By Christopher Dill
It was the early 1980’s, the first hip-hop movement was spreading throughout the U.S. and the world, and I was probably one of the few white breakdancers in America. I was absurdly old (26) do be doing it compared to the black teens who taught me, but breakdancing was my true coming of age ritual. Before you start rolling your eyes to the point of needing an ophthalmologist to correct your vision, I was the genuine article. I learned, quite painfully, while paying serious dues on the streets of Los Angeles, from Watts to Crenshaw to Hollywood Blvd. Against unforgiving concrete, I spun on my head and performed “pancakes” (leaping up and freefalling onto your back), just to prove I belonged with the other b-boyz. I was always the only white guy dancing and for a suburban kid from Dallas, Texas, who had never danced in his life, I guess I was decent enough to break in a national commercial, on a national television show, and in a short film that my girlfriend and I made when she was in film school.
We entered that film into a music video festival in France, and I flew from Los Angeles to London with a six-hour layover at Heathrow before the flight to Charles De Gaulle Airport. I waited and fidgeted in the rotunda-like terminal packed with people from everywhere in the known universe it seemed, but I guess I must have stood out with my post punk/hip-hop/LA street dress and hairstyle. Eventually, my flight number was called, I grabbed my carry on and didn’t take two steps before I was immediately surrounded by police with machine guns. Another policeman, who seemed to be their superior, told me to raise my arms, then patted me down for whatever reason, and then they let me go.
We landed in France only to be informed that the ground crew was on strike and we would have to wait in Customs for our luggage. Customs was also a round room, not so large, but with a beautiful granite floor, and in the center, some kind of insignia, probably liberte, egalite, or whatever. Passengers sat in chairs around the circumference and I gazed upon the glistening granite that begged me to polish it further…with a backspin or a loving headspin whereby my brain could come within a centimeter or so of this French architectural gesture. Outside was a long line of cabs and the Metro stop where a train to Paris was parked with open doors. The last Metro, in fact, was leaving in a half hour; otherwise, it was a pricey cab ride I could ill afford. I kept my eyes alternately on the wall clock and the customs agents who contemptuously ignored us as if we were the cause of the labor unrest. Maybe so, because I was later told that the cab drivers and luggage handlers collude to wring money out of tourists in just such a fashion.
It was probably all the waiting that did it, but I couldn’t hold back any longer. I walked to the center of that sparkling granite floor and began breaking. There was no music, no beats, only silence as I spun and popped and body-waved while the other passengers and the customs agents impassively stared. Just another American in Paris, I guess. However, one agent, the foreman of the pack, scrutinized me for what I took to be suspicion (though at this point I didn’t care since my personal space had already been fully invaded and violated by the Brits). Still, even though he did not wield a machine gun, his demeanor seemed just as lethal.
I sat back down and within minutes the luggage arrived and I joined the mad scramble since that last Metro was now perilously close to leaving. As soon as we procured our belongings, the foreman ordered, “Everybody line up here and open your luggage.” Then he turned to me and pointed, his finger more terrifying at that moment than the machine guns of Heathrow, and my heart had never come so close to stopping. “You”, he commanded, then pointed at the door leading to the train, “You can go.” I nodded at the brother, sailed out the door and onto the train. Within moments the doors closed, the train moved, and the rest of the passengers would suffer through customs and pay that stiff cab fare, while I would be on my way to realize my dream of spinning on the Champs Elysees.
Christopher’s foray into freelance writing began as a sophomore at the University of Texas in Austin, working as a ghostwriter on a biography for a prominent NFL player. Christopher later dropped out of college at the urging of two professors who were evidently inspired by his essay writing and told him he could make far more money writing comedy. He relocated to Los Angeles where he worked in the offices of Charles and Ray Eames, esteemed architects, designers and filmmakers, while also working at night in live theatre, acting as stage-manager and running the lights, and writing comedic bits for the shows. Christopher went on to form two different production companies where he wrote, produced, directed and edited short films, commercials and PSAs for television and the Internet, along with interstitial material for cable channels. For the past 10 years, he has focused on writing full-time, including educational and industrial video scripts, grants, RFPs and business plans, as well as ghostwriting for individual clients. Christopher has also written six feature comedies, yet to be produced. He considers himself an undiscovered talent with a unique comedic voice.
