by D Keith Mano
certainly one of the more bizarre psychosexual phenomena in
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the human universe. Not that topless girls tend to turn tricks—
apparently it’s almost unheard of. (Why be a hooker when you
can earn more—disease free—just going around without a bra?)
But white prostitutes, according to Pearl, have no use for white
men—because they pay for sex. Black men, on the other hand,
almost NEVER pay: it’s a macho thing. So, to a hooker, the
black man represents another—and more alluring—species.
Someone she has to pay. A real man, hard to get. Unlike the
white customer for whom sex is a function of his economic
power.
Then my (my?) second afternoon girl went up—a blond Brazilian with buck teeth named Magdalena, who has NO English whatever. And Pearl said, “ Okay. Call her down. She doesn’t
know better, but she’s breaking the rules.”
“ How?”
“ Look.”
I looked. G-string? No, it didn’t reveal too much.
“ I give u p .”
“ She’s wearing glitter.” Yes, there were gold mica flecks in
her hair. And a shiny yellow brick road between her breasts.
Sexy, it looked. “ So?”
“ So she’ll come down, she’ll sit with a customer. H e’ll put
an arm around her—his jacket’ll pick up six million fuckin’
glitter dots. Tonight he’ll come home, kiss the kids and his wife
will hit him with the Cuisinart. Your customers are seventy percent married men. You haveta protect them: it says NO GLIT
TER, NO PERFUME in the locker room, but she can’t read
English. Before every girl’s first set, you should give her a sniff.
You don’t want The Car sued as corespondent in a divorce case,
do you?”
I guess I don’t. But the thought that I, Rev. Michael Wilson,
should be smelling women—like some dog around a bitch in
heat—is distasteful to say the least.
“ Here she com es,” Pearl groused. “ Miss Tblip in her dark
glasses. It’s not black enough in here already—how she doesn’t
step on her own tits is beyond me. That’s another one has the
hots fy o u .”
And Pearl left me to Ttilip’s hots. A sexy thing, but she disturbs me no end. It’s like there’s the smell of something dead around Tblip. You don’t want to look under the bed and find
out. Tblip (her real name is Berry) stares at me: then she laughs.
She poses—head on arm, arm on bar. Head back, breasts back.
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Then she does some complex number with her cigarette—like
out of a Bogart-Bacall movie. She’s either got some advanced
form of cerebral palsy or she’s trying to signal me.
Also, there is something in her tone, her accent, that brings
my brother back. It’s Proustian. Tblip/Berry is a Queens girl: I
guess it’s her speech rhythm. I could remember the kids, on a
summer night, yelling up, “ Toe-knee, Toe-knee. You goin’ t’the
Itch tonight?” Tony always carried a little canvas bag with him.
His spikes in it, or his cleats—depending on the sport season.
A towel. His glove. Vitalis hair oil. A comb. What else? Baseball cards. Some comic books. The thing was, wherever you saw him, on the street, in school—Tony looked like he was
packed to go. On the move.
Anyhow, this afternoon, what Tblip/Berry said made me antsy.
She might know something—she has the look that people get
when they’re holding a pat straight flush. What I mean, I guess:
Tblip/Berry isn’t afraid of me. Already I ’m accustomed to a
certain, uhm, deference here. Tblip doesn’t defer. Why is this?
She’s tan, brown-eyed and—Jesus, I don’t know what color her
hair is, she uses so many wigs. Small breasted, long belly, sensual appendix scar—but not good looking enough to show no deference. To me.
“ You know,” Tblip/Berry said, “ being cool is one thing. I
like a cool guy. But, at a certain point, it becomes unpleasant.
It becomes bad manners.”
“ I ’m sorry, I don’t get your drift.”
“ This is a sleazy business. I don’t pretend I ’m Isadora Duncan or anything. But you could look at me: I ’m doing my job—
it isn’t an easy job—and I ’m still a woman. Don’t act like Mr.
Superior just because you got your clothes on and I don’t. You’re
part of this act.”
“ No, I ’m not a part really. I ’m doing this as a favor because
there’s been a tragedy in my family. Frankly, if I avert my eyes,
you should feel honored. It means I don’t like taking advantage
of you.”
“ Hey, it’s not only me. All the girls feel the way I do. It’s
like you’re judging us. It’s like you’re a priest or something.”
And I said, “ I ’m not a priest.” It was late in the afternoon
for cocks to crow—but . . . “ And I ’m not judging you—I ’m
giving you space.”
“ Mike,” she said. She put her hand on my shoulder. “ Mike,
I ’d rather you looked at m e.”
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D. Keith Mano
“ Okay. I ’ll look at you. Ugh. So why don’t you look at me
in return? Why d ’you wear those dumb glasses?”
“ I ’ve got a stye,” Ihlip/B erry said. “ I ’m going up now—this
dance is dedicated t’you, baby.”
Can’t win for losing. Now it’s unchristian for me to look away
from sin. Ah, yes, the devil is a cunning sort. That reference to
the priesthood—it’s one hell of a coincidence.
I hope . . .
Lord God—from whom, we say, nothing is hid—forgive me
for making you look down upon my wonderful degradation.
I may plead madness.
Time for a nap, I thought.
Bubbles was sunning herself, elbows back against a car
fender, when I came out. She is white as a ream of paper. I
could see dark roots in her red-to-blond hair. (Bubbles actually
dyes her pubic area, too. This she told m e.) It is always disorienting, I suspect, to see a topless girl in daylight. Bubbles was wearing filthy sneakers, bicycle pants and a Whitesnake T-shirt.
She is at least fifteen pounds overweight, but her fat is hard—it
shines. And there is something about her ham-fisted idea of
glamour—plus her silly charm—that tickles me. Also, I knew
she’d been waiting for me.
“ God, you look like Tom Cruise. Take me hom e.”
“ I couldn’t handle you,” I said.
“ You like exotic women, huh?” She popped off her beauty
mark and stuck it in the middle of her forehead like a tikka dot.
“ Goodness gracious, perhaps you would like sexual intercourses
with me, yes?”
“ Yes. But no. W hat’s this?” I lifted her right arm up (she
wears long gloves on stage). There were two initials—CJ—each
at least three inches high on the inside of her forearm below the
wrist.
“ Oh, him. That’s the last guy I loved as much as I love you.
The prick. I used a bottle opener. He wasn’t worth it. ’ ’
“ Bubbles—I want you t ’khow. That sort of thing doesn’t encourage me, or anyone, t’have a relationship. I mean, self-mutilation. That’s stupid.”
“ It was a
stage. I ’m growing up. Let me come home—make
spaghetti for you. ’’
“ Did you like Tony?”
“ Sure.”
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“ You’re being polite.”
“ No. But he scared me sometimes. With the mustache you
look a lot like him. But your eyes are gentle. I ’d like t’go skinny-
dipping in your eyes.”
“ Thanks.”
“ The girlsVe started a pool. About twenty of us. First girl
gets you in bed, she wins a leather G-string with BOSS LADY
on it.”
“ Thanks.”
“ Thought you’d like t’know.”
I am totally unattracted to Bubbles sexually—she is, in the
nicest sense, garish. Not a pastor’s wife exactly—even by New
York Diocese standards. But, as sin goes, I could do a lot worse.
Bubbles is unjudgmental and bright. She would regard my ineptitude in bed with kindness.
. . . And, frankly, it’s been a long time since someone cared
for me in that way.
5 a.m.
I ’m tired. Bubbles left me two messages. Kay—be still my conscience-left me one. And, as usual, I sit here with a stash of more than $5,000 in small bills. There is a fire escape outside
the bedroom that makes me nervous. It’s barred pretty securely,
I think, but lots of unprincipled people must know that I keep
the night’s take at home. I react to crepitations from the floor. I
jumped when I saw my own reflection yesterday in the bathroom
mirror. An intruder, yaah! I ’m strung taut as the trip wire on a
booby trap.
A lot of money. But maybe not enough.
Leonard showed me our liability insurance bill for the next
six months. Just as an example. Seven thousand, four hundred
dollars. Almost fifteen thousand a year. What deranged actuary
came up with that figure? Good grief, someone who commutes
to work daily by going over Niagara Falls in a barrel doesn’t pay
that much. Or are there risks I haven’t yet been told about?
Tedium is a risk. And deafness. And flat feet. And indigestion. And Leonard.
Leonard really dislikes me. Me, Michael, and me, The Boss.
Both of us. Leonard is especially unhappy when I talk with Joe
Solomon, who dropped by to play chess tonight. Joe has never
actually accused Leonard of malfeasance. But, up until now,
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you can be sure nothing has gone on at The Car without Leonard’s blessing.
I was a little uncomfortable with Joe. I sensed his disapproval, though I couldn’t locate it for a while. Finally he said,
“ The Joker Poker machine is doing well tonight.”
“ Joe, honest, I haven’t seen a pay-out,” I said. “ There’s
nothing missing from the register. ’ ’
‘ ‘Look—it doesn’t go through the register. Someone is bankrolling it himself. ’ ’
“ I don’t understand.”
“ Okay. I ’ll tryta explain. The machine is geared t’pay out
20-30 percent of its take. That can be adjusted: but it’s generally
around 25 percent. Only someone who’s been watching it regularly can sense when a pay-out is due. The guy in control lets other people kick in—win here and there—so later he can milk
it. Because he doesn’t pay to play. All he does, when he opens
the change box on the machine to cash the take—he clicks up
credits with his finger on the coin slot mechanism. He plays for
free until the machine pays him its 25 percent. He can’t lose
because he isn’t putting money in. It’s very profitable.”
“ But you need the key t’do that.”
“ Bingo.”
“ You mean—”
“ I mean nothing.”
“ I should take the key from Leonard?”
“ Let me introduce you to Lars-Erik and Norm .”
Before Joe does the introductions, let me make a few preliminary observations about my clientele. The Car’s clientele. In many ways they’re just as intriguing as the girls. And even more
various. What Ethel said relative to dancers—that there’s always
a little, something cockeyed about them—probably goes for the
customers, too. What that makes Tony . . . is something else
again.
There are afternoon men and evening men. Usually they don’t
overlap. Afternoon men are often retired and at loose ends, like
Joe and Matt. They enjoy talk. (Music, in the afternoon, is kept
at 4.3 on the Babel scale.) And, for someone on a fixed income,
afternoons at The Car are a bargain. A beer is $3.50. You get
all the ravioli you can eat with that, and a slight sexual frisson
as well (depending on age). Add $3.00 in tips: it isn’t a bad
deal. I got a cheeseburger, large fries and a medium Coke at
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McDonald’s for $4.75 yesterday. That means, for just an additional $1.75, you get fresh tit at The Car. Not bad, really.
Tah-dee, you deserve a breast today—at McTopless.
There are also several salesmen who use The Car as a demonstration room. Jimbo Mize sells computers. “ I useta come here when a deal fell through,” he told me. ‘‘It cheered me up.
Then this hundred-watt bulb went off over my head one day. If
it cheers me up—maybe it’ll cheer my customers up. So, next
day I brought a purchasing agent to The Car for lunch. He went
crazy: most married men have a problem going to topless bars.
But if it’s, you know, business—and I ’m picking up the tab . . .
that first day I sold a $25,000 mainframe.”
How did his employer feel about it? ‘‘Their attitude is, whatever it takes. Pearl gives me a weekly receipt—and my boss treats it like a chit from Four Seasons. I mean, I don’t talk about
it. And, naturally, my customers don’t talk about it. Which is
good—let my competitors guess what I ’m doing. I know all the
girls. I tip them good. I make sure a foxy one sits with my mark.
He thinks he’s gonna get a blowjob, if I wink at the girl. Little
does he know I ’ve never had a topless blowjob. But, it is, believe
me, much easier t’sell software when you’ve got a half-naked
broad sitting beside you. I am—I think it’s safe to say—the only
computer salesman in Queens that purchasing agents look forward t’seeing. I just wish the ravioli was better.”
Nights, by comparison, are harrowing. There’s always an irrational element—usually made up of young, wiry, nervous types who can’t hold their liquor. Get five or six post-adolescents together and Leonard starts fingering his gun. I start to finger my neck (this, I note, has become a habitual quirk with me—either
I ’m hoping my collar is there, or hoping it isn’t).
Women are treated abominably by the wolf-pack types. It is,
in a sense, predictable. These kids have been taught to respect
certain women—mother, sister, nun. The girlfriend, she won’t
let José or Angelo cop a feel. All of a sudden José and Angelo
are confronted with these nude, suggestive icons. It’s liberating.
But not quite as liberating as they’d like it to be. So if Angelo
puts his hand on a girl’s thigh—and the girl takes it off, however
politely—you can expect tense misunderstandings.
The whole topless business is an exercise in ambivalence. The
women seem available. In reality, NO WOMAN unde
r the sun
is harder to score. Think about it—any girl who has taken
her clothes off eight times in one night will be somewhat
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D. Keith Mano
reluctant to strip a ninth time for Angelo, who looks like he
might barf all over her. You’re much more likely to score a
mother of four at Shop-Rite or a young student at Donnell Library. Moreover, though only 20 percent really dance, all topless girls have to at least MOVE for four hours out of eight.
They sweat. They smell. Their feet scream. Cigarette smoke
rises to lodge under their contact lenses. The libido is not
pumped up.
This contradiction is too subtle for Angelo. He sees a half-
naked woman running her tongue over wet, puffy lips. WHY
CAN’T HE GET LAID? He has money, but it isn’t legal tender
for “ sexual intercourses,” as Bubbles said. So friction builds
along his fault line. He yells less-than-chivalrous remarks. (Listening, I want to resign all affiliation with manhood.) He makes unflattering comments about a breast, a thigh. Most dancers
field these crazy hops pretty well—they can’t afford not to. But
what Angelo and his kind like to do best is take a dollar bill and
fold it into the smallest possible wad. A balled up dollar (especially if it’s newly printed money) is hard as an air-gun pellet.
Dorinda, a Guatemalan, got four bits in the right buttock tonight. She almost jum ped through the mirror and into her own reflection. It was funny. For about five seconds.
Dorinda couldn’t figure which of the four Angelos—they were
sitting together at a table—had bushwhacked her. So she came
down, nude breasts swinging. (This is forbidden at The Car.
You’re at least “ covered” offstage.) Leonard and I stepped forward. Dorinda bent down and removed one stiletto heel. I thought, Lordy, she’s gonna de-eyeball them. But, instead, she
took her pointy shoe—with its grungy sole—and dipped it, one,
two, three, four, in their beer glasses. Then she climbed back
up on stage. I cracked up. Four plotzed Angelos looking for
floor lint in their beers.
I went over, before they could react, before Leonard could
react, picked up the glasses as if I were handling the chalice and
yelled, “ Four Buds here!” While the bar maid, Julie, was fetching, I said—“ It’s on the house, my pleasure, gentlemen. And please don’t throw money at the young lady again. There are