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08 – Dating Service

“So…uh, what is Morris dancing again?” Layla asked the man sitting in front of her second hand, obsolete, VHS camcorder.  

“It’s a traditional English dance.  My group does it at Renaissance Faires across the country and sometimes as far as Canada.”

“Yeah…cool.  Could you say that again, like, ‘Morris dancing is…’  We’ll edit this video later to get my questions out, so if you could answer my questions by restating them, that would be super helpful, ok?”

“Oh yeah, of course.  That’s good.  It’s like a documentary or something, right?”

“Yeah, sure, something like that,” she said and waited for the pony-tailed man to start again, but he just sat there looking at her like an expectant puppy—well-meaning and confused, but obviously too stupid to survive without help.  “So, what is Morris dancing?” she asked, this time with what she hoped was not too much of an edge in her voice.

“Oh jeez, right, sorry,” he said and cleared his throat, “Morris dancing is a traditional form of English dance.  My troupe dances a border-style morris.  We’ve travelled all over the United States and Canada, performing mostly at Renaissance Faires, but we occasionally will perform at schools or various other heritage festivals.  The real dream of ours is to get over to England to perform with some of the troupes over there.  It would be a real honor since none of us are natives.”

“Great.  Great.  Do you do anything specific for your group?”

“Well, for the group, I am the foreman…”

“Stop, start again like, ‘Specifically, I…”

“Right.  Ok.”  He coughed.  “Specifically, I am the troupe foreman which means I am responsible for teaching and training my dancers and making sure they know all the dances.  It’s tough because there’s a lot to learn, and the practices can get a little loud with the bells jangling, but it’s a rewarding task, I think.  I enjoy it.  Definitely.”

“What are you looking for in an ideal companion?” she asked, and was thankful since the question indicated that she was getting near the end of the interview.  She had three more today and looked forward to none of them.  

“I am looking for a woman, preferably between 25 and 30, who wants to travel.  Who is interested in history.  Loves dance and the arts.  Likes to hike and the occasional camping trip.  Someone who is caring and loving and looks good dressed like a scullery maid.”  He laughed.  “I’m just, uh, kidding about that last one.”

“Mhmm, sure.”  He temples throbbed.  “And, finally, is there anything else you’d like to add to this video?”

“I’m a sensitive man, with the soul of a poet.  To be compatible with me you need to be able to drink of the wine of art.  Let me be the Orpheus to your Eurydice.”

Orpheus was torn to shreds by women after converting exclusively to pederasty, she thought, but said, “Ok, cool, that concludes your interview.  Do you have any questions for me about this?”

“Yeah, so when can I expect to be matched?”

“Well, your video will be handed off to our editor today who will clean up the interview.  That takes a couple of days, especially right now since we have so many new clients.  After that you’ll be in the database that is searchable online, through the website.  Hopefully you’ll start receiving calls in as soon as a week, but my experience says that you’ll get your first call before the end of the second week.”

“That sounds perfect.  I’ll be out of town until then anyway.”

“If you have any other questions, feel free to call the agency and we’ll do our best to answer, ok?”

“Ok…” he said and waited a second.  He straightened his pony tail and looked as if he were steeling himself for something.  Oh, here it comes, she thought.  “You know, if you’re, uh, not too busy, or something, uhm, my troupe will be performing this weekend up in Tuxedo which is only an hour drive.  You could bring a friend or whatever.  I could probably see about getting you tickets…if you’re interested.”

“Wow, that sounds really great, but I’m super busy this weekend.  Maybe another time, huh?”

“Oh yeah, sure, I understand.  Maybe another time.  Ok, well, thanks.  See you around,” he said, lamely.  

“Yeah.  See you around,” she stole a peek at the schedule on her clipboard, “Steve.  Let us know if you need anything,” she replied with as genuine of a fake smile as she could muster.  Why must they ALWAYS ask me out at the end?  Don’t they know I’m out of their league?  And then she felt guilty for coming off as an arrogant bitch inside her head.  

When he was out of the room and she had counted off 10 in her head to make sure he wasn’t going to pop back in, she let her smile drop.  She pressed eject on the camcorder, pulled the bulky black tape from the mechanism, and slapped a label on it that read, “Steve Hunter – Morris dancer”.  She sighed and massaged the headache simmering between her eyes.  This miserable shit was not where she pictured herself when she took her first community college film course.  She was going to be Kurosawa and Godard and Lynch and Riefenstahl, but without the antisemitic Nazism of the latter.  Her dreams sang long and loud in her soul.  They screamed to be painted with light on the timeless celluloid strip of eternity.  Light and magic and sound and vision and stories to make even the hardest weep for the lost moments in their lives, rife with joy and madness.  She was the best filmmaker ever.  Yet, here she was, 40 hours a week, in a dark room, recording miserable personal ads for the unloved and unloveable, men who wouldn’t know a breast from a throw pillow, men who said things like, “No fat chicks,” or “I want her to look like the girls in my pornography collection,” or “I have the soul of a poet.”  Pathetic.  She felt her life slipping away from her.  One day she would open her eyes and be fat and miserable, working at a video dating service in the midwest, her dreams exploded into the dumpster like so many broken fluorescent lights.  

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