Make people dance. That’s all I ever wanted. When I stepped into that New York night, I never imagined all hell would break loose.

See, I left Michigan for Manhattan. Not in the Madonna-kinda-way; more in the my-parents-got-money-kinda-way so I convinced myself it was my time.

I stepped in. Festooned guitar. Hat. Of course. I strummed. The song about tonight and being young didn’t tickle the Saturday audience. I switched to Taylor Swift and a few young faces bobbed. Then I kicked it with Prince. “Raspberry Beret,” good ol’ classic. I strummed from A to G to F sharp and a few bodies jolted up. Yeah, I thought. More people stood up. But they weren’t dancing. They squirmed, worm-like. Then, the scratching, the screams, the 42nd street stop. I noticed the film of louses coming up their sleeves. Perhaps, like the lady in the song, they got it from a second hand store or from Paris or London because now the entire train crawled with them. Yeah, bed bugs dancing to the sound of Prince.