The scene unfolds in suburban normalcy, yet beneath the surface, tensions are simmering. Lydia, a blonde woman, finds herself unexpectedly in a chokehold, courtesy of Cass, the hostess of a peculiar gathering. “But I’m ready to fight back,” Cass declares, her voice laced with a sales pitch, as she addresses three women settled comfortably on a couch. Her weapon? Not brute force, but the “Direct Hit™ keychain.”
Raising a spiral baton, Cass demonstrates its purported effectiveness, gently pressing its tip against Lydia’s elbow. Even this mild pressure causes Lydia to wince. “The Direct Hit™ comes in a dozen colors and patterns,” Cass continues, shifting seamlessly back into sales mode. “You’ll earn it as a hostess gift when you book a Safety Dance demo.” The term “Safety Dance,” initially sounding like a quirky dance move, begins to take on a different, more commercial connotation.
Cass gestures towards a sample case, borrowed from her upline, Belinda, like a game show hostess presenting a prize. Lydia, relieved from the mock attack, returns to her seat. Among the guests, Lydia is an outsider, not part of Cass’s church moms group. Cass is strategically hoping Lydia will be the key to expanding her sales network, the linchpin to booking more of these “Safety Dance” demos.
“I know you’ve been waiting to see our stun guns,” Cass announces, now moving to the main attraction. “Compared to the 50,000-volt models you’ll find in stores, our Zapp Attack™ packs three million volts of power.” The “Safety Dance” is revealed to be not about dancing at all, but about self-defense products, marketed with a blend of fear and empowerment.
Cass’s Zapp Attack™ is not just powerful; it’s also, in her eyes, stylish, emblazoned with an orange and red flame design. Carrying it, she feels a fleeting resemblance to Charlie’s Angels, a far cry from her usual suburban mom persona. She recalls a past incident, a humiliating encounter with a stranger outside a museum, where she felt helpless and ashamed. Sharing this story at Bible study, intended for support, instead led her down a different path. Belinda, her upline, offered not just prayer, but a proposition: host a Safety Dance party. Belinda’s pitch was simple: “It’s a self-defense class and a shopping spree rolled into one. Just serve up some appetizers and leave the rest to me.” To Cass, it sounded like a chance at redemption, a way to reclaim some sense of control. The “Safety Dance” promised not just safety, but perhaps, a new identity.
“The Zapp Attack™ is legal here in Nebraska and all neighboring states. The newest models are these fun animal prints.” Cass presents a leopard-spotted stun gun, showcasing the product line’s attempts to blend danger with desirability.
Belinda, the architect of this “Safety Dance” venture in Cass’s life, is depicted as a larger-than-life figure, a woman in her late forties with a commanding presence. Cass’s attempt to emulate Belinda’s confident hairstyle ended in a poinsettia-like disaster, highlighting the gap between imitation and genuine self-assurance. At Cass’s earlier party, Belinda had shared her own tale of warding off a potential threat with a “Wolf This! Whistle™,” proclaiming, “Jesus and Safety Dance have my back.” Belinda exuded an assuredness that Cass envied, a seeming fearlessness regarding the anxieties that plagued Cass daily. When Belinda extended the invitation to become a Safety Dance consultant, Cass, seeking that same confidence, impulsively agreed. The “Safety Dance” wasn’t just about products; it was selling a persona, a way of being.
Cass, now in her consultant role, straightens her floral scarf, a touch of suburban aspiration in her attire, and resumes her memorized script. “You might be overwhelmed leafing through your catalog. You wish you could order everything, right?” she says, her gaze landing on Lydia’s unopened catalog. “You shouldn’t have to pick and choose your safety. If you join my team today, you’ll get everything in the starter kit plus our new Hott Flash™ pepper spray-flashlight.” The “Safety Dance” pitch preys on insecurities, suggesting that true safety is comprehensive and purchasable.
Belinda had praised Cass’s “pick and choose” line, a small victory in Cass’s new sales endeavor. Cass’s quip about being a marketing major was a fabrication, a glossing over of her reality. Her career had stalled after maternity leave, leaving her feeling adrift. The “Safety Dance” offered a semblance of purpose, a chance to be someone again, even if it was a sales persona.
As the women fill out order forms, Cass hovers, her hopes pinned on Lydia. Lydia selects only a book, Empowering Our Daughters: Self-Defense for Women, a stark contrast to the flashy stun guns and pepper sprays being pushed. “Remember, you can save up to fifty percent on all purchases if you book a party today,” Cass reminds them, the underlying pressure palpable. Lydia hands over her order form, the “host a Safety Dance demo” box unchecked. No one checks it. Cass tallies the sales – less than two hundred dollars, a meager return. After six weeks as a consultant, she’s barely recouped half of her nine-hundred-dollar starter kit investment. The “Safety Dance” dream is proving to be financially elusive.
Cass presents the hostess gift, a pink Direct Hit™ keychain, a small token for a potentially larger disappointment. Packing up her samples, the weight of the plastic totes mirroring the weight of her unmet expectations, she heads to her van. Her phone rings – Grant, her husband.
“When will you be home?” His voice is sharp with irritation. Disney Channel laughter blares in the background, a soundtrack to her domestic failures.
“I’m on my way. I need to swing by Belinda’s first to return her samples.”
Grant sighs, a sound of disapproval that echoes his initial resistance to her “Safety Dance” venture. “If you need a stun gun,” he’d said dismissively, “I’ll get you one at Cabela’s.” He didn’t understand the deeper appeal of “Safety Dance” for Cass.
“Did you earn back the nine hundred dollars?” The question is laced with skepticism, a reminder of her financial shortcomings.
Cass pulls out her Zapp Attack™ and aims it at her phone, a silent, seething gesture. I’ll show you a stun gun, she thinks, her anger flaring. Her resentment towards Grant, his successful career, his dismissiveness, boils over. But beneath the anger at Grant, a deeper, more frightening emotion surfaces: fear of her own rage.
“I got closer,” she replies, deflecting the question. “Maybe after one more demo.” The “Safety Dance” promise of financial independence is fading, replaced by a cycle of obligation and diminishing returns.
Clutching the stun gun, she closes her eyes. A vision of Lydia, her face etched with disapproval, flashes in her mind. Self-possessed snob. Cass imagines the Zapp Attack™ in action, Lydia collapsing, her Coach handbag spilling its contents – a fantasy of violent release.
“I’ll be home soon. Have the girls brush their teeth.” She ends the call abruptly, cutting off any further criticism.
Driving down Harrison Street, she fixates on the oncoming headlights, a self-destructive act of visual defiance. Her anger shifts from Grant to the “Safety Dance” company itself. Why buy advertising when underemployed women will pay for the privilege of hawking your wares? The realization of being a cog in a marketing machine dawns on her. Make us feel empowered, and we’ll recruit our friends to peddle for you too. The “Safety Dance” empowerment feels increasingly hollow, a marketing tactic preying on vulnerability.
Turning onto 139th, Belinda’s house appears ahead. We’re a pyramid of dupes, Cass thinks, the ugly truth of the MLM structure becoming starkly clear. Belinda’s earlier phone call, bragging about her promotion to Director and potential earnings of twenty grand a year, replays in Cass’s mind. Cass had done the math.
“Who works full time for six thousand dollars?” she shouts at the windshield, tires squealing as she enters Belinda’s cul-de-sac. “Looks like I do now so Belinda doesn’t have to!” The “Safety Dance” success story is built on the backs of women like Cass, working tirelessly for minimal reward while those at the top profit.
Belinda’s driveway is straight ahead. Cass taps the brakes, then hesitates. She stares at the closed garage doors, remembering Belinda storing inventory in the third bay. A sudden, destructive impulse takes over. Cass lifts her foot from the brake and slams on the gas, careening onto the driveway, smashing into the garage. The sound of splintering wood and crashing metal is a perverse thrill. Safety Dance boxes collapse in the wreckage. Climbing out, she’s almost disappointed the airbag didn’t deploy – a subconscious desire for further self-destruction.
“What on earth?” Belinda rushes out, her “massive chest heaving” beneath plaid pajamas, wielding a baby blue Hott Flash™ pepper spray-flashlight. “Cass?”
Cass grips her Zapp Attack™, its flame design seeming to glow in the dim light. She doesn’t remember taking it from the car, yet it’s in her hand, a weapon of her “Safety Dance” empowerment turned violently real. She lunges, thrusting the Zapp Attack™ into Belinda’s thigh. Belinda howls and retaliates with the pepper spray. The air fills with the stench of burnt flesh and pepper spray. Gasping for air, Cass grabs Belinda’s sleeve, and both women tumble to the ground. In a final, desperate act of release, Cass buries her face in Belinda’s “tremendous bosom” and screams and screams and screams. The “Safety Dance,” intended to provide safety and empowerment, has culminated in chaos and violence, revealing the explosive potential simmering beneath the surface of suburban life and MLM promises.
