Dance Floor Dealer

Last weekend, I went out with some friends. It was nothing compared to the night I wrote about a few months ago (in the cave of young people singing Miley Cyrus). This time, we only went to Franklin Park after having a nice Thai food Shabbat at Heather’s apartment, as we do. She lives directly across the street from FP, and it’s a 10 minute walk home for me, so I figured I may as well do it while I was right there and fulfill my seasonal “going out” quota.

Things were fine at first. The DJ played decent music, and we found a corner where we could pile our coats and dance without making contact with other people. We worked it out. I mean, my friends broke it down. It was a blast. Until something strange happened.

In the middle of some really great Nelly song (which one? so many to choose from!), we all looked at each other. There was a terrible smell in the air, reminiscent of the stink bombs people set off in high school. But this was no stink bomb. This was a fart. We had no qualms about waving our hands in front of our noses, making it clear to whomever had “dealt it” that we did not approve of this behavior. We did not accept it.

We looked around to see who it might be. We were really the only people occupying the corner, aside from some friends chatting in a booth, and a semi-scruffy dude with a drink in his hand. He was jus bobbing along, wasn’t with anyone, didn’t really know what was going on, definitely more suspect than the friendly group in the booth. We were pretty sure it was him. But as I said, the jams were decent, and we were really burning some cals on the d-floor, so we proceeded.

A few minutes later, it happened again, the crippling stench. Still, the only viable culprit seemed to be the dude. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. We decided to relocate to a more congested area. It wasn’t an easy choice. The heart of the dancefloor is typically filled with a number of unfortunate characters: drunk girls who dance confusingly, creepy arm-grabbers, and “fun guys” who like to sing along with the lyrics and dance all crazy. But as a group, we determined it was safer to be in the midst of these folks than to have that guy break wind in our vicinity once more.

Things were alright for a while, but went rapidly downhill. First, the song selections began to decline. Instead of late 90s/early 2000s hip-hop, the DJ began to play the original 70s tunes from which many of the other songs sampled. Unacceptable. I just can’t with the 70s. Then, gassy fellow reappeared next to us, his drink either refilled or still un-sipped. He held it up in front of his chest, as he rocked back in forth. The songs began to creep up from the 70s to the 80s to the 90s. “Everybody Dance Now” came on, and the guy said “Awwwww yeah,” and I just wanted to be home. I think that was literally the only song he recognized. “Everybody Dance Now.” This wasn’t the night it could have been. I leaned into the group of girls (as Sheryl Sandberg would want) and announced that if the guy did the deed again I’d be heading home. Everyone laughed, but I wasn’t kidding. He’d gone too far, and his terrible taste in music angered me even more.

Obviously, he farted immediately thereafter. It was sour, and despicable, and all of us cringed. I threw my hands up in surrender, then flashed the deuces.

“I’m out,” I said, and two others agreed. It was time to go. We went to get our jackets and made our way out the door.

I don’t know what kind of black bean burger or kale salad the fellow had for dinner, but he should have just stayed home. He would have felt a lot better in bed, and he’d have saved us all a lot of strife and heartache. Thanks to that stinker, nobody was dancing now.

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