Doing/showing her part(s) for society ...
Posted: Tue Jan 08, 2013 7:41 pm
“Hi … I’m Jazz, Jazz Zimmerman. I like what they’re playing here now, but I’m more into jazz music. Actually, a mixture of jazz with R&B is my absolute preference. Although, many people I talk to are left totally bewildered by my really liking the mixture of the two. But I don’t care.”
He then smiled at the gorgeous brunette to whom he’d just spoke at the singles bar, before asking, “Do you like what they’re playing right now?”
The woman turned her head barely enough to glance at him, gave a half-effort smile, then looked back at her drink.
“It’s alright,” she finally spoke, “but I don’t think it’s anything special.”
Jazz then chanced one a little more personal: “What’s your name?”
“Cindy.”
“I haven’t noticed you here before now.”
“This is my first time,” she replied. “I just moved here, from Toronto.”
“I’m a philosophy professor, at SFU,” he offered, unsolicited, then queried her further. “What do you do?”
Slightly clearing her throat as a result of topic discomfort, she answered, “I’m a dancer … an exotic dancer.”
“Wow—that’s something.”
“Really,” she uttered, unimpressed by his patronage.
“Yeah, really,” he began. “As long as you’re left feeling that you’re successfully contributing to society in some manner—that you’re showing … you’re doing your share for society—then you’re in fact contributing. As a philosophy professor, I can accurately say that if …”
“Actually, I’m very much beginning to hate my profession,” Cindy blatantly cut off Jazz. “And I’m quitting soon … I begin law school this upcoming Fall semester.”
She then pulled out a menthol cigarette, lit it with a gold-plated lighter and took in a deep drag. Exhaling the smoke before her, Cindy again looked at Jazz and said, “Would I be ‘contributing to society’ through a law practice as much as I would baring my entire body on front of gawking, drunk perverts? Do you think so, with that philosophical mind of yours?”
“Well,” Jazz commenced, though less confident, “it’s really a matter of what makes you feel good about what you’re doing and, more important, good about yourself; not at all what makes some ‘gawking, drunk perverts’ feel good with themselves, sexually.”
Losing patience with Jazz’s fashionably-feel-good philosophy, Cindy requested of him, “And what do you know about what kind of job makes me ‘feel good’ about myself? Why in hell would I get satisfaction from my so-called contribution to society—from stripping all night, mostly for tips? It’s everything for which the term ‘demeaning’ stands—the epitome of disgrace—unless, of course, the stripper’s also an ardent exhibitionist.”
Jazz swallowed the last of his drink before letting Cindy know that, “You’re really being too hard on yourself; I personally think a lot of strippers—they’re very gutsy girls.”
Taking in another drag and immediately exhaling, Cindy emphasized that, “Perhaps what you actually meant was that you, Jazz, think a lot about strippers, just like those men (and a few women) ogling me all night. And besides being ‘gutsy,’ we can also be quite naive, especially when it comes to the guys with whom we tend to hook up.”
Finishing her drink, she turned to face Jazz as she informed him of the recent loss of her common-law.
“My so-called high school sweetheart, with whom I’ve been living for over two decades and to whom I gave my heart, dumped me flat for another, younger woman—a college junior. I’d supported him emotionally, sexually, financially, etcetera, etcetera, for so many years, and one day he just decides to leave, to simply dump me—just like that!”
Jazz could tell that the two double vodkas that she’d polished off were having quite the inebriating effect on her (especially the noticeable slur), so he decided to end the night’s brief yet still rather abrasive dialogue on a, to him, encouraging and enlightening note.
“Well, ’tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
Having absorbed his closing words, Cindy, giving Jazz a look that was thick with incredulity, pulled herself away from her seat a bit too expressively.
“You know, professor: First, you need to get yourself some new material—and more so, some new material that actually belongs to you.”
Then turning to leave the premises, she also let Professor Zimmerman know: “Lastly, you can go philosophically f— yourself! And just for the record, that’s ‘f— ’ with a ‘ph,’ not an ‘f’!”■
Frank Sterle Jr
He then smiled at the gorgeous brunette to whom he’d just spoke at the singles bar, before asking, “Do you like what they’re playing right now?”
The woman turned her head barely enough to glance at him, gave a half-effort smile, then looked back at her drink.
“It’s alright,” she finally spoke, “but I don’t think it’s anything special.”
Jazz then chanced one a little more personal: “What’s your name?”
“Cindy.”
“I haven’t noticed you here before now.”
“This is my first time,” she replied. “I just moved here, from Toronto.”
“I’m a philosophy professor, at SFU,” he offered, unsolicited, then queried her further. “What do you do?”
Slightly clearing her throat as a result of topic discomfort, she answered, “I’m a dancer … an exotic dancer.”
“Wow—that’s something.”
“Really,” she uttered, unimpressed by his patronage.
“Yeah, really,” he began. “As long as you’re left feeling that you’re successfully contributing to society in some manner—that you’re showing … you’re doing your share for society—then you’re in fact contributing. As a philosophy professor, I can accurately say that if …”
“Actually, I’m very much beginning to hate my profession,” Cindy blatantly cut off Jazz. “And I’m quitting soon … I begin law school this upcoming Fall semester.”
She then pulled out a menthol cigarette, lit it with a gold-plated lighter and took in a deep drag. Exhaling the smoke before her, Cindy again looked at Jazz and said, “Would I be ‘contributing to society’ through a law practice as much as I would baring my entire body on front of gawking, drunk perverts? Do you think so, with that philosophical mind of yours?”
“Well,” Jazz commenced, though less confident, “it’s really a matter of what makes you feel good about what you’re doing and, more important, good about yourself; not at all what makes some ‘gawking, drunk perverts’ feel good with themselves, sexually.”
Losing patience with Jazz’s fashionably-feel-good philosophy, Cindy requested of him, “And what do you know about what kind of job makes me ‘feel good’ about myself? Why in hell would I get satisfaction from my so-called contribution to society—from stripping all night, mostly for tips? It’s everything for which the term ‘demeaning’ stands—the epitome of disgrace—unless, of course, the stripper’s also an ardent exhibitionist.”
Jazz swallowed the last of his drink before letting Cindy know that, “You’re really being too hard on yourself; I personally think a lot of strippers—they’re very gutsy girls.”
Taking in another drag and immediately exhaling, Cindy emphasized that, “Perhaps what you actually meant was that you, Jazz, think a lot about strippers, just like those men (and a few women) ogling me all night. And besides being ‘gutsy,’ we can also be quite naive, especially when it comes to the guys with whom we tend to hook up.”
Finishing her drink, she turned to face Jazz as she informed him of the recent loss of her common-law.
“My so-called high school sweetheart, with whom I’ve been living for over two decades and to whom I gave my heart, dumped me flat for another, younger woman—a college junior. I’d supported him emotionally, sexually, financially, etcetera, etcetera, for so many years, and one day he just decides to leave, to simply dump me—just like that!”
Jazz could tell that the two double vodkas that she’d polished off were having quite the inebriating effect on her (especially the noticeable slur), so he decided to end the night’s brief yet still rather abrasive dialogue on a, to him, encouraging and enlightening note.
“Well, ’tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
Having absorbed his closing words, Cindy, giving Jazz a look that was thick with incredulity, pulled herself away from her seat a bit too expressively.
“You know, professor: First, you need to get yourself some new material—and more so, some new material that actually belongs to you.”
Then turning to leave the premises, she also let Professor Zimmerman know: “Lastly, you can go philosophically f— yourself! And just for the record, that’s ‘f— ’ with a ‘ph,’ not an ‘f’!”■
Frank Sterle Jr