by D Keith Mano
some contemplative boondock? Nonsense. Christianity was a
religion of cities, and my aposdeship is to people—and here,
God knows, are people.
The women are gorgeous. The men challenge you at every
crossroad. You’re an adversary until proven otherwise. (In Nebraska it is presumed that you’re a civil human being.) And it costs a Ford Foundation grant just to stock your refrigerator.
The cabbie at LaGuardia—noting my luggage tags—said,
“ From Nebraska, sir?” (He was from Beirut, I think.) I nodded
and said I was headed for Malba in Queens. His face darkened
(he wanted a fare to Manhattan, not to some nearby backwater
where he’d have to deadhead back to the city).
“ That’ll be $35.00, plus what’s on the m eter,” he said.
“ O h,” I said. “ Let’s stop first at the 115th precinct on 92nd
and Northern Boulevard. They’ll wanna hear that. How d ’you
spell your name? I want them t’get it right when they revoke
your license at the Taxi and Limousine Commission. ’ ’
He cursed all the way to Ethel’s. It felt good to be home.
My first impression of Ethel. Reminds me of those Buddha
statues: the kind that have little people crawling all over the
Buddha’s body. She answered die door with one child piggyback, an infant on her stomach and two others wrapped around her considerable thighs. The girls don’t let each other out of
sight these days—not since Tony dropped from circulation. “ We
don’t want t’get vanished, too,” said little Amy.
Ethel is robust. 5'10" and at least 160 pounds. She’s put on
weight since the wedding, when last I saw her. Fat, but taut fat.
She wore shorts and sandals and moisture. She’s a massive per-
spirer. And I think she’s lactating, because her shirt front is
always gooey. But good-looking in a Scandinavian sort of way.
(Is she a Finn?) Big, broad facial planes, clear skin. Ethel’s
eyelashes and brows are very light and give a disturbing impression that she’s blind.
Much to my shame, I hadn’t thought to bring presents. The
two older children (Amy and Wendy, age six and five, I think)
served me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with milk. Then
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they stood, hands behind back, waiting for me to reciprocate.
Why didn’t Kay tell me to pick something up for them?
“ You can sit, kids,’’ said Ethel. “ He hasn’t got anything.”
“ I was in a hurry. I ’ll get you something nice later.”
“ He looks like Daddy,” said Amy or Wendy.
“ He’s your daddy’s little brother.” And she pointed—my ordination photo was on the Baldwin grand. For some reason I found that moving. They were proud of me (though Ethel had
missed the ordination). Ethel got up and went to the piano: she
played some jazz—she has a thunderous left hand—her arms
around the drowsing, unimpressed baby.
I don’t know what preconceptions I ’d entertained of Ethel—
vague ideas of the vulnerable, helpless young mother, if anything. But, hearing her play, the force of her playing, made me re-evaluate. Ethel isn’t helpless by any means: I made a mental
note not to underestimate her. (I do that with women, Kay has
pointed it out.) She and the children make a cohesive, loyal
female unit. I wonder if Tony was ever a member in good standing.
Amy (or Wendy) then took me up to her room—where I am
now. I know she didn’t like the idea of moving out—but all of
Ethel’s children are remarkably obedient (and neat and bright).
She said, in the politest way, “ Please don’t move my dolls—
they’re having group therapy and they can’t hear each other if
you move them.” I agreed not to. Then, quite suddenly, eyes
closed, she hugged me. I think they’re all rather disoriented by
the Wilson male resemblance. I caught the others staring at me.
Kind of a disappointed look.
After the kids went to bed, Ethel and I talked in the kitchen.
In twilight, arriving by cab, I didn’t appreciate the house. But
Malba, as I now recall, is prime real estate. Tony has done well.
There’s a swimming pool. The grounds are too brilliantly landscaped to be my brother’s work. Nothing ever grew for him.
There are four bedrooms and a huge den. And there’s a white
1990 Lincoln (rented, but s till. . .) and an Olds Cutlass station
wagon in the driveway. Apparently there’s a summer house on
Lake Something in the Poconos. I ’m glad Schantzy didn’t see
this.
Ethel gave me a beer and took an iced tea for herself.
“ Thank you for coming,” she said. I made a don’t-mention-
it gesture.
“ What do the police think?” I asked.
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D. Keith Mano
“ The police are stupid.”
“ Do they think it’s foul play?”
“ Their attitude is—so she couldn’t keep her husband. They
smirk. Three days ago someone slashed die front tires on my
Cutlass, right in the driveway. Random vandalism, they said.”
“ And you think—”
“ I try not t’think. Tony didn’t bring his problems home. I
recall, looking back, that he seemed preoccupied. Maybe I ’m
imagining it. But that’s not why I asked you t ’come. You can’t
make him reappear.”
“ I suppose not.”
“ I rented you a new car—the white Lincoln outside. It’s just
like the one Tony was driving die night he . . . didn’t come
back. ’ ’
“ That’s, uh, extravagant.”
“ Maybe I ’m kidding myself, but it gives me comfort. Like
things haven’t changed. Anyway, the—the restaurant pays for
it.”
“ If you say so .”
“ Is four-fifty a week okay?” I started.
“ Four-what?”
“ Four-fifty a week t’run the place. It’s about all I can afford. ”
“ Ethel—I ’m Tony’s brother. I didn’t come here for die
money. ’ ’
“ Don’t be stupid. It’s hard work and lousy hours. Don’t unpack everything. I got you a sublet just off Northern Boulevard, maybe 15 blocks away. There really isn’t room for you here.”
“ Well—how d ’you know I ’m right for the job?”
“ You’re blood. You’re a priest. Good God, I should be able
t’trust you—and that means a lot right there. I do the books and
make out the checks anyway. But, since Tony went off, receipts
are way down. I know everyone’s got a hand in the till—a certain
amount of special perks are expected in this business. But not
that many. I just need someone there. You’ll catch on soon
enough. Just don’t take any bullshit.”
“ But I know nothing about food. Unless you serve TV dinners. W hat’s the cuisine, anyway?”
“ It’s more a nice neighborhood place t’meet. Nothing fancy.
It’s up on Northern Boulevard and 60th.”
“ Uh-huh. So how do I start?”
“ They’ll be waiting for you at noon tomorrow. The day and
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night managers, and the—ah, the rest of the staff. Listen carefully. But don’t believe anything they say. ’ ’
“ A worker priest,” I said. ‘‘They’re veiy positive a
bout
worker priests in the Episcopal Church these days.”
“ Sure,” she said. “ But maybe we shouldn’t tell them you’re
a priest.”
“ I ’m not ashamed of it,” I said. Ethel shrugged and got up.
“ You sound like him. A younger him. Before he . . . before
he learned so much.”
Ethel got up and came across the kitchen. She stood behind
me and massaged my shoulders for a while. It felt good. Then
she kissed me, a very damp kiss, on the top of my head. Her
chest leaked against my arm.
“ Thanks for coming,” she said.
THURSDAY, JUNE 23
I dreamed of my brother last night. He was angry with me, I
didn’t know why. And, for a certain while, he was wearing
clerical black. (I don’t remember what I had on—or was I naked?) He kept fighting it, ripping at the collar. But the material was binding: any time he’d rip a layer of black off, there’d be
another layer underneath. And he kept saying, “ If I don’t get it
off before they come, I ’m dead. ’ ’
And I was glad Tony couldn’t get it off. And he sensed that
and said, “ Yeah, but it was you who got in trouble, not me.
Let’s play ball.”
And, in the unrigorous way of dreams, we suddenly had gloves
and a ball. And Tony was pitching to me like once he did at
Memorial Park in Flushing. (I got a big charge out of catching
my brother back then. But I was always a little scared. It hurt.
My glove hand swelled up.)
But Tony was having trouble. When he went into his windup,
in the middle of it, he’d have to cross himself, which sure took
a lot off his fastball. And me . . . I had my jock cup in my hand
(I woke up holding a child’s makeup compact), but I couldn’t
use it, since I was naked. So I ’d hold it in front of my genitals
whenever Tony threw.
Then, somehow, the mound had become a pulpit, and Tony
was taking his text from the Sadducees’ question in Luke: “ Master, Mdses wrote, If any man’s brother die, having a wife, that
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D. Keith Mono
his brother should take his wife and raise up seed unto his
brother. ’ ’
And I started screaming—“ Don’t listen to him, he has children.” (The kids were getting up at this point, so their voices probably infiltrated my subconscious.) In the dream there were
now six children. And Tony came down from the pulpit and
said, “ You’re so smart, which are mine and which are yours?
Mine came from the left ovary. ’ ’
And I woke up with a terrific erection.
I guess Tony was always ambivalent about my vocation—
though he never said so. As a teenager he refused to attend
church, I remember that. It drove Dad bonkers—Dad wanted to
get on the vestry and Tony’s atheism was an embarrassment. I
used to tell Tony, “ Make ’em happy, go.” (Was that why I
went—did I go to make them happy?) And he said, “ You can’t
make people happy doing things that’ll make you unhappy.”
Which was pretty sharp for a fifteen-year-old, or so.
Anyway, it’s time I went to work. I confess to being a bit
nervous. My first day. But I ’m sure I ’ll be able to handle it.
I ’ve just come back from The Smoking Car—and, shee-eet,
do we have trouble.
I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe it. And Ethel shrugs it
off. . . .
Good God, what am I dealing with here?
Wait. From the beginning.
I take the Lincoln and head down to 60th Street and Northern
Boulevard. I ’m wearing my monkey suit because my cords are
filthy and my jeans have a hole in them. I ’m full of anticipation.'
I mean, can I handle this? Sure I can: a restaurant can’t be harder
to manage than a parish, probably easier. They don’t hold you
responsible for souls, just for appetites.
So I pull up. It’s the weirdest-looking place. Façade like the
side of a Long Island Railroad passenger car: a dozen tiny windows set into silver metal. The name is written out in flashy blue neon. It’s at the west end of the block—there’s an out-of-business
dry cleaner at the com er and a hardware store to the right.
I figure they’re just starting to serve lunch. So I take my little
portfolio, with my just-bought three-ring notebook in it. And I
set out across Northern, like I ’m about to take a course in human
digestion.
Naturally, it’s so bright outside I can’t see for a good few
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seconds after going through the front door. But I ’ve got this big
lasagna of a dumb smile on my face. Like, Hi, I ’m the brother-
in-law. Welcome to a new regime, my people.
And then I see—what?—a NAKED WOMAN. She’s hanging
down from a trapeze over a tiny stage. Je-sus Christ, I am in a
topless bar. With my collar on. I turn around and blast into the
sunshine, across the boulevard, into the Lincoln, where I proceed to eat my fingers.
I am, first off, furious at Ethel. She could’ve been a little more
candid up front before hauling my ass away from Lekachman.
So I get out and grab a pay phone and dial Ethel. Recorded
message, beep! “ Pick up, Ethel,” I say, “ pick up, we got problems.” No answer. “ Ethel, that address you gave me—it’s a topless bar. I just walked into a topless bar with my collar on.
Hello? Hello? Tell me there’s a mistake, Ethel. People are walking around naked in there and I ’m a priest. I did not come here all the way from Nebraska to be an apostle to the drunk and the
semi-nude.” But Ethel, if she was there, knew enough not to
answer.
I ’m scared. We are talking about a real career-buster here.
PRIEST RUNS TOPLESS BAR. It isn’t likely that anyone will
recognize me and, Lord knows, Episcopal priests have probably
done worse things, b u t. . .
I have to face the whole moral dilemma. Not nudity, not that
by itself—but the seductive, subsexual transaction that goes on
between customer and dancer. Doesn’t that trivialize and
cheapen our natures? It sure does. And am I not pridefully introducing myself to temptation? Putting overmuch trust in my own willpower? I sure am.
Well, for damn certain I can’t go back in there dressed like a
priest.
So, well . . . yes . . . I removed my collar. There was a
Korean variety store up the comer. They were selling T-shirts:
white lettering on red, a softball top of some sort. I bought it—
and changed quickly in a back aisle, among the party favors.
Only later did I realize that this shirt has BOSTON SUCKS
printed over the shoulders.
And, after crossing myself, I went back into The Smoking
Car.
It was a landmark moment: my first-ever drink in a topless
bar. Skoal, Mike. I got so superconscious of temptation that I
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D. Keith Mano
must’ve snapped my neck vertebrae six times' looking away—
the m inors are ubiquitous (behind the bar even) and they constantly tossed nudity in my direction. At that hour—just after noon—there weren’t many customers: just three elderly men, in
feet. And, after my sun-blinded, skittish entrance, the gemütlich
homeyness of the place calmed me down. On one wall I saw
rather sophisticated free-hand sketches: dancers at work and at
ease. On another wall there was a bulletin board that held a
collage of business cards and local advertising. Some dusty
Christmas decorations were still hanging here and there. And a
leprechaun from St. Patrick’s Day. And a jack-o’-lantem. A bar
for all seasons.
But there was no touch of Tony Wilson. I didn’t sense my
brother’s presence. I took out the scrap of note paper Ethel had
handed me—60-12 Northern Boulevard, it still said—and I began to laugh. Somehow, apparently, Ethel had misprinted the numbers. Then a well-crafted girl in a bikini passed me (the
women wear bikinis or lingerie between dances) and my hand
went to my throat. No collar—thank, yes, God. I began to laugh
again. The entire incident was so absurd. I started rehearsing
the story I would tell at our clergy conference when I got back
to Lekachman: REV. WILSON AND THE TOPLESS BAR.
Then a voice said,
“ What can I do you for?”
At first I couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.
Behind the bar I saw this Muppet rodent thing—which turned
out to be a pink wig. The bartender, Pearl, is about four foot
ten and at least 70 years old. Everything about her seems artificial. Fingernails: plastic. Eyebrows: painted on. Only the grindstone voice—a Forest Hills Jewish accent—is authentic. I
went into laugh spasms again. This did not please her.
“ You’d like a Fleet Enema on the rocks maybe? There something you find funny about my looks?”
“ No. No. Not at all. It’s me—my own idiocy. Just a Coke,
thanks.”
“ Coke with Liquid Wrench in it. Coming up.”
She went off. I was ashamed: my laughter had been less than
considerate. I bent to look at Kay’s watch, and, as I did so, a
hand closed over the dial face.
“ Guy as cute as you doesn’t needta know the tim e.”
She was half glamorous, half a caricature of glamour as we
Americans have come to perceive it. Mae West, Jayne Mans-
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field—and Goldie Hawn’s elfin smile, upper teeth raking over
her lower lip. Young (18) and big. But more chubby than actually
built, as they say. Bright ted hair with a skunk’s streak of platinum blond smack in file middle of it. And a beauty mark on her cheek that promptly popped off into my lap. I caught it between
