The blonde woman, Lydia, tightened her grip, a playful chokehold on Cass. “But I’m ready,” Cass declared, addressing the trio of women settled on the couch. “I’ve got my Direct Hit™ keychain.”
Raising the spiral baton, Cass gently pressed its tip into Lydia’s elbow. Lydia winced, despite Cass’s soft touch. “The Direct Hit™,” Cass announced, her voice taking on a sales pitch tone, “comes in a dozen vibrant colors and patterns. And it can be yours as a hostess gift when you book a Safety Dance demo.”
Cass gestured towards the sample case she had borrowed from Belinda, her upline, with the flourish of a game show hostess. Lydia, released, returned to her seat. Among the guests, Lydia was the only one not from Cass’s church moms group. Cass pinned her hopes on Lydia, anticipating she would broaden her sales network by scheduling her own Safety Dance demonstration.
“Now, I know what you’ve all been waiting for – our stun guns,” Cass continued, her enthusiasm building. “Compared to those 50,000-volt models you might find in stores, our Zapp Attack™ delivers a staggering three million volts of power.”
Cass held up her Zapp Attack™, its surface emblazoned with a bold orange and red flame design. Carrying it, she felt a surge of confidence, imagining herself as one of Charlie’s Angels. She couldn’t help but wish she’d had it when that man outside the Joslyn Museum had violated her personal space. The memory still stung with shame, both for her helplessness and the unwelcome thrill that had accompanied her disgust. Later, at Bible study, sharing the incident brought tears and embarrassment. Belinda, ever supportive, had prayed with Cass and then presented the idea of hosting a Safety Dance party. It’s a self-defense class and a shopping spree all in one, Belinda had promised. Just provide some snacks, and I’ll handle the rest. To Cass, it sounded like a path to reclaiming her sense of security.
“The Zapp Attack™ is perfectly legal here in Nebraska and all neighboring states. And the latest models? They come in these fun animal prints!” Cass pulled out a leopard-spotted stun gun from Belinda’s sample case, showcasing the variety within the Safety Dance product line.
Belinda, a woman in her late forties, a decade older than Cass, possessed a booming voice, a commanding presence, and a striking, spiky hairstyle. Cass’s attempt to replicate Belinda’s haircut had unfortunately resulted in a less-than-flattering poinsettia-like appearance. At Cass’s own Safety Dance party, Belinda had captivated the guests with a tale of her own near-miss, recounting how a man in downtown Omaha had scurried away muttering Jesus, lady when she deployed her Wolf This! Whistle™. That’s right, Belinda had declared to Cass’s impressed guests. Jesus and Safety Dance have my back. Cass was undeniably drawn to Belinda’s self-assurance, the way she seemed to effortlessly dismiss the anxieties that plagued Cass – walking alone, failing her family, feeling insignificant. When Belinda presented the consultant opportunity, Cass had impulsively announced her eagerness to join the Safety Dance team.
Cass adjusted the floral scarf around her neck, shifting her weight to directly face Lydia, and resumed reciting her memorized sales script.
“You’re probably feeling overwhelmed flipping through our catalog, right? You probably want to order everything,” she said, directing her gaze at the unopened catalog resting on Lydia’s lap. “But you shouldn’t have to compromise on your safety. If you join my Safety Dance team today, you’ll get everything in the starter kit, plus our brand-new Hott Flash™ pepper spray-flashlight.”
Belinda had praised that “pick and choose” line when Cass had suggested it during a training meeting. Marketing degree coming in handy, Cass had quipped, even as she knew it was a fabrication. After two years selling ads for the World-Herald, maternity leave had become a permanent departure from her marketing career.
Cass hovered near the couch as the women began filling out their order forms. She watched as Lydia selected a single item from the back of the catalog – a book titled Empowering Our Daughters: Self-Defense for Women.
“Remember,” Cass reminded them, “you can save up to fifty percent on all purchases by hosting a Safety Dance party today!” Lydia handed Cass her order form, the “Yes! I’d like to host a Safety Dance demo” box remaining unchecked. No one had checked the box. Cass collected the forms, quickly calculating the totals. Her sales barely reached two hundred dollars, a meager fraction of which would translate into her commission. In her six weeks as a Safety Dance consultant, she had barely recouped half of her initial nine-hundred-dollar starter kit investment.
Cass presented the thank-you gift, a cotton candy pink Direct Hit™ keychain, to tonight’s hostess. She packed her product samples back into the plastic totes and hauled them towards her van. Her phone buzzed to life as she fastened her seatbelt.
“When will you be home?” Grant’s voice, laced with irritation, filled the car. The cacophony of a Disney Channel show, punctuated by canned laughter, blared in the background.
“I’m on my way. I need to stop by Belinda’s first to return her samples.”
Grant sighed audibly. He had been openly disapproving of her becoming a Safety Dance consultant. If you need a stun gun, he’d said when she first mentioned it, I’ll just get you one from Cabela’s.
“Did you make back the nine hundred dollars yet?”
Cass retrieved her Zapp Attack™ from her purse and pointed it at the phone, a silent retort. I’ll show you a stun gun, she thought, her anger simmering. You, with your high-powered career, your long-suffering sighs, and your consistent avoidance of bedtime duty and dishwashing. Her heart pounded against her ribs. She realized, with a jolt, that her own anger was the most terrifying thing she faced.
“I’m getting there,” she replied, her voice tight. “Maybe after one more demo.”
She clutched the Zapp Attack™, closing her eyes. A vision of Lydia, her face etched with disapproval, flashed in her mind. Self-righteous snob. Cass’s fingers tightened around the stun gun. In her fantasy, Lydia crumpled to the ground, the contents of her expensive Coach handbag scattering around her.
“I’ll be home soon. Tell the girls to brush their teeth.” She disconnected the call before Grant could voice another objection.
Driving down Harrison Street, she stared directly into the blinding glare of oncoming headlights, pushing herself to the edge of sight. Resentment towards the Safety Dance company surged within her. Why spend money on advertising when underemployed women will pay for the privilege of pushing your products? she thought bitterly. She laid on her horn as a Subaru cut her off. Make us feel empowered, and we’ll happily recruit our friends to become your unpaid sales force.
She turned off Harrison onto 139th. Belinda’s house was just ahead. We’re all just part of a pyramid scheme of fools, Cass realized. Earlier that afternoon, Belinda had excitedly announced her promotion to Director, gushing about how her growing team meant her earnings could potentially triple to twenty thousand a year. Cass had done the mental math while Belinda rambled on.
“Who works full-time for six thousand dollars?” Cass yelled at the windshield, tires screeching as she pulled into Belinda’s cul-de-sac. “Apparently, I do, so Belinda doesn’t have to!”
Belinda’s driveway loomed ahead. Cass tapped the brakes, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the three-car garage. The doors were closed, the driveway empty. Belinda stored her Safety Dance inventory in the third bay. Cass lifted her foot from the brake and slammed on the accelerator. She careened into the driveway and smashed directly into the garage door, a thrill of destructive release coursing through her as wood and metal splintered and exploded. A stack of Safety Dance boxes toppled as she finally slammed on the brakes. She climbed out of the wreckage, a flicker of disappointment that the airbag hadn’t deployed crossing her mind.
“What on earth?” Belinda rushed out of the house, her ample chest heaving beneath her plaid pajamas. She brandished a baby blue Hott Flash™ pepper spray-flashlight. “Cass?”
Cass’s hand instinctively tightened around her Zapp Attack™. She didn’t recall taking it from the car, but there it was, clutched in her grip, its flame design seeming to pulse with an inner light. She extended her arm, glaring at Belinda. Belinda’s eyes widened in disbelief and fear. Cass lunged forward, thrusting the Zapp Attack™ into Belinda’s thigh. Belinda howled in pain and instinctively pressed the nozzle of the Hott Flash™. The acrid smell of burning flesh mingled with the sharp, stinging odor of pepper spray, filling the air. Gasping for breath, Cass grabbed Belinda’s flannel sleeve as both women tumbled to the ground in a chaotic heap. Cass buried her face in Belinda’s enormous bosom and screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
