by D Keith Mano
special tomorrow. ’ ’
“ You’re cute,” I said. I pushed the keys into her bag. “ I like
you. But I ’ve got lots on my mind right now.”
“ How romantic. It’s a big mistake—you playing hard t ’get.
Men who play hard t ’get obsess me out. It’d be much better for
you t ’take me home tonight—then I ’d get it all out of my system.
It’d save you time in the long run. ”
“ Very persuasive. But I ’d be lousy company.”
“ Have it your way.”
“ Did you know Tony?”
“ Sure. And I never got anywhere with him neither.”
“ I ’m glad t’hear it. Have a good night.”
“ Those dark eyes, those dark brown, lost beagle eyes. Give
me a tumble some day. You and me, we can make sheet lightning together. I ’ll raise your sperm count. I ’ll—”
“ Good night, Bubbles.”
“ My real name is Cherry.”
“ Good night, C herry.”
So here I am at 5 a.m .—home amid the dolls and the money.
As topless bar takes go, I have no idea if four thousand three
hundred dollars is good box office—to me it’s almost a year’s
salary after taxes. If money’s the root of all evil, this, I think,
may be the root cellar.
I ’ll speak to Ethel tomorrow: I don’t look forward to it.
My brother is dead or dying: tonight I have an eerie premonition of that. There are just too many people who didn’t like him. How or why he died, I don’t know—but there are motives
enough. I ’ve learned that. He prospected in a dark territory. He
crossed the border. And I think, for a little time at least, I ’ll
have to follow him there.
I haven’t prayed in two days. I must find a place to worship.
My brother is dead.
Who was he?
Who am I?
SATURDAY, JUNE 25
Had an extremely unpleasant and even perplexing discussion
with Ethel this a.m. When I got up she was already out at the
pool with, eldest to youngest, Amy, Wendy, Lois and Little
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Ellen. But she rushed to make me breakfast. Tough and businesslike as she may be, Ethel seems dutiful around me—I ’m sure she was that way around Tony. And the gills reflect this:
they seem like little housewives.
Ethel was in a good mood: receipts, apparently, are up. The
police got a report that someone answering Tony’s description
was seen in Seattle last week. I didn’t share my gut feeling with
Ethel—that Tony is gone. But, despite her buoyancy, Ethel can’t
be in a very good space. Either her husband is dead, probably
rubbed out (for bootlegging, God, TV sets?). Or he’s in another
city—apparently willing to start a new life without his family.
Not what you’d call a validation of her womanhood.
“ Someday,” said little Wendy, wearing her totally flat bikini
bra, “ I ’m gonna work in my daddy’s restaurant.”
“ Over my corpse,” said Ethel. “ Four girls—only a madwoman would try bringing up four girls at this particular moment in American history. That mustache is coming in just like Tony’s. The resemblance is spooky.”
“ So people say.”
“ Women after your ass?”
“ Nah. It’s just perfunctory. Flirt with the boss. I haven’t been
tempted yet.”
“ You’re doing a good job, I can tell that already. You’re
straightening things out.”
“ Yes. And they’re gonna be straighter on Monday when I
close down the Joker Poker machine. They’ve been paying off
on it—and that’s illegal.” Ethel made a patronizing face.
‘ ‘Is that wise? I think they only give a fine for first offenses. ’ ’
I hesitated: I put my fork down and stared at Ethel for a moment.
I was willing her to shut up: but she couldn’t. “ If they catch on,
we’ll pay the fine. No big deal.”
“ It’s against the law.”
“ T o n y -”
“ Mike. My name is Mike.”
“ I ’m sorry.”
“ It’s against the law. I ’m gonna make a call and have them
pick it up. It’s the only way t ’go—I can’t supervise it every
minute.”
“ Mike. The machine grosses two hundred bucks a day. That’s
six grand a month—that’s our mortgage nut.”
“ E th e l-”
“ I bet you’ve never seen a pay-out. Have you?”
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“ No. But I ’m not stupid, Ethel. People don’t donate six grand
a month just t’watch little colored numbers blip on and off.
Leonard or Pearl, they’re paying out and you know it.”
“ No, I don’t. Tony never said they were paying out. Why not
give us the benefit of the doubt before you turn the machine off?
You don’t have evidence. You shouldn’t ruin everything if you
don’t have evidence. ”
“ I ’m a priest. I ’m not supposed t’condone even the appearance of evil.”
“ Listen.” Ethel pulled two children into her lap. I realized
they were all naked. Four sets of female genitals were staring at
me. “ If you catch them—close it down. I ’ll call the distributor
myself. But innocent until proven guilty, right?”
“ Right. But I ’ll catch them ,” I said.
“ I can’t get over how much like Tony you are.”
I wanted to say, It’s only on the surface. But I didn’t.
4 a.m.
In my new apartment. So tired my eyes are crossed. And already, I know it, I ’ve lost about 15% of my hearing acuity. My voice is as rough as a cheese grater. And my mind—my mind
is like a nuclear pile. Bombarded by images.
Most of which, frankly, embarrass and disconcert me.
Out in Nebraska I was that wiseass kid from New York—the
one with kinky ideas about sex. (That is: I refused to call gay
men faggots or condemn their life-style out of hand.) Well, I
was cool, I am from New York and I do know six hundred jokes
about a rabbi and a priest on the golf course. But, in The Car,
I ’m life’s eternal rookie up from Double A. Can’t hit the curve.
And they know it. Especially the women. When Leonard
says, “ M otherfuck—fuck, m other, m othering fucking
mother” —which is his way of wishing you a safe trip home—it
doesn’t bother me. When the 17th drunken Hispanic lifts his
bottle of Miller and tells a dancer to sit on it, we l l . . . I cringe,
but I understand. The man is drunk, he’s earning $123 take-
home, his wife is pregnant again, and somebody is gonna pay
for it tonight. That’s the main service—crude release—that we
offer at The Car.
But, when I listen to the women . . . I just can’t, you know,
place them. Let me say, I think they’re brighter—on average—
than the men in The Car. But, I know, there are women of 24
on that stage with enough life experience credits to get a BA
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from NYU without taking a single course. They have seen so
much. And they seem comfortable with it. It’s like, I dunno,
seeing hair in the armpits of a newborn infant. It doesn’t belong.
I ’m tired, but I ’ve got to get this story down—it epit
omizes
what I mean. Thousand-volt culture shock.
One dancer tonight. Her stage name is Willow and she’s older
than most, maybe 32. Good figure, close friend of Pearl’s apparently. Missing a couple of back teeth, and she drinks like a stevedore. But full of good spirit. Leonard says Willow flashes,
but he hasn’t caught her at it yet. Mind you—I like the woman.
But this is the story Willow tells us in a voice that sounds like
Our Lady of the Perpetual Bronx Cheer.
Let me try and imitate her—she’s telling this to fifteen people
at the bar, and pitching her voice so the boss—that simpleton—
can hear. Me.
“ Nick at Corleone’s—you know, Corieone’s, where once I
got crabs from the rug doin’ a floor show—Nick asks—he has
his pecker on a string, so he can find it past his stomach—yeah,
that Nick—he asks me t ’do a stag party in his back room for
about ten pre-yuppies, one of which is getting married and is a
virgin still, Jesus help his bride. This guy isn’t cleared for takeoff.
“ So I say, Okay. It’s the least I can do for the economy. And,
before I start my dance, the host takes me aside, like he’s a man
of the world—me, t’me he’s not someone I ’d trust on the assembly line. So he says—big whisper—the groom-to-be still has his cherry. For an extra $200—an extra $200, The Wiz can’t beat
that price—for $200 would I take him t’my place, give him a big
blue veiner, and let him, you know, practice—like he’s learning
t’ride a two-wheeler. Okay, I say. Hey, okay. 200 bucks—you’re
a prince. In advance, Mr. Prince.
“ Okay.
“ So okay.
“ Okay.
“ Comes three a.m. and Mr. Groom—who by this time would
hit BONUS WHEN LIT on a Breathalyzer-is all set up. Everyone is going hee-hee, and I ’m having trouble even holdin’ him up. But I am all over him, I am like his sweat. He thinks he has
made a conquest. THERE ARE NO CONQUESTS FOR $200.
Not in New York.
“ Anyhow, I get him home and we’re dry humping in the
bedroom. ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ I say. ‘Oh, oh, oh. Listen, let me get
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D. Keith Mano
into something more comfortable. You take your expensive suit
off.’ I mean, this is a child. I could feel maternal about him.
BUT NOT FOR $200.
“ So, listen, I strip off and go t’the kitchen. Then I take two
hard-boiled eggs from the fridge and jam them up my twat.
COLD. I think it sterilized me. Then, with my knees together,
I go back into the bedroom, where Junior is now nude and
wagging his tail.
“ ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ I say. ‘Take me, I ’m ready.’ Right? You got
the picture? I ’m lying there, legs spread, trying not t’laugh, and
just when he’s FINALLY got himself half-hard, just as he’s about
t’fall into me, I grunch and—ploop?—out pops an egg.
“ There is silence. H e’s a little nearsighted and he’s fumbling
around.
“ ‘Hurry, hurry,’ I say. ‘I ’m ready for you.’
“ ‘U h,’ he says.” We all cracked up at this point. It was, I
admit, pretty funny.
“ ‘Hurry, hurry.’
“ ‘U h,’ he says. ‘I ’m having some trouble down here.’
“ ‘What?’ I say. ‘You’re driving me nuts.’
“ ‘W ell,’ he says. ‘This. This just came out of you.’
“ I sit bolt upright and I say, ‘Jesus, I ’m sorry—I must be
having my period. How mortifying. I hope you’ll forgive me. ’
“ And he has the egg in his hand and I ’m trying not t’lose it
and he says, ‘I never realized—I never realized.’ And I grunch
down again and—ploop?—out comes egg number two and he
says ‘My God, another. ’
‘ ‘ ‘Jesus, ’ I said, ‘thank God we didn’t make love, it would’ve
been tw ins.’
“ And he—it was kind of sweet—he hands me the eggs and
says, ‘I ’m not feeling too good. Can I go home now?’
“ And I said, ‘Sure. I ’ve gotta do a lot of feminine things
anyhow.’ And I kissed him on the forehead. YOU DO NOT
GET LAID FOR $200.”
Well, y ’hadda be there. It was funny. But—my God—what
kind of woman can cany such a thing off? No woman I ’ve ever
known before. Shall we say I am dealing with a different sensibility here? I feel inept and stupid. And, frankly, a bit dull.
Which is an unattractive feeling.
Then in comes a 350-pound tube of Vaseline. Joe Linese, I
am told, owner of Rabies, another topless joint maybe eight
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blocks up on Northern Boulevard. He has blood relations who
kill people. At the moment, of course, I understand zip about
all this. But, before I know it, Leonard and Freddy are out from
behind the bar. Leonard is yelling “ Get the fuck out, Joe. Just
get the fuck out. ”
But Linese, who lifts his stomach with both hands when walking, Linese is not impressed by Leonard. He’s barrel-up to the stage where Areola, or something, a snazzy Brazilian, and her
sister are dancing. He yells, “ You’re both through, you work in
this scum dump, you don’t work for me. And I ’ll see you never
get a green card. ’ ’
Very pleasant, indeed. By. this time Leonard has Linese by
the collar. But Linese shrugs him off—“ Eat my ass, Leonard,
I ’ve kicked your butt before, I ’ll kick it again. So where’s the
new boss—now they buried Tony with the Unknown Soldier in
New Jersey?”
“ I ’m the new boss,” I said. The place is SILENT for the first
time. A break between records. I am standing at the O.K. Corral
with a man who could kill me by sitting on me and I say, “ I am
the new boss.” Incredible asshole, macho shit. I ’m a priest, fer
gosh’s sake. And he says:
“ You should die. ”
Meanwhile the Brazilian girls are crying and screaming in
Portuguese. One has a shoe off.
“ You take my girls, you should die.”
“ Your girls,” I say. “ These are people, not your personal
property, first. Second, I did not until this minute know you
owned a topless bar. And, third, it must be a shithouse if you
own it.”
Can you imagine, I said that. Okay, I was playacting and
Leonard was behind me. But—my Lord—somehow I ’ve developed a headlong crush on suicide.
At which point he—Linese—he hauls off, starts to torque his
body. I think he’s throwing a left, when—SPLAT—he gets hit in
the face with a full glass of beer. I—Mike the Knife—I push him
in a TOTALLY defensive gesture. Just to get out of his range—
and Linese goes DOWN. Slipped in the beer, I think. He hits so
hard, he busts a leg off the pinball machine. Leonard and Freddy
start kicking him—their position having improved. And Linese
sort of rolls out the front door like a 55-gallon drum.
And who threw the beer? Not Leonard. Not Freddy. Bubbles,
who isn’t even dancing, threw the beer.
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D. Keith Mono
I bought her another. And gave her a Saturday night booking.
This firm, I want
you to know, rewards loyalty.
P.S.—When I came out at 4 a.m ., my car antenna was bent
into a half-swastika. Linese strikes me as an unforgiving person.
I begin to understand why Tony changed. Just give me a few
more nights like this.
SUNDAY, JUNE 26
An uneasy afternoon.
I dragged myself to church this morning—in disguise. The
phantom worshipper. I don’t want people in the Episcopal community to know I ’m back home just yet. (Though I must make some contact with Bishop Plunk of Queens Diocese before long.)
The mustache is coming in. But that wasn’t enough—I parted
my hair down the middle like a silent-film gigolo and wore
Tony’s camouflage jacket. Running The Car has made me fugitive and deceitful. I feel like I ’ve infiltrated the world.
There was a supply priest at St. Anne’s in Elmhurst—man of
60 or 70, probably retired. The Holy Ghost takes a vacation in
July and August—it’s an Episcopal tradition. No one recognized
me (I spoke, at the door, with a southern accent—“ Well now,
jes visitin’ the Apple from Moultrie, Georgia, y ’all.” )
I learned one fifing this morning—the disconcerting power of
nakedness. Flesh signals to us. It engages the mind, file endocrine system—and, yes, even the spirit. All the resonance of Christian symbolism—cross and crucifixion, bread and wine—
is gathered, it would seem, to counteract and answer the image
of a single naked woman. O f course, guilt had supersensitized
me. But my meditational life this morning was like an obstacle
course. Breasts interposed themselves everywhere—even breasts
that didn’t interest me. I had to turn away from the bare, sinewy
thighs of Jesus in a stained glass window of the Crucifixion.
They were, God save m e, suggestive.
I understand what’s happening, mind you. The animal is always there—hanging down like a python from some tree limb above. Christians aren’t naive about this: we respect the body’s
power. Jesus sampled it. And in some senses—I think of John
Donne—the one apt image for God’s grace (powerful, ruthless,
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instinctive) is a mighty orgasm. Rape me, God, Donne said.
Please.
And the greatest peril in sin is despair. The blasphemous fear
that God isn’t, can’t be, loving enough to forgive. That BY OUR
