Topless

by D Keith Mano

  me while I sightsee with Kay. A far-fetched assumption, which

  I have not yet talked over with Ethel.

  But Kay will be here until August 12th—two weeks. How can

  I sustain such a complex charade for that long?

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  Shouldn’t I confess over the phone and save the poor woman

  atrip?

  Still, part of me wants to see Kay. Like Berry said, “ Priests

  do not marry topless dancers.” And I want to marry someday,

  but not yet.

  On the other hand, I may not be a priest for much longer.

  5 a.m.

  Just now, God help me, I found a Ziploc bag full of cocaine

  under the front seat of my new rental car. I dropped some change

  and was fingering down for it between my feet when I felt a soft

  thing. I only picked this car up at noon yesterday. Who could’ve

  put it there? Avis may try harder—but somehow I don’t think

  they’re trying that hard.

  What to do? Right now I ’ve got the bag stuffed under my sink

  with the Ajax and Boric Acid Roach Control. Pretty obvious. I

  expect a court-ordered search momentarily. I could throw the

  stuff out, but I suspect there’s more where that came from. All

  someone has to do is plant a half-ounce or so at The Car and

  w e’re out of business. And it doesn’t take much imagination to

  figure who’s behind this spider’s stratagem.

  Fucking Leonard.

  OK, what I ’ll do, I ’ll give the coke to Joe Solomon tomorrow.

  If I ’m up front about it, maybe the narc people will think I ’m

  innocent. (THINK?—I am innocent. But I ’ve forgotten what

  being innocent feels like.) Also, I better take Berry into my confidence when she gets here. I trust her judgment. In ways, oddly enough, Berry’s like Kay. She knows how people think.

  Oh, and I forgot, Manning was in tonight—a touchy moment.

  I broke into three layers of sweat when I saw him. Raskolnikov

  and the whole of Crime and Punishment flashed before my eyes.

  Between the cops and Kay and Ethel and drug plants and Uzis

  and the church I ’m beginning to lose the coordinates of sanity.

  So—what else?—I decided to bite the bullet and confront

  Manning. I went to his table and said, “ I ’m the manager. Can

  I get you anything?”

  Manning looked right at me and a really freakish smirk flared

  in one mouth comer. His face is fleshy as a bloodhound’s, but

  he has many tiny teeth. And he’s bigger than I thought, at least

  six two. Manning said, this priest said,

  “ What you can do, you can put some decent cunt up there

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  on stage. I ’m sick of all the Brazilian twat.” (Tanya was my one

  U.S. citizen.)

  The way Manning pronounced those rancid four-letter words

  for the female portion made me sick—they had a schoolboy

  prurience to them. I felt he was getting some kind of release by

  talking filth to me. (Of course, if I hadn’t known who Manning

  was, “ cunt” and “ twat” would’ve struck me as standard lift-

  the-leg male tastelessness.)

  But Manning certainly doesn’t recognize me.

  Yet.

  Took Tanya home—the only bright moment in my day. (It

  makes Berry jealous and, mea culpa, I enjoy that.)

  Tanya was in a positive mood, having pulled down no less

  than $850 dollars. I commented on her drawing power. Men, I

  said, seemed to know when she was dancing—even if it wasn’t

  one of her regular Saturday gigs.

  “ Oh,” she said, “ that’s because I call them.”

  “ You call them?”

  “ Well Costanza does it mostly. I have a Rolodex with forty-

  five names on it. Men appreciate that: a personal call makes

  them feel special. I thought you knew about it.”

  “ Knew?”

  “ That’s why I get paid extra, silly. It’s for my expenses. Tony

  and I agreed on that a long time ago. I work hard, Mike, I ’m

  going t’make it as an actress, because I ’m motivated. And I

  know howta use my resources.” Tanya started to cry—one of

  her more available resources.

  “ Are things better at home?”

  “ Better? They’re fine.”

  “ Aaah. Well—last time I drove you home, well, I thought

  there was some tension.”

  “ Tension?” She seemed surprised. “ That was excitement

  you felt. Coscanza is a very exciting woman.”

  “ Yes.” I thought that one over. Then I said, “ Have you always been gay?”

  “ Mike. Don’t tell anyone about me and Costanza. It turns

  men off. Men live in hope.”

  “ You’re, uh, sick of men, is that it? Because they all fawn on

  you and act stupid?”

  “ Men are OK. I like men. I had a normal childhood. And

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  it’s important t’my aspirations that men care for me. I ’m really

  a down-home girl. I want kids and a fireplace. But right now

  men are, well, kind of predictable. The men I meet aren’t, you

  know, stars. A star will put me in my place some day. The way

  Costanza does now. I need t’be put in my place. ’ ’

  “ I see.”

  “ But—and I ’m not just saying this—if it wasn’t for Costanza,

  I ’d be turned on by you. You treat me pretty cool. That’s a

  pleasure.”

  “ The strong, silent type.”

  “ You’re a mystery person,” she said. “ There are very few

  mystery people in the world. ’ ’

  So now, of course, I ’m thinking lewd thoughts about Tanya,

  too. She got to me. She put me on her Rolodex.

  SUNDAY, JULY 17

  5 p.m.

  It’s quite domestic here. I sit in my underwear—the radio said

  94 degrees—and write this journal. Berry is across the room,

  on my bed, sewing a G-string. (I booked her as a replacement

  for Graciela tonight.) On TV, the Yanks are losing to Detroit

  late in the second game of a doubleheader. Berry made burgers

  and a very imaginative salad for late lunch. Then she played her

  guitar. (She’s taking a course in music composition at The New

  School.) Her fingering is quite accomplished. And her voice,

  though small, is accurate and graceful. Witty, too. Her ballad

  “ Topless Girl,” sung with a mock country/western twang, goes:

  Her tits a in ’t all homegrown

  Mostly stuffed with silicone

  Yet they’re worth fifty cents apiece

  So stick a dollar to her thigh

  She ’ll manufacture a sweet sigh,

  Aaah, yes, baby, harder, mmmm—

  A nd send you running, running, running

  To your wife.

  (Refrain)

  She’s topless once again,

  The bosom buddy to all men,

  Standing there—fleshing out the night.

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  And, since we got up at noon or so, Berry and I have screwed

  three times. I roar so loudly when I come that I ’m hoarse now:

  there is pained despair in it. And such pleasure. Such shocking

  pleasure.

  Berry woke me twice—I was, she said, arguing in my sleep.

  I don’t remember an argument
. I remember a terrifying moment—though it sounds funny—when I was confronted by all the chickens I had eaten in my lifetime. And an angry bunch

  they were. I presume they represent my sins. Or the people that

  I ’ve hurt. But it was quite distressing. You can put away a lot of

  chicken in 28 years. Imagine them all fluffed up and indignant,

  with sharp TEETH.

  We almost went to church. I wanted to. (I’ve gotta start that

  sermon.) But it seemed to tempt fate—showing up where I might

  be recognized. And then there was the coke. I didn’t want to

  leave it under the sink unsupervised. And the thought of kneeling at an altar rail with (Berry says) at least four ounces of cocaine in my pocket struck me as, I don’t know, blasphemy

  perhaps. So we fucked instead. I like easy answers.

  Ber has remained an Episcopalian and still attends Saint Mat’s

  with her mother and father. Or so she tells me. It may be unfair,

  but I suspect she’s just trying to impress me. My guess is: Berry’s spiritual life is rather pedestrian. (On second thought, I wish mine were more pedestrian.) But, oh, the look of love in her

  bright brown eyes.

  Orgasm is a pretty revealing thing. No wonder John Donne

  compared it to God’s ravishing grace. Men and women spend

  so much time maneuvering (personeuvering?) for control. He’s

  cool. She’s disdainful. But no woman can disdain you when she’s

  coming. (If she comes, and Ber COMES.) It is the nakedness-

  of-nakedness. The vulnerable, shameless, grateful moment. No

  greater gift is there for a man—when a woman presents him

  with the pleasure of her helpless pleasure. God’s love comes that

  way, without reservation . . . have I found a sermon text?

  Do I love Berry? I wonder. I certainly can’t keep my mitts

  off her. It’s a magic moment—we live with so many voluptuous

  images that say DON’T TOUCH—magic when a man first realizes he has permission to be familiar with a woman’s private zones. Without getting slapped, reprimanded or, horrors,

  laughed at. I keep exercising my new license: and, better yet,

  Ber does the same. (Kay would NEVER touch my cock.) Ber

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  went down on me this morning while I was still asleep. “ Just

  to watch it grow,” she said.

  Best of all, we kiss. And kiss. Our mouths are the same size—

  NOTHING in a sensual dynamic is more important than mouth-

  to-mouth ratio. I once dated a bright, sweet girl with a huge

  mouth. She ate half my face when we kissed. Couldn’t get her

  to pucker. Finally it became so distasteful, I picked a fight and

  lit out. But Ber is imaginative and gentle. No tonsil swabber.

  It’s lovely. Restful. We dock like space capsules and orbit, just

  orbit.

  Ber is now in charge of booking—tho’ no one realizes it yet.

  I let her make up the schedule, since Ber knows the women

  better than I do. I may give her some nights behind the bar as

  well—that way I ’ll have at least two employees that I can trust.

  And, of course, I ’ll be able to sidle down the bar every once

  in a while and put my hand on her ass.

  As for my prayer life, I would pray for it, if I had any.

  5:30 a.m.

  It wasn’t cocaine. It was, Joe told me, some kind of French

  laxative—I forget the name—that dealers use to cut cocaine with.

  What should we make of this? They just wanted to scare me?

  They wanted me to stick frog Ex-Lax up my nose? They’re too

  cheap to waste good cocaine on me? What? And who are they?

  (And yet—between you and me—I tried the stuff. It made my

  head buzz. I got high. Am I going crazy?) I wish people would

  stop jerking me around.

  But I did the right thing, going to Joe. He’ll tell the narc

  people. Leonard, apparently, is working at Belle’s in College

  Point, a topless dive owned—GET THIS—by Linese. Have our

  enemies gone into league? Or . . . Or was Leonard on Linese’s

  payroll while he was working here? There is a certain logic to

  that. It would give Linese access to sabotage. Who knows? I ’m

  on my way to the weirdo ward.

  And, at around ten p.m ., I had a really unpleasant confrontation.

  I was seated at the bar watching other men watch Berry (it’s

  more of a turn-on for me than watching Ber direcdy). In fact,

  now that I have an emotional stake in her, it’s hard for me to

  watch Berry dance at all. I mean, her sub-sexual transactions up

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  there—tongue wetting lip, making eye contact, separating her

  buttocks ever so slightly with her hands—I mean they’re very

  persuasive. It’s hard to distinguish them from the gestures that

  I ’m honored with when we’re in bed together. I don’t say Berry’s

  insincere with me. I KNOW she isn’t. But THEY, the men, are

  so completely taken in. They suspend disbelief and—for a moment, at least—think they have been chosen.

  By MY woman. Eatcha heart out, Charlie.

  And, of course, Norm is right. I ’d been to bed with Ber, on

  and off, all day—and still she was separate, a mystery. A spectral

  land of soft curves and interesting nooks. There is no let-up.

  Repression of the male sex urge is a matter of constant vigilance.

  And not worth it.

  I don’t mean that.

  Anyway—throughout my sexual reverie (it was a slow night)

  there was this ruddy-faced, short, white-haired man sitting

  maybe six barstools away. About fifty-five years old. Could be

  sixty. He was keeping us in the black—knocking shots of Wild

  TVnkey down with beer. A practiced drinker. Broken veins all

  over die nose. After his eighth shot in two hours, Connie put

  me on notice that there might be trouble. (We get sad, methodical drinkers on Sunday night.) I wasn’t worried—though something about the guy struck me as familiar.

  Finally he calls Connie over. Tells her he’d like to buy me a

  drink. Connie reports this, and I wave to him and say, “ Don’t

  drink on duty, thanks anyhow. ” And the guy comes toward me,

  off his stool. He’s pretty steady. But there’s an energy around

  him that I ’m not pleased by.

  “ Not even a drink with mel Special occasion.” He touches

  my knee. I don’t care for this intimacy.

  “ Pardon,” I say. “ Have we met?”

  “ No,” he says, “ but somehow I feel like I know you. Prick.”

  “ Ah—” I said. “ I think you’ve had one too many. Connie—

  this gendeman won’t be drinking any more tonight. Not here at

  least.”

  “ No more drinks? Not even for John Watson—whose daughter you killed? Prick.”

  “ You’re Bub—Cherry’s father?”

  “ Yah, I am. Come t’take her poor carcass home. But I hadda

  drop by here and pay my respects—to the place, to the man who

  drove my child t’what she did. ’ ’

  “ Look. I can understand—”

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  “ You have no kids. You can’t understand shit. And this’’—

  he pointed at the stage—“ this sucks. This is an unholy corruption. Not even as honest as being a whore. I curse you for dragging my daughter into this—”

  “ Wait
—hold on. Cherry was a dancer long before I met her. ’ ’

  “ Bullshit. I ’ve read her letters. Detective Daniels showed

  them t’me. They can’t get you on a murder rap—but it was

  murder, nonetheless. You seduced her ’til she was crazed. They

  should castrate you.”

  “ I didn’t touch your daughter—”

  “ That’s not what her letters say. Her letters say you had t’do

  with her. Prick. ’ ’

  “ Then she was fantasizing—”

  “ Come on. I thought you were more of a man, admit it. Why

  would she fantasize? Huh, prick?”

  And I blew. I said:

  “ Because she’d been running away from a shitty childhood

  with an alcoholic father and an alcoholic mother. You got drunk

  so much she never knew who you were. Or who she was. Why

  was your precious 18-year-old daughter in New York, anyway,

  you self-important old sot? Couldn’t ’ve been much fun watching

  Dad stagger around. She had more of a family here in this shit-

  house than she had with you—”

  And he took a swing. Hit me in the sternum and knocked

  me, quite ignominiously, off the bar stool. Berry, thank God,

  came down from the stage, tits flying, and tied Watson up in a

  clinch.

  Whereupon he started to cry on her neck. I took a walk outside and left it to the woman.

  But I was pissed. They seek me out, the angry and the unstable. Maybe some pastoral odor comes off me still. I don’t know.

  Meanwhile, it has become obvious that Cherry’s diary is hot

  stuff. And everyone, certainly Colavecchia and Daniels, is disposed to believe her version, not mine. Not Mike the Prick’s.

  Did Cherry want to hurt me? I never saw that in her. Not once.

  But look how things have turned out.

  Mike. They’ve turned out this way because you live in the

  House of Lies. He’s right—brothels are more honest. Here everything has distortion built into it. Young children who pretend to be femmes fatales. Nudity that is a costume, damn it. Promises sold for a dollar. Colored lights and blaring music. And the stinking haze of alcohol. You wonder there are misconceptions?

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  You wonder that fantasies bloat and take precedence over the

  real?

  Unholy corruption—well put.

  And an unholy corruption that—without drugs and electronic

  poker—is losing money. Think I ’ll replace Salome (her silicone