Private Dancer

Why do I have to pay to dance? You know who else pays for dances? Sad businessmen who are on vacation in the Big City and they have rented a Chevy Cobalt from Enterprise Rent-A-Car which did not pick them up--they picked up the car at the sad airport that they know backwards and forwards and maybe they stopped at a kiosk to buy a pretzel and to wash their hands in the sad bathroom and maybe they did none of these things but bought a personal pan pizza that is not personal at all--it is distant, so distant from you, pizza, pepperoni, and the like, and instead of feeling comforted in some sort of universal knowing they feel alienated from the world: that they identify with this pizza sitting under heatlamps like the ones outside of the Marriott hotel and they know, they know, that they will eventually be chosen, like someone on a reality television show like 'The Bachelor' or 'The Bachelorette' or 'The Bachelorayliotta' but by the time they are plucked from the sweltering heat that is a metaphor for something else they will be old, congealed and worn from the time spent alone, their containers stained with the grease of a yesteryear, their bottoms rigid from being so stationary for so, so long. These sad pizzamen usually smell of Axe Body Spray and chemicals--they wear cauliflower blue ties in order to create a slight contrast between their accouterments and their suit jackets as they ask for the sweet touch of a girl young enough to be their daughter who has changed her name to an adjective or an edible object who is attempting to grind out the sorrows of the day on the groin region of someone she hopes she will never see again, despite his best wishes that they will lock eyes, if only for a second, and recognize something deep inside of each other: that he is a sad pizza, and that she is a 20 oz paper cup of Mug Rootbeer and that they are able to compliment each other, at least for that moment--that this all makes sense, that despite money exchanging hands that this is what has brought them both to this spot: a deep rooted feeling for the personal space to be shared, that maybe one day the pizza will not be personal but will be personal, shared between two lovers whose cups runneth over with the sweet taste of sassafras and that all dances, all touches, accidental, or otherwise will come without a monetary value: they will be both theirs and also the world's.

Shame on you. Shame on all of you.