Trashed

What I was looking for, no¬–let’s be honest, what I needed, was someone I could feel connected to. A person who could look through the façade I present to the world and see the real me. This shouldn’t be so difficult. People tell stories about meeting their special someone at the grocery store, or the bus stop, while working out at the gym, the list is never-ending. It just shouldn’t be that difficult, so why is it for me?

True, living in a world of computers and cell phones has made meeting real people much more difficult. I listen to older folks talk about the good old days when everyone looked forward to going to a local nightclub to meet new people, dance, and maybe find that one in a million person. If that night didn’t work out, there would be other clubs and other nights. No matter how the evening turned out, you were dealing with a real person, not some avatar or a doctored photograph that was taken ten years earlier.

Maybe that’s what I’m doing wrong; I’m looking in all the wrong places, just like the song says. Time to change my approach. There is a club not too far from my apartment called Allure. The sign out front says, Showgirls, so at least I know these ladies won’t be computer-generated. There will be a lot of other men inside competing for the ladies’ attention, which means I need to find a way to set myself apart from the rest.

A good plan involves extensive research. I began frequenting the club and learning the lay of the land. During my first couple of visits, I took a seat toward the back of the room, ordered a drink and some bar food, and took mental notes. The daytime crowd was different from the evening patrons. They were on a lunch break or between sales calls, maybe a construction crew on their way to the next job. They would pop in for a drink, check out the ladies, and be on their way. The nighttime clients were there for the long haul. The same was true for the dancers. The afternoon shift appeared less committed to the job than the night shift.

All the dancers were attractive, but there was one night shift dancer who captured my heart. She was tall, slender, with radiant blue eyes and auburn hair, and wow, could she dance. Without speaking a word, my dancing queen spoke to me through her sultry moves. I had to find a way to make her see me as worthy of her affection. The idea was brilliant, at least I thought it was. While the other men were waving money at her, my cash offering would be wrapped in a gorgeous bouquet. I’ve been told that all women like to receive flowers, and this gift would show her that I wasn’t just an ordinary spectator, but someone worth getting to know.

The following evening, I walked into the club carrying a small backpack, took a seat close to the stage, and waited for her introductory music to start. Right on queue, my dancing queen pranced out onto the opposite end of the stage and began her routine. I knew patience was needed, but my body was shaking in anticipation as she slowly worked her way to me. When she reached my location, I lifted my bag and thrust my hand inside.

A look of terror raced across her normally pleasant face, and she screamed in terror. I’m still trying to make sense of what happened next. The way I remember it, two burly men dressed in jeans and leather jackets raced over to either side of where I was sitting. They seized both of my arms and the bag and hoisted me from my stool. I tried to explain that I meant no harm and only wanted to give her some flowers. They weren’t interested and tossed me and my flowers into the street, where a car narrowly missed me but crushed the bouquet.

I got up, brushed myself off, and painfully limped back to my car. Later that evening, while nursing my bruises, I thought maybe avatars weren’t so bad after all.