Saturday, March 15, 2008

Coworkers: Part 37 - Dancing Queen

  Her feet hurt, she required breaks every fifteen minutes, she babbled endlessly, her favorite topics were herself and herself. Even Rob shunned this 18 year old, home-schooled, slightly racist princess. We were stuck with her.
  Thank you, Boss.
  Wednesday night, as she slouched at Chi Chi's with the crew, criticizing the dancing girls, she admitted her own natural brilliance on the dance floor. Missy and Trina mentioned Amateur Night on Friday. $100 or a keg for prizes! After they poured several margaritas down her, she was determined to add yet another trophy to her dresser.
  We already knew Wanda owned trophies. She had brought in a newspaper clipping of herself, grinning away, clutching some award for sewing buttons or eating hot dogs. Whatever. She'd tacked this by the refrigerator for our education and admiration. Dan cut the trophy out of her hands, Todd replaced that trophy with a photo of a chocolate colored dildo.
  Friday night, Wanda drank backstage with new buddies, Missy and Trina. Competition was skank. Nobodies. Clumsy jiggle bunnies and pork-rind trailer whores. Yet she still wanted an edge for her sure win.
  Stacey half-joked she should dance in her underwear.
   Wanda listened.
   Chi Chi's draped a sheet in front of the stage so patrons would vote for dancers -- not cousins. No one could possibly recognize her. Besides, her body was so hot! While she stripped down to skimpies, Missy and Trina teased her hair into a Mount St Helen's dust storm.
  The fabric was ... sheer. Backlit dancers saw their own silhouettes, audience members saw ... everything. Saw that Wanda was drunk and buck naked. Did NOT see that her epileptic baboon frenzy was actually natural brilliance on the dance floor.
  Half hour later, boozed up frat boys competed for the keg. Wanda had counted her five $20's a dozen times when she identified features and birthmarks behind the sheet.
   Looked around. Patrons smirked and tapped beers at her. Guys mimicked chimpanzees. She cried a bit, complained, then began cursing. Called us sick perverts, assholes, social deviants, shameless monsters. When she quit the store, we were crushed.
  Returned a week later for her paycheck. Plus her newspaper clipping.
  That didn't go so well.
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