Tito Rodriguez in the Bronx
written by: Lenore Weiss
Everyone knows his music, but back then, Tito Rodriguez performed in the street on a truck bed that bounced up and down in the black tar of summer. Mother-in-laws danced with son-in-laws, husbands with wives. No one cared about who danced with whom as long as they moved to the beat. Even mosquitoes shook their stingers. Everyone shouted—Baile! Baile!
My break came one evening when Tito invited me onto the flatbed where I danced, and did steps I didn’t know I knew. Later, Tito gave me his business card. I saved it in my billfold, and returned to the street party. But I had this older cousin…
“Alberto,” he said one afternoon. “What’s up, bro? You look like you’ve been smacked across the face by a two-by-four. Thought you were going to start teaching at the Hunts Point Palace?”
It’s not like Raymond didn’t know. Of course, I wasn’t dancing, too busy waiting on tables at La Isla, where families piled in every night—little kids sitting two to a thigh on momma’s lap, and abuelas smiling and displaying their gold crowns. On those evenings, I worked extra hard, mamboing between tables to bring in big tips.
“There’s a storefront.” Raymond motioned me to his table, and looked around to make sure no one could hear.
“Claro,” I said. “All of them are boarded up.”
“No,” he said, “I own this little place that you can rent. Build yourself a studio. Everything you’ve ever wanted.” As he talked, I got excited and had an idea.
I found Tito’s business card, and on a goof, I called.
“Homeboy, sure.” Tito’s same gravelly voice. “You dance real good. Shaking my truck all summer.”
We worked out an understanding. Once a month, Tito played his music at Alberto’s Dance Studio. All I needed to do was to print out flyers.
Of course, those first two years were hard, always short on cash, cooking meals on the two-burner, but I managed, and eventually planned to buy Raymond out. The first thing I did was to install hardwood over the vinyl flooring of what had been an old shoe store. The back room became the place for dance lessons. I rented out the front for parties, anniversaries, birthdays, even for a small wedding. But come year three, here’s Raymond strolling in the door like Mr. Big Man wearing a khaki two-piece suit.
“I can’t sell out,” Raymond said.
“How come? I thought you wanted to help me.”
“Oye. Family’s family, but money is money. The two don’t mix. You’ve got three months,” Raymond said. He looked over his shoulder. “It’s more than I give most of my tenants.”
What a sonnofabitch. I couldn’t start in another location, hauling sheet rock. Anyway, where would I get the money? Which is when I got another idea. I called Tito and explained the situation. He had a heart-to-heart with Alberto, threatened to badmouth him to all his tenants, which was the entire Puerto Rican community. Tito also offered Alberto free tickets to all his concerts for the next two years.
These days, people come to Alberto’s Dance Studio because they’ve heard about Tito Rodriguez, who played his timbales with his boys smoking their hot stuff on the dance floor. All those high and stacked heels, oxfords, flats from McCann’s, and super-clean white sneakers. Everyone comes to learn how to dance, but while they’re holding on tight to each other, they learn how to make the right moves.
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