Stripper
[Names have been changed to protect the innocent]


After the 7 a.m rehearsal for the HP industrial, nothing looked more fetching than the buffet at Mandalay Bay. Don and Sam were sitting at the table while Missy and I waited at the omelet line when a random bald guy, short and muscular, came up to me and started a conversation. He mentioned that he had seen the Cher show last night and that he enjoyed it a lot.

“Thank you. I was in it.” Immediate regret.

“Oh cool, I remember you now. Fantastic show dude." He looked at Missy. "Are you in the show too?”

Missy was quick but skeptical.

“No, I did some other shows on the strip and we're doing a gig together,” she said, pointing at me.

“Cool, I'm a dancer too, just not the same kind.”

My years at SMU subjected me to several conversations with people disappointed that “Which club?” was not an appropriate response to “I'm a dancer.” I fell into no such trap now, this time on the other side of the Q & A.

“What kind of dancer are you?” I asked.

“I'm a stripper.”

As I deflated, his grin grew in mischief and pride.

Missy, whom I'd just met but understood right away was one of the few other professionals on this gig born in the 70's, exited the area. Back during the rehearsals for my first big tour, Mark, one of Mia's assistants, would always encapsulate the odd, insurmountable, absurd or draining with the words, “I can't.”

Right now, Missy couldn't.

But I had to; the eggs had not yet been added to the vegetables...

“Oh cool,” I said, alone and jealous.

“Yeah I have my own company in Houston and we have a whole team of strippers...”

At this point he must have received a text because he began the unsuccessful effort of multi-tasking our talk with Blackberry operations. I stared at the top of his head trying to decide if there was any possible means for escape.

“I mean I can't dance like you but we don't just take our clothes off, we really dance, like give it, hardcore, you know?”

His hips started to move.

“Um, do you have a business card or something?”

“Not on me,” he said. “But you go to Outlaw Entertainment on Myspace. Here, look...”

He slid his phone upward through the air to show me the “website.” The rude texting might have been less obnoxious it turns out.

“Yo, do you mind if I take a picture with you?”

“It's fine.”

He took the picture. He asked where we were sitting and if the rest of our party included dancers. With no real will to lie, I pointed to the table where Don and Sam sat eating in peace. The stripper promised to stop by later.

Stop by he did. He introduced himself to the table, a permanent grin swathed across his face.

“I saw you on So You Think You Can Dance and man, you should have won,” he said to Sam.

In the internal filing drawer called issues-j-needs-to-work-on went the embarrassment about the fact that as much as I strive to keep current I had no idea this whole time that Sam was from the show. Anyway, before Sam could react, the stripper asked if he could take pictures with us. Before we could respond he produced a Canon. The Blackberry would not suffice.

The boys' approaches to posing exposed their reactions. Sam put the fork down and stood up: necessary evil. Don remained seated and worked like Wednesday Addams (a la Cristina Ricci) to make that smile happen: horror.

It went further south.

“Hey I remember that battle between you and the other guy, you should have won,” the stripper began.

There is a breath that happens in the entire body when we posture to discuss that which we have only skimpy (or less) understanding about. The minute he took it, Missy got up and left the table. The stripper did not embrace the cue.

“The other guy was more smooth and had good moves but overall you had a better groove...”

Ready to laugh, I had to exit after Missy. When we convened near the asparagus and cold cuts Missy and I were shameless, casting

ourselves in a full guffaw about the crazy stripper.

Then guilt swam around. I was leaving those kids unattended with the crazy stripper. This was my fault really. I had invited him in a way. Accountability in check, I re-stocked my plate and returned to the table.

The stripper was now cozy in my chair, his whole body leaned toward Sam in an effort to better show him the pictures on his phone.

“Oh sorry man,” the stripper said, getting up. “I'll leave you guys to your meal but listen thanks for the pictures.”

After the Lestat-style disappearance, Sam shared what I'd not rescued him from soon enough. The stripper wanted to show Sam a picture of his beautiful girlfriend.

“Isn't she beautiful?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam had said.

“She's like the most beautiful girl in the world.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Guess how old she is.”

“I don't know, man.”

“No, no, guess.”

“Um, I really don't know how old she is.”

“Just try.”

“Uh, 28?”

“She's 35!”

“Like I said, I couldn't guess.”

The exchange had continued in this fashion. We sat at the table amazed at Sam's endurance.

By this point Missy was back and I apologized profusely for my crazy-person karma. About five minutes into our story swaps, I told them about my Memphis moment with Sarah Palin/Tweet in the Denny's (“Yes, I was wearing violet” - send me your email address if you didn't read about her). Before the wrap up, a random beaming woman came to the table.

“Hi! I'm so sorry to bother you but could I please have pictures with you guys?”

Why not? Her strategy was less invasive; two of us in each photograph with her vs. just one.

She thanked us and ran off, leaving us confused about whose karma was at work this time.

But then, the stripper returned.

“I had to come back you guys. I just wanted to let you know that, um, well, one more thing...”

Had he developed a speech problem? There were too many pauses and breaks in thought that his previous trip did no prepare us for.

But then our eyes dropped lower. Our new friend had transferred the conversation to his pectorals, which were flexing alternately.

“Wow.” Missy was appalled.

The stripper laughed. “I just wanted to make sure you guys remember me.”

“Oh we will remember. We will never forget as a matter of fact,” I said. “Mission accomplished.”

Our cue to leave was the return of the beaming woman to take pictures again, this time with her and her husband...