In New York: Celebrating an Eternal Prom

By Gregory Jaynes

It is the 67th anniversary of Roseland Dance City, the landmark ballroom on West 52nd Street in New York City, and you . . . are . . . there!

Blistering day. The air is brown. Your nose doesn't work (And why don't the TV weather people issue a nasal caution, times like this?). Dodge a kamikaze bicycle messenger and step under the marquee. On the left, in a glass display case -- the Wall of Fame -- are the shoes of the famous hoofers who have cut a rug here. Betty Grable. Ruby Keeler. Anthony Quinn. Eleanor Powell. George Raft (tiny feet). Gregory Hines (boats). The cashier is on the right. The tariff is eight bucks. The ticket taker says sure, he'll get the manager. Call him Mr. Adam, on account of his surname starting in Little Italy and ending in Greece (Giannopoulos).

Cool your heels -- and case the joint while you're at it. A plaque on the left wall lists the names of the married couples who first met here. There have been 550 or so. They don't keep track of divorces. There's a bar on the right. You shoot your cuffs, walk over the way Bogart would, quiet and self- assured, order the usual, a salt-free seltzer water, slice of lime to give it a jolt.

Dame comes up at your elbow. Enough makeup to make Tammy Faye look like a Breck girl. Says in a voice like a mule eating briars, "Vodka and orange this time -- I'm trying to save my liver." Fires up a Pall Mall. Says, "Who am I kidding? Forget the orange."

You lean back against the bar, drink in one hand, peanut in the other. Good view of the vast maple dance floor. Impressive crowd for three in the afternoon. Mostly old people. Here and there one partner looks so infirm it must be like dancing with a bedpost, but it doesn't seem to cramp the active one, who twirls like a top, shaking a mean leg in the bargain.

Here comes Mr. Adam across the carpet, the carpet a sea of roses the size of missile launching pads. He offers a firm paw, says, "These ballroom people, it's food for their souls. They get away from their apartments. They don't have to be cooped up. They get on the dance floor, and they fly. It's unbelievable. You see them on the street, they can't even walk. They get on the dance floor, and they fly. It's unbelievable."

You are struck by the time warp. Outside, the 20th century is petering out; in here, it's just getting warmed up. Enormous white tents suspended high over the dancers are lighted to blush pink. On the floor are some real hotshots. They samba, mambo, rhumba, tango, fox-trot, lindy, peabody and what can only be called, in street language, get down! It's like an eternal prom.

Place holds 3,450 people, 2,000 on the dance floor, 1,450 in the end zones or on the sidelines at any given time. Says Mr. Adam: "No ballroom, even in Europe, can compete with Roseland. I don't think any ballroom in the whole globe can touch it. There is no competition in New York." On the bandstand the singer with the Don Glasser Orchestra announces, "And now, for Marge and Dominick, here is Blue Bayou."

Ten years ago, they made a movie here. Called it Roseland. The woman who wrote the movie, Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, called Roseland the ballroom a "world far more bizarre than India." She said that "it lives for dancing; it lives by itself," and seeing it now, you agree. "These people who go to | Roseland," the writer went on, "it's what they've always done, since they were very young. It's the greatest thing in their lives. They live for going to Roseland. They live for the atmosphere there, for the act of dancing."

Lady hit the nail right on the head, from what you can tell. You wander over to a table where Rose Buono, a small ancient, is taking a break with her very good friend Joe Abahonie, who is of her generation. "Where else could you get a place like this?" Rose challenges. "I used to come here when it cost 65 cents. I danced with George Raft, a terrific dancer. He wasn't so tall, but he was beautiful to dance with."

A passing taffeta dress says, "I danced 45 minutes straight, Rose," and Rose says, "That's nice, dear, good for your figure," and continues, "Forty years ago, I started. You couldn't get me off the floor. I was 16."

Abahonie swallows a chuckle behind his hand and says, "Rose's arithmetic needs work."

Out on the dance floor, they're announcing the married couples present who met and fell in love here, 31 couples in all. They've been invited for the anniversary, to dance and dine gratis. "Such memories," says Jessie Singer from Queens, who met her husband Edward at Roseland in 1935 (the other Roseland, at Broadway and 51st, before it moved round the corner here in 1956) and married him in 1937. "We've been coming every week for 55 years, Thursdays and Saturdays. We've had a lot of good times."

"Our first dance was a hustle, and the rest is history," says Jane DiFranco from Edgewater, N.J., who met Husband Jack in 1983, married him 15 months later.

"I'm American Cuban; he's Puerto Rican," says Clara Diaz, jerking a thumb at Luis (met: 1986; wed: 1987). "We danced, fell in love and got married. We live in Queens. He's a plumber. I'm a school teacher. We try to come every Thursday and absolutely every Sunday."

Listening, you say to yourself, romance doesn't get much more eloquent than Clara puts it, chump.

They roll out a cake for the dancing duos, who pucker up and blow out the candles before glissading into a waltz.

Gets you right in the old ticker, all right, and you think wistfully if they still had those dime-a-dance broads . . . but then, whoa! From over your shoulder you hear a guileful skirt who makes the blood run cold: "Ain't they sweet, Artie? They're even gonna get a free dinner or something. Now will you marry me?"