Charles giggled to himself. His assistant elbowed him again in the ribs. Apparently he didn’t think giggling during a cultural exchange dinner with the Phillipino student association was appropriate.
“Mr. VanBuren, we should try to be respectful. The dancers have practiced quite a bit,” he chided.
“Don’t be such a commie spoilsport,” Charles shot back. He was a respected businessman, entrepeneur, and importer. He could giggle if he wanted to; it was funny.
“I don’t think you’re using that correctly,” his assistant said bitterly. No one liked being called a commie, not with McCarthy on a rampage. So what if he had a Russian Army issue pistol. It was a collectable; it didn’t make him a commie.
Charles giggled again, “The dancers, they’re…” But he couldn’t finish, busy stifling a giggle. The dancers continued their quick, hopping dance, in and out of pairs of poles being beat rhythmically on the floor.
With a sigh, his assistant asked, “What’s so funny?”
“They’re pole dancers. Get it?”