by D Keith Mano
He is convinced—Leonard says it’s bullshit—that Tony offered
him a raise just before he left. H e’s getting the minimum now—
and when I look at the state of the bathrooms here I ’m inclined
to give him a boost. After 2 a.m . nobody hits the urinal.
Maybe I should clean it myself. Show a proper attitude, penance, something. And over the john, in what looks like lipstick, it says TONY AND RITA. I avoid examining the drift of that.
Leonard took me down to the basement storeroom and, on
the way, I asked him about Rita. She’s a real manipulator, he
tells me. And a Puerto Rican. A Puerto Rican—if you knew
how Tony and I were brought up—with a clear sense of whom
we should associate with and whom not—you’d understand how
crazy it sounded: Tony and a Puerto Rican. Mother left the
Catholic Church and became an Episcopalian because it was a
step up socially—and, of course, because she was marrying
Dad. Marrying him, in part, I ’m sure, because he had the barest
remnant of a socially superior (though lower class) British accent. Dad had been brought up in the Church of England. Until his wedding, I don’t think he’d been to mass in 20 years. I
assume all that made Puerto Ricans and other exotic fauna interesting to Tony. I don’t think it had the same effect on me.
The basement is much larger than I would’ve imagined, and
dimly lit. Aside from the fast moving items—the beers, mainly—
it’s going to be damned difficult to find a case of this and a case
of that without Leonard. There’s a huge ice-making machine at
die foot of the stairs. Then, to the left, a walk-in cooler that can
keep a couple of pallet-loads of beer chilled. Snacks—pretzels,
etc.—are kept upstairs in the kitchen pantry, where Leonard,
they tell me, cooks for special occasions. Corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day. Thrkey on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Just to show how difficult the job is, Leonard had me carry ten cases of beer up the wooden staircase which exits behind the
bar. I think he was surprised when I didn’t collapse.
But, uh-oh, there were two girls waiting for me when I came
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upstairs. Blaze and Cleopatra: the girls tend to take stage
names—not with great imaginative reach. We actually have three
Jezebels. Joe Solomon, the retired homicide detective, says that
the customers, in self-defense, should assume names, too, like
Stud or Hunk. Then we’d have a totally artificial atmosphere.
Blaze and Cleopatra, it turns out, are sophomores at SUNY-
New Paltz. They were both very nervous (which made me nervous) and New Age looking. Tbrquoise earrings and necklaces.
Frizzy, wild hair—one brown head, one blond head—the sort of
hair I associate with, well, liberalism. Cleopatra wears braces.
Blaze has a nose ring. Not very seductive. Leonard watched
with a flat smirk on his face. Pearl, too, was getting off on
Mike’s misery. My eyes were all over the place—and they hadn’t
even taken their clothes off. I made small talk—I almost said
that I had gone to New Paltz, too . . . but thank God I didn’t.
They claim that ten or twelve girls every year commute from
upstate during the school year to dance topless on weekends.
(This is news to me. I ’m always the last to hear.)
At this point Leonard got impatient and interrupted. I was
fraternizing with the lower classes. “ Eighty bucks up front,”
he said. “ You work two afternoons before you get t’work one
night. You flash, you’re finished. You touch your tits or wear a
see-through G-string, you’re out. You’re late, you’re out. No
drinks or smokes onstage. You spend time with the customers
between gigs. How old are you?”
Blaze and Cleopatra were 19 and 20—which means they can
only drink orange juice at The Car. Oh, beautiful for spacious
skies—America the Ridiculous.
“ The locker room is in there. Let’s see what you got.” The
girls left: I was p .o .’d at Leonard.
“ Who’s supposed t’be in charge here?”
“ Take my advice, don’t get involved with none of them. Their
whole life is one big trip to the intensive care unit. Move ’em
along. Better call everyone in Tony’s book and give ’em your
phone number. Me, I ’m going home t’crash, I should be getting
overtime as it is. ’ ’
He left, which was a big relief to me. Pearl and I started
going through the list—I asked her to give each girl a grade
from A to F.
“ Sapphira.”
“ A-minus.”
“ Hedda.”
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D. Keith Mano
“ B, nice but drinks.”
“ Leslie.”
“ C-plus and stretching it. Has three periods a m onth.”
“ Noor. Is Noor a name?”
“ B-plus, but flashes when she can.”
“ Changa. Tony has ‘Brazilian’ in parentheses.”
“ A-minus. All Brazilians get an A-minus. They always show
up on time. They never flash or do floor shows. They love America—and they fuckin’ well should, they’re getting a seven million to one exchange rate on every buck they pull down. They all own at least a shopping center in Rio—and they’ve mooched
their way into the topless business like roaches. The entire useless nation of Brazil is supported by tit. The country would go belly-up without boobs. Peons—they make me itch. And men
can’t understand a word they say. Even Spanish men can’t . ”
The secret of Tony’s success at The Smoking Car, she tells
me, is his women. Most topless bars hire through an agency,
which means they get chiefly Brazilians. But Tony scouted his
own talent. Fresh young things. They’re a lot more trouble, but
they draw well. (I can’t believe I ’m writing this. I sound like the
Merchant of Venus.)
At that point Blaze and Cleopatra came out, dressed in bikini
bathing suits with m en’s dress shirts over them. Coupla kids is
all. Blaze put her hand on my arm, innocently enough, to announce her presence. Zang—my bicep balled up in a typical macho reaction. Be warned, Rev. Mike: you’ve still got a m ale’s
ego.
“ W ho’s first?” said Pearl. Cleopatra volunteered. “ You can
take a break, Tanya.”
I looked up at the stage then—it was the first time, I ’ve been
very scrupulous about it—and there was, well . . . a vision.
Brunette hair, exquisite legs—every part of her body so slight,
yet so articulated that it was sexless. Perfection, to me, is sexless. Cellulite and a swollen lip, now you’re talking sexy. Perfection I just admire. And this was perfection with Vivien Leigh’s face: a face so removed from the sordid circumstances around
it that the contrast was mesmerizing. And Tanya could dance:
not the usual packhorse gyration and crossover step. Pearl repeated her command. Tanya, not at all happy, threw on a white silk bathrobe and stomped down to sit beside me at the bar.
“ What do I look foi?” I asked Pearl.
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“ A pair of tits. Hire them, they look like friendly girls—
they’ll only last the summer.”
“ Stiffs, they are,” Tanya said. “ This is my earning time.
This is costing me tips. �
� ’
“ Tanya does TV commercials,” said Pearl, walking away.
“ She’s better than the rest of us. ”
“ You’re the brother?” Tanya asked.
“ Mike Wilson.”
“ Tanya Suslov. That’s my real name. Listen we’ve gotta get
things straight. Tony gave me $100 up front, not $80. That was
our deal, when he brought me over from the Leopard Club. ”
“ Well, now—”
“ When I work night shifts, you—or someone from The C a r -
drives me home. I work one day shift for three night shifts. And
two Saturday nights a month are m ine.”
“ Look—I was told $80—”
“ Are you the boss here, or is that knuckle-walker, Leonard?
I ’ve been putting up with his bullshit since Tony left. You can
agree t’my terms—that is, you can honor your brother’s terms—
or I walk right now, in the middle of my set. ’ ’
“ I don’t like to be bullied.”
“ Women are always bullied. I ’ve learned t’be tough.” At
which point tears swamped her eyes and Tanya began to weep.
This did not interrupt her conversation. It was as if her head
were draining. “ Look up there. ”
I did. I saw Cleopatra dancing for the first time. She had thick
thighs and breasts so soft they puddled. Cleopatra licked tongue
over lower lip in a corny show of sensuous élan. I smiled—to be
supportive. I felt remorse: I had made a child take her clothes off.
“ You’re blushing,” Tanya said. “ You sure you’re in the right
business?”
“ You’re crying. Are you sure you ’re in the right business?”
“ I need the money. I ’m studying at Actors Studio and I need
the money. What I meant t’say was—her, that one. Don’t I rate
twenty bucks more than she does?”
“ I know you hate t’judge. ’ ’ Tanya started crying again. ‘ ‘But
look at this place—eleven, twelve—sixteen men. How often
d’you get sixteen men on a summer’s afternoon? I draw them.
I ’m as close to stardom as this place’ll ever have. It’s worth the
money, believe m e.”
“ Don’t tell anyone,” I said.
D. Keith Mano
* * *
Not an auspicious beginning: Women 1, Mike 0. But I don’t
think Tanya was lying: I think she did have a special deal with
Tony, a certain homage paid to glamour. And what else was
paid, I wonder, on those nights that Tony drove her home? (I
shouldn’t allow myself to think about Tony like this: it’s disloyal.) I did permit myself to watch Tanya dance after that. And I didn’t lust for her. Perhaps because it seemed useless. She was
on another plane—like great Majolica or a Whistler portrait.
At one point, later in the day, some bozo handed her a five
buck tip (the standard is a one) and then tried to slip it into her
G-string. That is, tried to cop a feel. And Tanya took his bill
and tore it into nickels and let them flutter around the stage.
This is too much woman for me with clothes on. Naked, she’s
incomprehensible.
Instead, I was strict with Blaze and Cleopatra. They were
children, not women. Hardly older than the kids in my Young
People’s Fellowship class back in Lekachman. Cleopatra was
wearing a cross around her neck. I told her to remove it before
she danced at The Car again. I couldn’t use them until a week
from Friday afternoon—unless they wanted to work separately,
which they didn’t—and this information was greeted with a groan
and a certain amount of “ pretty please’’ flirting from Blaze.
‘ ‘Look, ’ ’ I said, ‘ ‘that may work with your English professor.
But it doesn’t work with m e.”
‘ ‘Wow, ’ ’ said Blaze, backing off. ‘ ‘You must be great in bed. ’ ’
“ See you a week from Friday, 11:30 sharp,” I said. They
left. I looked up at the stage. And Tanya was laughing at me.
What man could ever deal with her? A Black drug dealer, probably. Or a Nobel Prize-winning Oriental physicist. I doubt she has much respect for normal white men.
Tony? Could Tony have dealt with her? Not the Tony I used
to know.
Soon after that I had to handle my first customer complaint.
This bricklayer type—on his lunch hour, in painter’s overalls
and work boots—comes over. He’s pretty ploughed (111 love to
see him try to lay a straight line of brick) and he has a beer glass
in his hand.
“ You the head honcho here?”
“ Yes,” I said. I had to think a moment. But I guess I am.
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“ Well,” he says, “ your cat just drank my beer.”
“ Cats don’t drink beer.” I figured he was pulling a shaggy
cat routine on me.
“ The one with stripes. Over there. He does. And I don’t
wanna catch some frikkin’ mouse disease. Gimme a fresh one.
On you.”
“ Here,” said Pearl. She gave the yobbo a beer.
“ Thank you. Lucky I don’t call the health department.”
‘ ‘What was that, Pearl? ’ ’ I said, after the bricklayer went back
to his seat.
“ Well. Lemme tellya. Truth is, Laz drinks beer. Usually I
put down a dish with a head on it around five—I like t’wait until
the sun goes under the yardarm. I don’t want him becoming a
total lush. ’ ’
‘ ‘I ’m hearing things. ’ ’
“ But then he gets mad and goes for some guy’s glass. Funny
thing is, he’ll only drink imported. Beck’s is best.”
“ Doesn’t he get—” I looked then. Lazarus was making his
way to the backyard, where he suns himself in the afternoon.
Sure enough, there was a dip and stutter in his walk. At one
point he couldn’t figure how to get around a barstool. The cat
was plotzed. Cats in Nebraska almost never drink.
“ I know,” Pearl said. “ A shame. The mice laugh at him
now. It’s from the time he got trapped in here and hadda chug
out of the tap.” She shook her head. “ Anyhow, he has an addictive personality. ’ ’
“ AA. Have you thought about AA?”
“ Nah. Those dogs talk all the time. They think they’re the
only ones who got a problem.”
Then, and this is disconcerting, Pearl changed the subject.
She said, “ Why’d you become a priest?”
“ Oh, complicated reasons. Not the kind I ’d like t’reminisce
about in this atmosphere.”
“ Was it because you knocked that girl up?”
I almost dropped my Coke glass. It’s been so long since
anyone mentioned Amanda and that miserable time of my
life. I thought, foolishly, that I ’d put the whole incident behind me. Not a chance. It’s always there—to feel sorry for myself about, to get .angry over, to recrucify myself on. And
it’s all my fault, I know that. I take responsibility like the
consciousness people say you should, but still—yes, I became
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D. Keith Mono
a priest because of it, probably. That, anyway, was the proximate cause of my decision.
Our child, now that I think of it, would be almost nine years
old today. I have never felt as helpless as I did
then. It ripped
away my moral honor, my decentness, which had been my chief
stock-in-trade. (I was always such a good boy.) I remember
suggesting—in a roomful of adults who had met to discuss our
shame—I remember suggesting that Amanda not have an abortion. And they literally hissed at me. Gets her pregnant, he does, and then he wants to saddle us with a child.
My Dad agreed with them, these Christians who proselytized
for his grandchild’s abortion. Dad had a greenhorn’s insecurity—he never felt he was quite American enough. When I got Amanda pregnant, Dad thought maybe he’d have to forfeit his
citizenship or something. It was irrational. He knew that. But
em igration—from a poor post-w ar England—was his great
achievement in life. It used up his courage. The Schlegels,
Amanda’s parents, had his number. Informally they retained
George Lazen, the senior warden at St. Matthias and a ruthless
divorce lawyer, to soften Dad up. It was all very cordial, that
meeting. But Dad depended on church (and Masonic) connections. Without them his never very competent printing business would’ve gone under. That, and the threat of expensive legal
action, buckled him. He hated me—for his own cowardice. From
that afternoon onward Dad grew and kept a beard. He was incognito even at the dinner table . . .
Mother didn’t interfere. Her contract with the world was
roughly this: I won’t bother you, if you don’t tell me to stop
drinking. And Amanda—she would’ve disemboweled herself
with a coat hanger, I know that, had someone shown her how
to do it. And yet Amanda had seduced me. (What a fretful,
stealthy, unimaginative coupling it was.) We didn’t need a condom, she said: this was her safe time. Still, they all blamed it on me.
All except Tony. I remember that now. He came home from
college to give me moral support. Not that it did Tony any good
with Mom and Dad—they were furious with him—but their fury
deflected attention away from me a bit. And I was grateful for
that.
When he heard about Amanda’s abortion Father Mac forced
George Lazen to resign as senior warden. He made me first
acolyte. The church went into convulsions: it seethed. Lazen
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