Tales from Da Club #50

Today’s tale is not so much a tale as it is a bitchfest about one of my most regular clients. He is THE WORST.

George dresses like a Baptist preacher and walks with all of the privileged, better-than-you smugness of one too. Just the sight of him is enough to trigger all the religious PTSD I acquired in my formative years and send all my stomach acid straight to my bowels.

The last time I saw him at the club was two Saturdays ago. We settled in at the VIP bar, and he ordered drinks for both of us. “I’ve got a joke for you,” he said. I groaned inwardly and waited. What was the joke going to be THIS time? Racist? Homophobic? Xenophobic?

“What do you say to a blonde with two black eyes?”

Ah! It was going to be misogynist!

“I don’t know, George,” I sighed, gearing up for the inevitable dismay.

“Nothing. Someone’s already told her twice.”

George threw back his head and laughed like a bully on a playground. Then he proceeded to become super butthurt when I just sat there and glared at him.

It was not the only time that night he’d get super butthurt.

Two friends of mine came in to hang out with me, and George wanted to meet them. They were polite to him, and since George always appreciates (and expects) deference, he decided to invite them over to VIP, where he offered to buy us all a round of drinks. I was reluctant to subject my friends to George, but they agreed and we headed over.

Right at that moment, however, Dagger the Neon Mermaid hit the stage. My friends wanted to go tip her, so they made a momentary detour from our VIP outing. George was furious that they made him wait three minutes, withdrew his offer and stomped over to the poker table to sulk in a cloud of self-righteous fury.

“If they won’t make time for me,” he told me with raised eyebrows and narrowed eyes as the dealer counted out his chips, “I’m not going to make time for them.”

What a CHILD. George owns and runs a highly successful landscaping company and calls Amy of Amy’s Ice Cream one of his best friends, and I’m stymied as to how he managed to accomplish either.

Well, the first part of that sentence isn’t exactly true. He told me how he runs his company. He hires people of questionable documentation and pays them a beggar’s wage.

That’s one of the epic failures of capitalism, in my opinion. It elevates the assholes and marginalizes the worthy. A capitalistic society worships a toxic god and then wonders why it’s sick.

A few nights ago, after one of our gigs got canceled, I joined DJ Rob at the club for dinner. We sat way in the back of the VIP section. One of the dancers perched on Rob’s lap glanced over at one of the semi-private cabanas. “Oh, my god,” she murmured, wide-eyed. “That girl is making out with that old man.”

I followed her gaze, and sure enough, there was George sticking his tongue down the throat of one of the newer dancers. He likes them new. They’re easier to exploit that way. They don’t yet know that they can tell him no, and he’ll still come back.

George will always come back. There’s no wife, no family, no joy in the picture. He’s clearly a lonely old man, and I pity him, but he is reaping the bitter fruit of his poor choices. There are plenty of beautiful and interesting women his own age out there who might actually give a shit about him, but he instead he chooses to assuage his barren heart and empty nights by paying women half his age to barely tolerate him. That’s an excellent way to ensure he’ll be lonely forever, and it’s all his own damn fault.

Don’t be like George, I tell myself every day. Cultivate real relationships. Beware of the pitfalls of instant gratification. Find your people and cherish them. Chase dreams, not fantasies. Let love be your end goal in all you do.

George is such a regular customer that he provides a large chunk of my income every month, but if I were never to see him again, I wouldn’t miss that money at all.Edit

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