Planes, Trains... and a Stripper

Daunt here.  I’m winging my way from Sacramento to the east coast.  On the first leg of my trip I get seated in the puddle jumper that is to take me to my next flight.  I’m seated next to another man and as small as the seats are there is barely room for our shoulders.  Finally the plane is in the air and about the time it levels off I hear the musical laughter of a woman behind me.

I get out my Kindle to kill time.  As I begin to read I keep finding myself distracted by the conversation brewing behind me.  I hear a man introduce himself to a young sounding woman and they strike up a conversation.  I focus more intently on what I’m reading trying to tune them out.

“Good to meet you Renee,” I hear the man say.  Uh ho, by the inflection in his voice I can tell he’s smitten.  Jeez, just read Daunt.  Forget about that nonsense.

“Yeah, I’ve worked in Reno, Las Vegas, Phoenix, and Los Angeles. I make good money in those places, but I’m surprised, I really do well in Sacramento too,” our young sounding miss says.

This little scrap of info penetrates my brain drawing me yet again out of my book.  Thoughts begin to percolate.  What can a young flirtatious sounding woman do to earn money in those various cities? Oh my... seriously?  There is a stripper seated behind me?  Great, now my book doesn’t have a chance.  She continues.

“Yeah, I work at Centerfolds in Rancho Cordova, that’s where the hot girls work hee hee.”

Yup. Stripper.

The couple’s conversation shifts to various vacations they’ve taken in their past, fun things they've done and tattoos they have.  I hear the man showing too much interest and Ms. Stripper talking much more than he is -- primarily about herself.  The beverage service starts.

“Hey,” I hear the man addressing our tattooed, flaxen, oft scantily clad miss, “would you like a drink?  Let me buy you a drink.”  At this point my mind starts screaming, Dude!  You’re a lamer! You might as well have crawled into her lap like a dog, belly up, with your tongue lolled out the side of your maw!

“Oooh fun.  Hee hee.  Yeah I’ll have a drink,” she replies.

Oh man, you poor sucker.  You’ve bellied up to the bar and she’s not even stripping.  You’ve become her bitch.  Finally I grow bored of her prattle and am able to read my novel.  We land and file out of the plane.  As I’m leaving the jetway I see our exotic dancer striding away, then I hear a familiar voice.  “Ummm, bye Renee!” our smitten man-puppy calls out.  She didn’t even look back or acknowledge him.

The moral of this story?  Never buy a stripper a drink.