As a StoryTerrace writer, Anne interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better by reading her autobiographical anecdote below
The word “Bellevue” used to fill me with dread. It represented the ultimate in American madhouses, the Yankee equivalent of London’s Bedlam in all its Dickensian horror.
I was wrong.
I came to New York to study with a tap dance company in hopes of joining them. Things were progressing: I’d graduated to advanced classes and had made friends with most of the members of the troupe.
Then I got a call from Neil, one of the dancers.
“Hey, Anne. I landed a solo gig next week.”
“Fantastic!”
“But I’ll be out of town that day.”
“Bummer.”
“You should do it instead.”
If Neil said something right after that, the pounding of my heart drowned it out.
“But…but I’ve never…”
“It’s the perfect start for you, Anne. Just make up a dance to the Andrews Sisters singing ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.’ You’ll get paid 50 bucks.”
My brain raced. I loved that song. And if the pay was only $50, the expectations couldn’t be too high. “Cool. Where’s the gig?”
“Bellevue.”
This time, the thudding in my ears was from fear. I pictured myself dancing on the set of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. “Bellevue?”
Neil sounded unconcerned. “Yeah. There’s a public school inside the hospital for the kids who live there. They’re having an assembly with the theme ‘Celebrating Women.’”
Fate was testing me. “I’ll do it.”
I worked on my three-minute dance several hours a day. I hit the Navy surplus store on 14th Street for fatigue pants, olive t-shirt, and dog tags. (I already had the crew cut.) On the day, I took a subway to the Upper East Side, then walked to a stately hospital with absolutely no babbling, drooling patients wandering the grounds.
A friendly woman led me into a school auditorium filled with regular kids sitting on the floor, whispering, giggling, and squirming like all schoolkids do. Once I was backstage, someone announced, “And now, with a number representing women in the Army, please welcome Anne Johnson!”
The jazzy trumpet intro sounded. Three minutes zipped by like thirty seconds. The kids erupted in cheers. Afterward, a little boy showed me the thumbtacks he’d stuck in his sneakers so he could tap dance too.
Bellevue gave me a check for $75 (not $50!), and a priceless new perspective.
