky. His eyes, wide as mangoes, scanned the faces of the partygoers for his family. Wasn’t his wife just doing the lambada with him? Wasn’t his daughter sneaking sweets in the corner?

No.

He dashed toward the burning house. His feet, a marveling display of agility and grace, jetéd over potholes, ball-changed onto curbs, and tiptoed between pedestrians. Those who got to bear witness to the number would later swear he was possessed by Xōchipilli himself. When he arrived at the house, he found it engulfed in flames. He pushed through the crowd of spectators and kicked down the front door. The crowd gasped.

And waited.

            And waited.

                        And waited.

---

A blur of soot and ash raced out the front door. Sergio laid his infant daughter, Angelica, at the foot of the crowd and rushed back in. Moments later he reappeared with his oldest daughter Cristina, then his first-born son Francisco, and finally his wife Lucy. When they were all safe and out of the reach of the flames, Cristina cried out and pointed towards the crumbling house.

“Mi gatita!”

Sergio took in a mighty breath, whispered a prayer to St. Jude, and sprinted back into the burning house. The crowd gasped.

And waited.

            And waited.

                        And waited.

---

There is a lot to be said about a person once they die. Sergio was everything everyone ever said about him. He was a drunk, a father, a peddler, a servant of God, a liar, a star, a mujeriego, a hero. 

The velorio drew people from every corner, crack, and crevice of Nasty City. His family stood tall in their grief next to his shrouded body. Cristina held her gatita tight against her chest. One by one the people came to pay their respects and lay marigolds at his feet. The family hugged and shook hands and thanked every person for their condolences. When the sun began to dip under the horizon, and all the visitors were gone, the family turned to face Sergio. The warm glow from the candlelight formed into a golden halo over his body. They gripped each other’s hands and quietly sobbed. 

It began softly, like a whisper. First, they felt it in their toes, a tingling sensation. Then, in unison, their feet began to tap to a steady beat. Next, was their hips. They swayed and figure-eighted to the rhythm of calypso drums and maracas. Before they realized what was happening, the four of them cried out,

“Ya llegó. Ya llegó!”

            When their moves became too wild for their modest living room, they jiggled and gyrated themselves out the front door. What they found once the door burst open would end up in the archives as the largest block party in Nasty City history. The entire barrio was getting down. A sea of bopping heads, shoulder shrugs, and crazed footwork cloaked the streets. One by one the family chasséd their way into the crowd. Cristina paused at the front door and looked toward the setting sun. She missed her Daddy. 

Now, if you ask the residents of Nasty City about this particular sunset, they’ll each swear on the Virgen de Guadalupe, that what they saw was real. As the sun lowered itself into the horizon, the dark silhouette of a man against the sherbert-colored sky could be seen groovin’ and movin’ to the beat of the music, chasing the last few rays of light, and leaving behind him a trail of flowers.

            If you’re wondering if this story is true, if a man who had the mythical gift of boogie did in fact exist, then I encourage you to attend one of the legendary parties in Nasty City. Look around. You will undoubtedly find an empty chair with a popped blue can resting on its seat. A homage to the greatest bailador in Nasty City.

Brenda Gutierrez is an actress and writer based out of Los Angeles. She recently earned her Bachelor of Arts in English, Creative Writing from California State University Northridge. She’s a self-proclaimed bibliophile, forever cat lady, and trash-tv lover. If you ever see her at a social gathering, know that she was lured there by the promise of snacks.