Topless

by D Keith Mano

  had five children, and right now her bra is wet with milk. In

  Tony’s schedule book, on June 15, it said GLENDA DUE

  AGAIN. Her fecundity is amazing to me. You’d think she’d have

  stretch marks—or at least be overweight. She isn’t. She’s big

  and blond, with legs that Praxiteles might have carved. And

  breasts like hard kegs. I ’m a little uneasy with her. A nude

  woman is one thing. A nude mother is another.

  So I followed Glenda back into the girls locker room (which

  smelled of marijuana, I think). “ Lockerroom ” is a euphemism.

  It’s a john, like the m en’s room—only bigger. Two stalls, space

  for a soggy mattress. There is lot of pilferage. (A dance-quality

  bra can cost $100.) Most women take their valuables on stage

  with them. Because the locker room is just across from the

  kitchen (and ahead of the m en’s room) almost everyone has

  access. Leonard or I check the women’s room at night, but

  during the performance I can’t bring myself to go near it. I see

  these girls naked, but there are things more intimate than nakedness. The equipment of womanhood can be both prosaic and sad. And the place has a high stink of intimate liquids.

  In fret, as Jako has reminded me, the m en’s room is a test

  kitchen for cleanliness in comparison to the dancers’ locker

  room. Brazilian girls, for instance, NEVER flush the toilet. Pearl

  thinks this is because they’re unfamiliar with modem facilities—

  a reasonable assumption, I suppose. (They’re certainly not

  worried about a New York drought emergency.) So slovenly,

  indeed, are their habits that you tend to consider them part of a

  different cultural sensibility—rather than lazy. I watched a Brazilian do her makeup. She put her Big Mac on the floor between bites. No napkin, no waxpaper, she just put it on the filthy, wet

  bathroom floor.

  Not that any of the women—of whatever race, creed or nationality—are scrupulous about my/our property. The mirrors are Plexiglass: full of warps and bulges. You look at that reflection: it’s like putting mascara on a Picasso from his cubist pe-

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  riod. But, Leonard told me, dancers, when dissatisfied with

  management (when you fire them, say) have a habit of shattering

  mirrors. There is anger in the ladies locker room. Yesterday I

  read a graffito that said MEN ARE LIKE KITTENS—THEY

  SHOULD ALL BE CASTRATED. I have not escaped, despite

  my charm, good looks and pastoral touch. Willow, I suspect,

  wrote MIKE IS TONY WITHOUT A DICK. Very perceptive,

  I thought. Needless to say, I hear on good report that the topless

  profession is conducive to lesbian reveries. I don’t blame them,

  frankly. They see us, men, at our worst, day after day—raunchy,

  gross, pissed off, cheap, drunken, slurring, and whatever—I

  don’t wonder a gentle, sweet, vulnerable young female breast

  might console.

  Glenda felt that Aleesha, a Brazilian girl, had copped her

  watch. She wanted me to search Aleesha’s bag. Aleesha’s very

  young, with a large posterior and stunning, surprisingly shapely

  legs. The birth certificate she showed me had a fabricated look.

  (As all things in Portuguese do. To me.) She’s young and wild

  and charming—but her outfits are seldom washed. And her hair,

  stuck up like a rooster comb with mousse, is never washed.

  Glenda may be right.

  But I couldn’t search Aleesha. And Glenda knew better than

  to leave her watch unattended. And I told her so.

  “ Thanks,” she said. “ I ’ve been dancing for your family since

  1985 and this is the gratitude I get.”

  “ We appreciate it,” I told her. “ But what evidence have you

  got? You can’t prove it.”

  “ That’s what Tony said.”

  “ About what?”

  “ Never mind,” said Glenda. And she stripped off her wet

  bra in front of me. I could see gluey milk droplets on the right

  nipple. I stared. And Glenda noted my fascination. She laughed

  out loud. Then she leaned over and tousled my hair.

  “ A kid,” she said. “ I should nurse you.”

  I blushed. Hot, my cheeks were hot.

  FRIDAY, JULY 1

  I am stoned.

  See the pile of stones

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  D. Keith Mano

  See *4 Broke my pencil point.

  Willow, tit Willow, tit Willow gave me a cookie.

  Now she claims, what does she claim? W ell. . . Willow claims

  she told me it was a pot cookie. Given in compassion because

  I ’m so upset over Rita. Willow claimed this—at great length—

  soon after I fired her. Goodbye Willow. You do not make an ass

  of the boss, when he is the boss of your ass. Nicely lathed phrase.

  All night I ’m thinking to myself, Hey, everyone’s staring at

  me. Do I have an open fly? I am not THAT charismatic.

  Where was I?

  Yeah, right, she musta told everyone, Watch Mike. I just gave

  him a magic cookie. Watch Mike stare at his shoe like it needed

  supervision. Watch Mike dip his glass in the hot, soapy water.

  Watch Mike sit at the bar with a glass of hot, soapy water in one

  hand until LEONARD, Leonard, takes pity on me and says,

  “ You don’t wanna drink that.”

  And I said to Leonard—No, I didn’t say to Leonard. I put my

  finger in the com er of his mouth—where is collected all the

  crumbs and scum of his breakfast, lunch, dinner—and I wipe it

  clean.

  Aaggh.

  “ There was something on your m outh,” I said. At which

  point he brushes off my shoulder. “ Little dandruff,” he says.

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  And for three minutes at least Leonard and I are like two chimpanzees grooming each other. Very moving experience.

  “ I told you it was a special cookie,” Willow said.

  “ Special—to m e,” I say. Remarkably articulate for someone

  whose horizontal hold is going flip, flip, flip. “ Special to me

  meant good tasting, not like sucking on a nine-volt battery.” (I

  used to do that as a kid—funny flavor—to see if the battery was

  good. Zap the taste buds.) “ You’re fired. Fold your tits up, say

  goodnight, Grade. You have collected your last dollar bill at

  The Car.”

  “ Come on, Mike. I didn’t mean no harm.” Willow has tears

  in her eyes. (She is also wearing a Republican Convention straw

  hat from 1964: it says GOLDWATER on it. Willow is older than

  I thought.) “ Lighten up, huh? You never smile.”

  “ I never smile,” I said, “ because I run a topless bar and I ’m

  surrounded by evil people.” And then—Good grief, I forgot—

  then I made die sign of the Cross. Yes, I did. To bless her? To

  protect myself?

  “ I ’ll give you a blow jo b ,” she said. In a whisper.

  “ I ’d rather have a catheter in my head,” I said.

  Actually—now I ’m home—feels pretty good. Haven’t done

  boo since seminary. With Ernest, who had a crush on me—who

  was worried about dirt when he had white vestments on. And

  lint when he had black vestments on. Watch some TV: on pot

  you can always tell when the commercials are lying to you. />
  Will I forgive Willow? No, I willow not. Why? You ask why?

  Because, when I got into the car I . . .

  FROZE

  No way I could drive those two tons of metal home—my

  hands and feet were getting nothing but static from the control

  tower. (I put my ignition key in the glove compartment lock.) I

  was blastissimo. Bonk-thud? That wasn’t a pothole, that was a

  pregnant woman.

  So I hadda walk home. And now I haveta get up again at 8

  t’move the car so I don’t get an alternate side of the street violation. G’bye Willow. Nobody, but nobody, makes me get up at 8 a.m.

  But maybe, with the dope, I won’t dream of Rita now.

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  D. Keith Mano

  SATURDAY, JULY 2

  Afternoon

  For a nasty moment this a.m ., I could not find last night’s take.

  Large panic—no laxatives needed. Last night, full of pot paranoia, I dumped it all in the freezer. Had to wait half an hour until the bills thawed.

  Kay left a message: great news. Mrs, Wong will take over

  three weeks early so Kay can come to New York in mid-July.

  Great news.

  What will I do? Maybe I should call and tell her the truth

  now. Running a topless bar, found a corpse in my car tr u n k -

  otherwise it’s been quiet. At least save her the airfare, which she

  cannot afford. The message had a forced kind of lilt to it. This

  is Kay-being-sexy. She intends to show Sailor Mike a good time

  when she gets here. A good time with Kay means she bought a

  pink bra or something. Could break my heart.

  In fact—a little modesty for a change would be welcome.

  Right now I feel like a, w e ll. . .

  A mammographer.

  Slow afternoon—it’s beautiful weather, and even those with

  satyriasis are at the beach. Fourth of July weekend, Pearl said,

  The Car might as well be a bible camp. Thank God for the

  Brazilians—for them the Fourth isn’t a holiday. Even so, the two

  I got to work the early shift look like they came out of an aging

  vat. One had an ass—behind, derrière—like a land tortoise.

  Watched the Yanks lose. Shopped for my week’s food. Read

  some of The Seven Storey Mountain (I’ll never get through it).

  Worried about Tony. Worried about Kay. Worried about Tony

  again. Worried about my vocation. Not used to eating with a

  mustache and REALLY hurt myself biting into a hero that included some of my lip hair.

  Colavecchia and Daniels came in looking peevish and stupefied. Topless dancers are an itinerant lot: they sublet and share and bunk down wherever. O f the 150 or so active names in

  Tony’s notebook, at least 60 had changed their addresses since

  May. Moreover, to question the Brazilian contingent, a Portu-

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  guese lady cop named Gomes has been attached to the investigation. She apparently cramps their style—won’t let Colavecchia and Daniels use threats of deportation, etc. They bitched a lot.

  But they weren’t exactly forthcoming. As Tony’s brother, I ’m

  not trusted.

  “ We like questioning you,” said Daniels. “ Gives us a chance

  t’see some prime cooze.”

  “ Don’t mind him,” said Colavecchia. “ He’s jealous.”

  “ You get laid a lot here, Mike?”

  “ No,” I said. “ Not once.”

  “ C’mon. Good-looking kid like you. Really?” I shook my

  head. “ But your brother got his rig lifted plenty, huh?”

  “ Have you found something out?”

  “ We thought you might tell us,” said Daniels.

  “ I ’ve been out of touch.’’

  ‘ ‘Well, ’ ’ said Colavecchia, ‘ ‘as a kid, was your brother wild?”

  “ Were you?” I said. “ I don’t mean that as an evasion. But

  teenagers drive cars fast and, you know, Tony was red-blooded. ’ ’

  “ D’you think he liked women?”

  ‘ ‘Look. I wish you wouldn’t use me t’build a case against my

  own brother.”

  “ Okay. Fair enough. We’re just frustrated, is all.”

  Lars-Erik stopped by—to take a leak—on his way to Jones

  Beach. He said, “ Know how I can tell this is a classy joint?”

  How? I said. “ Ice in the urinals,” he said. “ And the best graffiti

  in Queens.”

  I knew there was a certain Je ne sais quoi.

  5 a.m.

  To continue the French theme: La merde va se presenter au

  ventilateur. I am up a certain creek. My ass is grass. If, dear

  reader, this is the last entry in my journal, please tell Joe Solomon that Leonard did it.

  PRIEST FOUND IN DUMPSTER.

  Tonight I closed the Joker Poker machine down.

  We were playing to about half a house—and that only because

  Tanya and Connie (our big stars) were both dancing—so I guess

  it was quieter and less crowded. I was noticing things (maybe

  it’s the pot residue) and Leonard, well, Leonard got careless.

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  D. Keith Mano

  A big spender named Valerio (a Cuban in the garment business) came away from the machine, then sat at the bar. He was winning, I had seen that when I passed walking back from the

  john. I didn’t think much about it. But there was something in

  his demeanor, his swagger (even worse than the usual Cuban

  macho bullshit) that said BIG W INNER to me. You know, his

  body was wide open, arms spread, expansive. It was saying,

  “ Look at me, I am a stud and lucky, too. ”

  So I watched, while pretending to read Leonard’s Sport magazine.

  Valerio ordered a tequila sunrise, and Leonard (who hates to

  get his hands wet) made it for him. Then Valerio pays the tab

  with a single bill, I didn’t see what denomination (tequila sunrises cost $4.25). Leonard makes change, but he doesn’t just slap it on the bar—he tucks it under Valerio’s napkin.

  So I flex on over, and I sit beside Valerio. How’s the bra and

  pantie business . . . oops, cough, something ’in my throat, let

  me borrow your napkin, thanks, gag.

  And, plus $5.75, there were three twenty-dollar bills1 under

  the napkin. Unless we are charging $40 per sunrise and Valerio

  gave Leonard a $100 bill, well, there has been a payoff.

  I can’t get a handle on myself these days. Maybe guilt, maybe

  fear of exposure maybe Rita’s death are nudging me towards

  suicide. Believe me, I am scared gasless of Leonard. The man

  can kick someone in the ribs and look like, oh, a carpenter,

  some kind of disinterested craftsman while doing it. He outweighs me by maybe 70 pounds. But Joe Solomon was in the bar—probably we both knew that. Joe still carries his gun.

  So . . .

  About two a.m ., there’s a fair crowd around the JP machine—

  when I hear an “ aooh” go up. Leonard is playing and he has

  just hit a straight flush, worth 500 points. At two bits a point,

  we’ve got $125 up there. Leonard is bowing to his audience.

  And I—I just slipped in and started playing off his points, betting 50 at a time.

  “ Hey,” says Leonard, “ those’re my points. Get off there.”

  Leonard wants to push me away, but I ’m still his boss.

  “ Relax, Leonard,” I say. “ It’s just a game—no payoffs.

  Right?” I lose 50 and bet another 50.

  “ But I won them, I paid quarters t ’play.”<
br />
  “ So, hell. Just open the machine, stick your finger in that

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  doohickus behind the coin slot and click up 200 or so. I give

  you permission. ’ ’ I lose and I bet another 50—I ’m costing Leonard $12.50 a shot and he says,

  “ Fuck you,” he says.

  And, with a kind of pneumatic whoosh, Leonard shoves me

  aside. This is a big man (he broke his own toilet seat in half just

  by sitting on it last week). I was kind of swept away like seaweed. Meanwhile, everyone has left the JP machine—in a hurry.

  It’s just me and Leonard—who is now playing at 25 cents each

  hand, to keep his big win on the board.

  And the priest—like Jesus in the temple (you have made this

  den of thieves into a bigger den of thieves)—the priest leans

  down and pulls the plug. Darkness. Leonard’s winnings fly off

  into the electronic hereafter. And Leonard pins me by my denim

  jacket to the wall.

  “ Hands off, Leonard,” I said.

  “ You little fuck.”

  “ I caught you paying Valerio off. I want this machine out by

  Monday, Tbesday. Meanwhile the screen stays dark.”

  “ You little fuck.” Louder.

  “ Leonard.” I said. (Can you believe this?) “ Leonard, you’re

  messing with the wrong person. I was middleweight boxing

  champ in college.” (At New Paltz boxing is what you do with

  a Christmas gift.) Then I pulled free—mostly because Leonard’s

  mind was doing rapid arithmetic. If he kills me, he’ll lose his

  job. He might do time. Joe Solomon is here. And, anyway, as

  Leonard said:

  “ Ethel’s gonna hear about this.”

  “ Um?” I said. “ Is she? Well then she might fire me—which

  would suit me just fine. But she won’t fire me, because then

  she’d be left with you and you’ve been robbing her walleyed

  since before most of these girls had tits.”

  “ Jerk-off—listen t ’me, jerk-off. You see that? Five big

  spenders just left. They’ll go up the block to Linese’s if they

  can’t play here.” He was right. So much for Valerio. And

  everyone in The Car was subdued—the way kids get when

  their parents argue.

  I better cut church and see Ethel tomorrow.

  Worse—I ’m sitting at the bar about an hour later and I hear

  this general male guffaw. Guffaw again. I look up and see Tanya