The Worker

"What's going on Mr. Peterson?"

"A flashing sign in my gut that says, 'Insert beer here.'"

Location: Bridges Bar, Fairfax, VA. This bar houses multiple pool tables, but is not a billiard bar. It also has I would say a 20x20 dance floor that is frequented by perverted guys standing in the corner salivating, and one very random ballroom dancer.

Time: 11:45 pm. These will be the normal times because I am a server, and I close my shifts.

Situation: A few guy friends from work asked if I wanted to meet them up there when I finished up.

When I arrive, I look all over for these guys, who are all single, and this leads me straight to the dance floor. There they all are lining the walls of the makeshift floor, bobbing their heads, maybe putting their hands in the air and tipping them back and forth, and in some strange points in the music humping the air even though there is no one near them for five feet.

The scene is Latin men, Asian men, white men, and black men, all standing against the wall. They are all just waiting to make their move, for some girl stupid enough to gyrate their hips near enough to them, thus creating an opening, and boom! They are getting their penises grinded on by a huge butt or a girl seductively taking it to the ground, only to sadly bring it back up again.

This is how American women dance. This might even be how I dance, if I’ve had say, ten beers in me. But tonight, I’ve had one, and might have a second, but that seems pretty tough at the moment.

I find my space next to the wall, and I become these men. Standing there, ogling any big boobed, big assed person that passes me by. And I even push my friends into them.

I am continuing the voyeuristic part of this evening, and for a while I might be the leading contributor.

Totally forgetting about my own personal manhunt, I light cigarettes, and swig beers, laughing, and almost becoming one of the boys. The polar opposite of what I am suppose to be doing here. That is when I get a tap on my shoulder.

A man I do not recognize, looks me directly in the eye, and says: Kate?

Kate: Hi, yeah, it’s me.

I looked at him quizzically for some time, and had no recollection of who this person was.

He then says: It’s me, Carl (this is not his real name, you’ll know why I changed it shortly).

Kate: Carl? Carl! Oh my god. You look so different I didn’t even recognize you!

Just then I look back, and see my guy friends giggling. They don’t know what I know, and they think this man has come to hit on me. Little do they know, that it’s a no.

Carl: Yeah it’s been so long. I think the last time I saw you was at the Fairfax Fair. What have you been up to?

Kate: You’re right it was! That was years ago though. Nothing really, I just started school again, and I’m pretty nervous/excited about that. What about you? Do you have a job?

Carl: Well, I wouldn’t call it a job. But it gets me by.

Kate: You sell pot, don’t you?

Sidenote: The way I know this is because Carl was always a stoner. We went to middle school together, and he had always been like that. And normally people grow out of their childhood ways, but I knew different with him.

He was different.

But I try my best not to judge. Afterall, I never judged my dad for having a pot plant next to my playroom when I was a little girl. I could not possibly start now.

Carl: Heh, yeah I dabble in this and that. But I hope to get my dream job real soon.

Kate: And what is that?

Carl: I’ve always wanted to be a tow truck driver. Right on, right?

Kate: What? All tow truck drivers are such assholes!

This conversation continued for a few minutes. Basically us just going back and forth about what towing companies were rude, and employing possible killers. This conversation while I swayed next to the wall on the dance floor, and my guy friends attempted to listen, but the music was too loud.

He finally walked away, and I was relieved. I could go back to my predatory gaze on the dance floor. But of course, the men insisted on hearing about it.

Web: Who was that?

Bryan: He was totally hitting on you. You should try to slay.

That needs a sidenote: people at my work have their own strange language. Slay means sex.

And I find it funny, even though it’s not, and I am older than most of them, so admitting I laugh at it takes away any street cred I have, and also some of the feminist objections I would normally have to the meaning of the word.

Kate: Guys, you don’t understand. It was most certainly not like that, and it never will be.

Web: You never give people a chance!

Bryan: Just do it, stop being so picky. He was a good-looking dude.

Kate: You didn’t hear our conversation, and you don’t know who he is. And I hate to judge people, and shouldn’t tell you my objections.

Web: Come on Kate, just out with it.

Kate: I knew him from grade school, and I have it on very good authority that his mother fucked her cousin, and made Carl. Are you happy now?

Web: Wait, hold up! Come onnn, you're just fucking with us. Are you saying Carl’s inbred?

Bryan: I don’t care what you say; you should still go home with that guy tonight and make it a smash task.

Like I said, their own language. And I didn’t end up doing any of the above, and I think my mom would be very proud of me for that fact.