His voice fades, and I hide in my head. Watching his mouth move, I’m wondering why people are so affected by him. He’s incredibly boring and has not for one single second stopped talking about himself.
“Will you do a table dance Jamie?”
I hate table dances…
I say this and immediately jump up on the table. Anything to relieve the pain in my cheeks from the constant smiling and pretending his infantile jokes are even mildly humorous.
As I dance, I look at the table of men below me, all looking up and feeling uncomfortable with my eye contact. They are babies inside…
I’m wondering if I have enough bread to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when I get home. I can almost taste the fluffy white bread, when I am interrupted, by his hand is on my ass.
It’s moving around in a circular motion as if polishing a car hood. I take pause and turn around to look at him. Imagining myself in a ShamWow commercial. He has a childish smirk on his face, and one by one, gives a head nod to his boys at the table.
“Yeah, you can’t touch my ass”
I say this but he’s unimpressed, and laughs…
“Really? I’m not sure about that. I can do anything I want.”
His boys chuckle and a pair high five each other. The high five thing is a declaration of idiocy that is meat for another discussion, another time. Let’s just say that guys that high five each other in times like these, need an ass beating.
“Look I don’t give a fuck who you are, you can’t grab my ass dude”
I use “dude” when I don’t feel enough strength, or need, to construct a proper sentence. I also use it when I’m angry, and as a sign of disrespect. I go back to the song, the pole, and to my head…
I’m at home, surveying the cupboards, mentally. Looking in the fridge trying to remember if there’s milk. I can’t have a pb and j without milk, it’s unnatural…
Now he’s rubbing my ankle, moving his hand around it like he’s revving a motorcycle. What is wrong with this dude? I kick out like a horse, and he giggles like a child.
“You don’t like me touching you?”
He asks this like it’s a real question. But it’s all performance. He’s using me like a chew toy, and trying to make me squeak. He keeps revving while he talks.
“You know, I put up a good fight. Do you wanna fight me?”
I think this is funny, because, we get a lot of tough guys in here. And we have a lot of tough guys working here. And if I really wanted to, I could, and would, pay them to beat his ass. And they would. But I don’t care enough. And his bullshit hand around my ankle crap is for babies. I’m honestly more annoyed by him being boring than I am with him being a rude touchy prick.
Finally, the song is over, and I can’t wait to leave. I get down and he tips me two dollars, tapping me on the ass again. A defiant statement against my ass rule. He lifts his hand up around my waste and pulls me into him, saying…
“That was great. You’re really hot, wanna hang out, and party?”
Wow, what an offer. I mean, you know a guy throwing around two-dollar tips like it’s no big deal, really knows how to party. I smile sweetly and say…
“No thanks. It was nice to meet you, but I have to go now.”
His brow wrinkles and his eyes get squirrely, he’s suddenly confused, as are the knuckleheads with him.
He says this because he honestly doesn’t understand why anyone would not want to be around him, and, the whole ass thing? Well, he’s already put that behind him, so to speak.
Without hesitation, I say…
“Because you can’t afford me, and I’m bored to fucking death. If I have to sit here and listen to you talk about yourself for one second longer, I may want to cause myself bodily injury. I guess you’re the only famous person you know, huh? Mr. Oscar De La Who gives a fuck.”
I throw a mint on the table, shake my head, and walk away.
“Fuck that guy.”