Strip Club

I met the poet Derek J. Rhodes at a strip club in Duluth not too long ago. He waved me over to a seat at his table near the stage.

"This is the last place I expected to see you," he said.

"I'm trying to broaden my horzons," I said.

"That's a long way of saying you were curious."

I shrugged. He caught me.

He gestured with his drink toward a man wearing headphones offering up a fiver for a lap dance. "It's beautiful in a way. People doing what they can to make one another feel less lonely."

"I guess."

The poet Derek J. Rhodes shook his head. "That's the problem with the great E. G. HOVE. All theory; no lust."

I ignored him and stirred my gin and tonic with a straw. It was some time before one of us spoke.

"I didn't mean to sound so uncharitable before," he offered a smile. "Between the two of us, we'll get the job done."

"And what is that?" I asked.

He tossed a dollar landing on the metal rail in front of me. "Convincing human beings they're beautiful no matter what happens."

"That sounds damn near heretical."

"Oh, make no mistake. We'll probably go to hell for it." He grinned. "But at least you'll have someone to buy your drinks."