by D Keith Mano
OWN ACTS of evil we can separate ourselves from Him. Only
a loss of faith—a denial of His being—can accomplish that. But,
she-eet, how painful it is, how poisonous, to encounter God
when you are in a state of sin. My mind ran and hid all morning.
And yet, in some ways, I was more alive to my faith than
good-but-boring Father Mike Wilson ever was in the dry heat
of Nebraska. More alive—because I ’m playing chickie with
damnation.
And, Lord knows, my diary is more interesting. What would
Kay think, reading this? Kay would say, “ Never mind John
Donne and all the nice reasoning—you’re an irresponsible male
on the loose. And you’re angry, young man, angry at your own
priestly vocation. ’ ’ Never mind lustful, proud and cunning.
Kay would be right.
I have this melodramatic image of myself—St. John on Pat-
mos, St. Anthony—tempted by lewd female demons. Maybe,
you know, this is my chance to prove myself in the big arena of
really athletic sainthood. Maybe, on the other hand, this is my
last chance to get laid before the rigorous, inelastic life of my
priesthood sets in for good. I begin to think I rushed—out of
guilt, out of self-disgust—toward ordination. I should’ve lived
some more.
Because these aren’t female demons: these are coeds from
New Paltz and aspiring dental assistants. If they have power, it
is because I ’ve given it to them. This isn’t Patmos—this is a
middle class topless bar in Queens. I could’ve walked right out
last Thursday. I have led no one but myself into temptation. I
haven’t been compromised. Yet. But I can feel demoralization
rising. I ’ve eaten with the devil and my spoon isn’t very long.
TWice this afternoon—as I lay writing in my room, afraid of
my own nakedness—twice women have left messages on my
Phone-Mate. Brazilians. I suppose I ’m living the supreme male
fantasy. Lust and power (and more money than I ’ve ever earned
in my life). Women are calling to ask if they may, please, undress in front of me. I am Paris, judging. I am the sultan in his harem. I am—
I am a priest.
Worse—my very solitude is sensual. It’s been years since I
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D. Keith Mano
was alone, unsupervised by the world. I walk naked from bathroom to bedroom. I have a sixpack of Amstel in my fridge—I haven’t touched it, but I could. I could go out and buy a leather
jacket with studs and chains. Such opportunity. Wouldn’t I be a
fool not to embrace it? Father Mac is dead. My collar is buried
at the bottom of my rucksack. I am a plainclothesman of the
spirit—looking for a bribe. On the take.
The apartment Ethel and Pearl arranged for me is pleasant—
and rent free. One sunny bedroom above a florist’s shop.
Crushed flower scents come up through the floor. I have a bed,
a TV and a bureau. One armchair and a throw rug in the living/
dining room. The walls haven’t been painted. I can tell where
posters have hung. My predecessor m ust’ve had greasy hair. His
skull is outlined on the wall above the head of my bed. But I
won’t imbue this place with my personality—no art reproductions or bric-a-brac. No cross, either. This is temporary.
Though, I suppose, I might at least unpack my bag.
W here is my brother? I ’m afraid, most of all, that he disappeared years ago. That the boy who could fill me with confidence . . . the boy before whom I had no secrets . . .
that kid who knew Mom and Dad and walked me across
crowded intersections . . . Tony . . . Him . . . I ’m afraid that
he never was. Could I have been so mistaken about the person
I loved most in the world? If so—if so, I am a blind man. If
so, I can be mistaken about anything.
I ’ve filled this entire notebook, just about.
I ’m going to nap now. The mass this morning—the teeter-
totter between flesh and spirit—has winded me. Then maybe
I ’ll go to Manhattan and catch a PG movie.
Somehow I just don’t feel like showing up at The Car on
Sunday night. I dunno, call me finicky, it’s an instinct I have. A
matter of, well, taste. The Lord forgives sin. But tackiness is
another matter.
Isn’t it, Lord? Bring Tony back—the Tony I once knew. I ’m
in danger, I know it. Let me not hurt others in the fall—if it
must be—of my kamikaze soul.
5 a.m.
It shames me to write this—but, yes, I went to The Car tonight.
After all.
I ’m having trouble relating to Ethel, that’s what. I don’t know
who she is. Is Ethel just my sister-in-law? (But I hardly know
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her.) Is she my employer? (But I don’t have to work here.) Who
is she? The mother of my nieces, Tony’s children—I guess Ethel
is primarily that to me. (Damn, I forgot to send Amy a birthday
card.) But Ethel has a tone . . . an attitude . . . that makes me
recite psalms in my head to keep from raising my voice. Like
somehow I owe her this duty. Like—Tony being AWOL—I ’m
responsible for child support. As if I were a cosigner in the
marriage.
Ethel called The Car. I wasn’t there. Ethel called here in a
snit. Freddy manages the place alone on Sunday night, and Ethel
doesn’t trust Freddy. It’s my job. “ I really think you should be
there.” So—with a bad grace—I agreed to go. “ Say thank you
to Uncle Mike, Amy.” “ Thank you, Uncle M ike.” How can
you have a discussion under these circumstances? When I find
out where Tony is, I ’m gonna run there and hide from Ethel with
him.
But—as The Car goes—it was an acceptable evening. Only
about a dozen customers. (Most people, Mike, are too decent
to attend a topless bar on Sunday night.) I was able to tune the
music down and the lights up so I could read a bit of Seven
Storey Mountain. Freddy isn’t Leonard—he gives me a wide
berth. We had two girls dancing: Gudrun, from Germany, who
has an iron cross tattooed between her breasts, and a black girl
called—believe it—Plethora. Which name is justified by the
enormity of her breasts. Total take $217. Freddy could’ve
skimmed the whole thing, for all l care.
But I did meet Connie, who bartends on Sundays. It was slow
and quiet enough for us to talk civilly. A very useful conversation. I now know a lot more about the topless game than I did this morning—and from a woman’s POV.
First of all, Connie is beautiful: in the Raquel Welch m o d e -
great Coca-Cola colored eyes. At least five foot ten. I was checking a liquor invoice and she totaled a six-figure column in her head. We are talking superior synapses here. Connie graduated
summa cum laude from Cornell. (Me, I was busy pretending I
hadn’t gone to college. Partly because I need to disguise myself.
More likely because I was embarrassed to mention New Paltz
in that academic company.) She has been accepted at Cornell
med school—but will be taking a year off.
How, I asked—as men must ask Connie two hundred times a
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D. Keith Mono
night—how did a bright girl like you end up with an endless
cleavage on Northern Boulevard?
Well, while in college, Connie got involved with some feminist group. Her chapter made a field trip, I guess you’d call it, to 42nd Street. They invaded a peep show, one of those places
where you stick quarters in, a window slides up, and a naked
woman does . . . whatever they do. The woman, Connie said,
was black. And when Connie’s companion, another female, told
the black woman she was being exploited, the companion was
spat upon. “ I got three children t ’feed. If I ’m sploited, I just
hope they sploit me more next week. And don’t imock it when
you don’t know it, Sister.”
Connie thought this was a legitimate argument. So she hired
on as a topless dancer the next day.
Well, I said, do you feel exploited?
Sometimes. “ Then again,” she said, “ I ’ve saved twenty-two
thousand dollars this year. ’ ’
The figures, in fact, are staggering. I guess I knew that—but
until tonight I hadn’t done any hard arithmetic. A fairly attractive girl who works five nights can make over $1000 per week, tax free. A really attractive girl (with an ingratiating way) can
count on at least $1500. Twice Connie has made more than
$1,000 in a single night. Think about it—$75,000 a year, take-
home. An executive at GM would have to gross $150,000 to
pull that down. A twenty-year-old, with no education, will earn
more in one year than her father can—and he has thirty years
seniority.
Connie figures we could pay for the space program just by
taxing topless dancers. At this moment, as Pearl suggested, the
nation of Brazil is entirely funded by its breast export trade.
(Public toplessness, after all; is accepted there.) A Brazilian girl
earning $1000 a week American is automatically one of the
richest people in Rio. The mind begins to bend.
A topless dancer is a private supplier of entertainment—we
make all our girls sign a waiver that says ‘ ‘I am responsible for
paying my own payroll taxes.” But one woman in 20—Connie
is that one here—will pay taxes at all. That’s why Connie has
been working behind the bar one day a week. She declares about
$20,000 in bartender income—and launders the rest through her
parents’ savings account. They then give her the cash back, up
to the annual IRS limit for gifts from Mom and Dad. I see why
Connie graduated summa cum.
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But, though the average topless girl is more than well off, she
is also creditless: outside the system. She can’t get a mortgage.
She can’t really invest. Even a savings account is suspect. So
she tends to spend what she has—-anyway, even the most immoral girl feels guilty about merchandising her body. The money is tainted. Incriminating. They piss it away. These are, mind
you, kids. Kids who—six months ago, maybe—had just a $10
allowance to squeeze through the week with. Now dollar bills
come OUT OF THE AIR. Grown men, like daddy, offer fur
coats and trips to Bermuda. It could make your head rotate.
Anyhow, we’re dealing with a terrific ambivalence here. “ It’s
sexy,” Connie said. “ The power you have over men. I don’t
deny it. Half the time you feel like a slut—JESUS, I ’M NAKED
HERE—half the time you feel like a goddess. Hell, I ’m a bookworm. I never thought in terms of my erotic power. But look, I ’ll be able t’pay at least my first year of med school without a
loan. It can really distort your standards. Well, I ’m a Leo. I like
t’perform anyway. Listen, they say the two most powerful groups
in America are men over 60 with at least $10,000,000. And
beautiful women under 25. Which is why you see them together
so often.”
Ve-ery interesting. Connie also thinks that topless dancers,
in general, have a low self-image. Many are children of alcoholic parents. “ A lot of these girls’re dancing for their fathers.
Hoping Poppa will come in. See, Dad. I ’m attractive, even if
you didn’t think so. See, the other middle-aged drunks care for
m e.” The money and the attention are intoxicating.
I asked Connie if many girls were dancing to support a drug
habit. Ten or fifteen percent at most, she thought. “ Coke is part
of the business. Probably four out of five girls will do coke if
it’s available. You’ll see a guy tip with a folded up dollar b ill-
inside there’ll be a line of coke. But they aren’t hooked on it.
It’s the money that addicts you. It spoils you for 9 to 5 work. It’s
a trap. If you see me here next year at this time—remind me I
told you that.”
I tihink maybe I ’ve made a friend here. Someone I can compare notes with. I wouldn’t ask Connie to spy for me—but she can, you know, interpret things. Correct my impressions. I now
understand what Joe Solomon meant when he said, “ Next life,
I wanna come back as a smart, beautiful bimbo.”
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MONDAY, JUNE 27
Afternoon
Bought Ear Stopples at Woolworth’s.
Another weird day. My mind is as rootless as an air plant.
The mad, paradoxical nature of this situation—man of God running a topless bar—exerts a kind of grotesque heft. Its own unwholesome gravity. Every ten minutes or so I fibrillate with
nervous twitches. I touch where my clerical collar would be.
Pearl, I know, looks at me like I was meshuga, and she KNOWS
my position. The others must simply presume that one of my
cylinders has split.
Found out today The Car always throws Pearl a big birthday
party. Twelve Dynamic Dancers. Free matzo-ball soup all night.
(Made by Leonard, who probably squeezes an armpit into the
pot. Ugh.) To this annual event, I am told, even Ethel will be
drawn. The absentee owner. Interesting, that. How will she
comport herself? As queen, as apprentice widow, as naive
mother of four? As boss?
Meanwhile Pearl makes it VERY CLEAR that she would be
HURT if the anniversary of her birth weren’t accorded due respect. I think she’d like alternate side parking rules to be suspended. Pearl wants advertising. She wants invitations sent out.
Free drinks for her friends. A BONUS maybe. These have been
traditions at The Car. And she would like the new regime to
honor them. Hey, like Leonard says, it’s not my money. And—
besides—I need to stay on Pearl’s good side. She has the goods
on me. First girl comes over and says, “ Father, pray, is my
G-string crooked?” and I ’m gone.
If I ’m not punted outta the priesthood before then.
Would that be a relief? You haven’t the courage to quit, Mike,
but maybe you’re brave enough to get fired. Is that it?
I can see you working entry level at Bear, Steams. And writing useless screenplays about St. Herman of Alaska on weekends. Picking up girls who might feel sorry for a defrocked man of the cloth. And may I remove your frock, too, dear?
Haven’t thought about Kay once. Unless it’s What-would-
Kay-think-of-this-bimbo? So I ’m building a case against Kay.
Beats building a case against myself.
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This afternoon—because my mind has been working like a
plasma torch—I had a small revelation.
“ Pearl,” I said, “ y ’know what makes the obscene business
we’re in tolerable?”
“ The fuckin’ money,” she says. “ What else?”
“ No, no,” I said. “ I mean tolerable to the spirit. Barely
tolerable.”
“ I give up,” she says. “ What makes it barely whatever t’the
fuckin’ spirit?”
“ The music,” I said. I ’d noticed that a vague embarrassment
settles over the girls, over the entire place, between songs. “ The
music puts clothes on them, sort of. Movement, rhythmic movement, too. Nudity in movement isn’t as vulgar. But between songs all you have up there is a naked housewife padding around
her bedroom. They look at their fingernails. They bend down
like, you know, people, not sex idols—and they try t’yank their
jeans on, which no one can do seductively. Y’see what I mean?
Without the music we’re all just a bunch of cheap peeping
Toms.”
“ You been eatin’ bad mushrooms?” Pearl asked.
She then resumed her continuing monologue—it’s called
either “ A Short Life of Pearl Metzger” or “ Management
Skills for the 1990’s Topless CEO.” Every day I learn a little
more . . . For instance: one is supposed to monitor employee
body weight. “ Say you see a girl,” says Pearl, “ she’s lost
about 15 pounds in the last six weeks. What does it tell you?”
Uh, she’s on a diet, I say. “ Maybe,” says Pearl. “ But go-go
girls do not have—whatchacallit—discipline. And they eat
trayf all day, not to mention the calories in a glass beer.
They’re full of gas. No, it’s more likely she’s on cocaine or
uppers. So you make a mental memo to watch.
“Gaining weight—it could be they’ve gone off drugs. Or
they’re knocked up. Nipples can tell you a whole lot: they tend
to get darker on a pregnant woman. By the way—a woman with
dark brown nipples, who isn’t pregnant, no matter how white
she may be otherwise, she has schwartzer blood in her.”
Bullshit, I thought. Incidentally, we have only two black girls
working. This is a white middle-class neighborhood: call it racism, but white men in Queens do not integrate their sexual fantasies. Maybe ten percent of our clientele is black, and that got Pearl started on the black pimp, white prostitute relationship—
