D. Keith Mano
FAWCETT CREST
NEW YORK
Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this
book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as
‘ ‘unsold or destroyed’ ’ and neither the author nor the publisher may
have received payment for it.
A Fawcett Crest Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1991 by D. Keith Mano
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House,
Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House
of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-52890
ISBN 0-449-22165-2
This edition published by arrangement with Random House, Inc.
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Ballantine Books Edition: December 1992
This book is for Laurie Kennedy
My private dancer, my wife—
And the best actress anywhere.
. . . And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from
thee: it is better for thee to enter into life with one eye, rather
than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire.
Matthew 18:9
Acknowledgments
As far as I can determine, there has not yet been a thorough
sociological study of the topless dance industry. Films and novels have touched on this world, a scene here, a chapter there, but no medium has yet given topless due credit as an important
subculture, which employs thousands of men and women from
all social classes coast to coast. It is, to say the least, an intriguing enterprise. Any field in which average-looking 19-year-old girls can earn $1500 per weekrax freeyast for dancing seminude
(I have never heard of a dancer-prostitute) is likely to hold some
interest.
Topless is wholly fictional. And it certainly doesn’t pretend
to be an exhaustive academic review. But the mechanics of the
industry, as presented here, are accurate—at least for New York.
And I have tried to represent—in microcosm anyway—the enormous diversity of the women who have been attracted to topless.
The addict and the working mother. The unstable girl-child who
would be sleeping on a subway grate if it weren’t for topless.
The college grad, who paid her medical school tuition in three
summers of dancing. They are all here: their stories are composites, of course, but they are composed of fact.
I would particularly like to thank John Rezek, my editor at
Playboy, for suggesting that I research the topless game. The
articles we planned in 1982, and later in 1984 and 1985, were
never written—for reasons of timing, the magazine’s and mine.
But, during that period, I taped perhaps two hundred interviews
in at least twenty-five bars—interviews with bouncers and owners and, of course, customers and girls. In 1988 the fictional plot line for Topless surfaced through that ocean of authentic
detail.
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xii
Acknowledgments
I would like, naturally enough, to acknowledge and thank the
women who told me their stories. But they prefer anonymity and
would not, I suspect, appreciate a public expression of gratitude.
They work under improbable aliases. When I refer to Apache
and Shower and Taffeta and Blaze, I mean to mention them all
in those names.
To one young lady, P .J., I am, however, especially indebted.
She took me through the business end of topless step by step—
from liquor invoice to liability insurance. P.J. is one of the few
women I know with chutzpah enough to rise from topless dancer
to topless owner. If you’re on Queeris Boulevard near 49th Street
some night, stop in at Honey’s, the friendliest, raunchiest topless
joint in New York, and have a drink.
Finally, this book would never have been undertaken without
the bright assistance of Erin C. Martz and Helen Broady, who
construed my handwriting and brought me, albeit vicariously,
into the computer age.
PART ONE
THURSDAY, JUNE 16
Tip of my shoe just snapped off. Cracked like an eggshell. I
caught it on the step running up to my room. Comes of buying
linoleum mail-order shoes. Now what do I do?
All I have is my scuzzy Adidases, which won’t do for Sunday
service.
Borrow, borrow, borrow. I owe cash to six different people—
and the Rev., his righteousness, Schantz has caught on. Indebtedness is not becoming for a young assistant just ordained. But whadda they expect on $115 take-home?
You buy too many books. And dinners out.
What else happened? Or is this another day distinguished
only by a broken shoe, poverty and Nebraskan sunstroke?
Had lunch with Kay at The Plough. Played tennis afterward
so I wouldn’t think of her carnally. Getting so that I ’ve become
a great physical specimen, just in an effort to circumvent lust.
Did you ever notice how everything—except maybe a pizza
oven—looks like a woman? There are hills here that remind me
of buttocks—and the S-curve sign looks like BEWARE: CEN
TERFOLD AHEAD.
This diary, methinks, will not threaten George Bemanos
much. Just bare jottings—never enough time.
Also—writing good is hard.
Tomorrow is, groan, the penny social. My assignment. The
most important ceremonial act in the Episcopal Church is the
folding and unfolding of folding chairs.
Damn air conditioner just iced over again. Lord Jesus, are
you running with me? Or did you take a cab?
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D. Keith Mano
FRIDAY, JUNE 17
Getting just a touch claustrophobic around here. I never would’ve
come to St. M ark’s if I ’d known the assistant had to live over
the rectory. This morning, from my window, I saw Schantz
picking through my garbage. Like an animal biologist, studying
the feces of some disreputable species. Came up with eight beer
cans, which he stacked. I ’ve gotta be careful with what I drink.
And write.
H e’s an OK guy, still believes in the Ptolemaic system. I think
he had a low birth weight, something’s not sparking up there.
So serious—yesterday, just kidding, I said what the Episcopal
church needed was carbonated holy water. Pick up the image.
Classic and diet. He says, “ Well, I don’t care how they do it in
New York. ’ ’ I pray for his sense of humor. He’s half patronizing
around me, half insecure. He doesn’t read much. Son of a
farmer, gave it up to follow Jesus. Now, with the drought and
all, he’s doing a lot better than his congregation—and he feels
guilty about it.
Also, the folks from McLane AFB tend to call on me, more
than him—if they can get away with it. They’re a redneck crew,
like the farm folk, but they’re rednecks who’ve been around.
They tend to see the places
they live in from 37,000 feet up, so
to speak. Just passing through, M a’am. Sergeant Clough was
telling me about Bangkok the other day, wanted to see if I ’d
blush—I didn’t. He could never’ve talked that way to Schantzy.
Kay thinks I shouldn’t take pride in being one of the boys. In
having been around.
Truth is: I shouldn’t have told her about Amanda. At lunch
yesterday, Kay said she was afraid of being overwhelmed by my
sexuality. Not a major chance of that. Two months have gone
by since last we “ made daisies,” as Katy calls it. (I love that
kind of dirty language.) And not just because we lack opportunity. I feel her edging away. Met her in the malt shop this afternoon (it is actually called The Malt Shop), and, believe it
or not, Kay covered her marvelous knockers with a straw pock-
etbook. God forbid she should be accused of leading me on.
Little does Kay know this bashful innocence is titillating. Her
eyes are so big and blue and wet—especially behind those thick
¿asses—that she resembles some kind of sacrificial animal. I
think I scared her the two-and-a-half times we made it. And
maybe hurt her. I was flaunting my male ardor. I roared so loud
5
in the field that a cow answered. Moooo? It was stupid of me.
I should’ve been gentle, but sometimes I can’t pull it off that
way. I need hard strokes.
Maybe I should tell Kay she’s only the third woman I ’ve had.
Nah.
If Schantz finds this book, I ’ll be folding and unfolding chairs
for a congregation made up entirely of polar bears and caribou.
Lord, I miss New York.
Lekachman is burnt out. I stood on Main Street and there
were water mirages all around. I was islanded by them. I don’t
understand growing things, but the fields seem to wail at night,
when I drive by. The folk look punch-drunk, they won’t even
glance up at the sky any more. Been disappointed too often.
Such dependence on nature seems absurd. Where I come from,
when there’s a drought, you open a fire hydrant.
My orbit is decaying here. Everyone guesses that, and they’re
watching me. Well, I won’t crack. I know this is a test. Betty
Schantz keeps asking if I ’m homesick.
If I had a home, I might be.
Penny social grossed $566.57. Glad I ’ve made my contribution to the triumphant progress of the Holy Spirit in Middle America.
SATURDAY, JUNE 18
The heat has made everyone in Lekachman just a tad swoony.
This, of course, embarrasses them no end—they’re all so proper
otherwise.
Lois Baxter pinched my butt on the tennis court. Did it before
she realized what she was doing. Then she stared around like a
pickpocket, hoping no one had seen her. Then she glared at me
and said,
“ Don’t get any funny ideas.’’
“ About what?” I asked.
“ I love Tim,” she says.
“ I ’m glad.”
“ He’ll be fifty-six tomorrow.”
“ He looks great.”
“ You think so? What do you weigh?”
“ Hundred-fifty, fifty-five something.”
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D. Keith Mono
“ He had legs like yours once. All covered with dark hair.
Like little bedsprings.”
“ Like bedsprings?”
“ Coiled. Don’t get any funny ideas.”
Swoony, like all of a sudden living their comball fantasy lives
right on the surface. Just what I need, an affair with the junior
warden’s wife. Who holds my car loan. But she is sexy—brown
like a moussaka, I mean her skin’s so touchable, soft. Muscles
in her calves, like apples in a Christmas stocking. And me, I ’m
in season. Everyone figures you can flirt with the young assistant—he’s harmless. Baxter himself said kiddingly, “ Hired you f ’yer looks, makes a difference. Get more ladies in the congregation that way.” Waal, yup. Bunch of hypocrites, selling sex appeal. His wife pinches my ass, and I better not get any funny
ideas.
Kay threw herself into my arms this afternoon—like I was a
storm cellar or something. Then she pulled away—snap, j e r k -
censoring herself again. Most of all Kay doesn’t want me to
think she’s a cocktease. Believe me, I ’d prefer a good, old-
fashioned blue-ball cocktease to this formal, hand-holding relationship—especially since we've already made love. It’s as if our relationship was going backwards, becoming more distant.
If I get to know her much better we won’t be talking at all.
“ Give me tim e,” she says. “ You won’t regret it. I ’ll get
there.”
She sure is taking the local train.
Kay loves me, she says. She’ll always be there for me—just
don’t touch, not now. I believe her: the thought of her loyalty
and strength is comforting. But she also resents the fact that I
seduced her: the priest-me, he betrayed her. Took advantage of
his office.
I just wanna get laid!!!
Well, it’s not as simple as that, Miko. Not so simple.
We were taking the eucharist out to Mrs. Myrdahl on Omaha
Road. The old lady is lying flat under a sheet. Let her homy feet
pipe bowl, on each of her big toes. And the big toes themselves
were bent UNDER the other four. How she walked a lifetime
I ’ll never know.
TOPLESS
7
But she wore lipstick—Magda, her sister, had slapped some
on. The priest is a man, after all.
It was a beautiful service, though: the sun shone through a
beaded curtain that made like a witch ball, scattering little pinpoints of light when the wind blew. And I was particularly concentrated—Kay helps me there, her faith is so clear. I didn’t intone or try to sound like God, the way sometimes I do on the
big stage. I just said the words. I know it was good, because I
feel dizzy, tired now. It’s like giving up coffee, a good communion is. All the poisons come out. And make me feel sick.
But there was a perturbing moment. When I said, “ Take,
eat,’’ and leaned down, Bertha closed her mouth and shook her
head. I get closer, and I hear her saying, “ No. No. I ’m on a
diet.”
Well, they don’t teach you about moments like this at seminary. I thought, It’s the heat. Also, she’s got stomach cancer, which can kill your appetite. Or the morphine’s got her. Or she’s
just plain crazy.
Meanwhile her mouth wasn’t opening.
“ It’s just a wafer,” I said. “ Put it on your tongue and let it
m elt.”
No. She’s smiling at me, but no . . . And I want to get it in
her, this might be her last conscious communion.
“ I still have a nice figure,” she says.
“ I ’m sure you do,” I say. “ But, Bertha, just between you
and me, this has no calories. It’s a symbol.”
Aha. It’s okay to eat a symbol, it isn’t real. Bertha opens her
mouth and I pop it in. So I lied. There may not be even a quarter
calorie there, but it is food. Real food and real spirit. I don’t
like the wafer, practical as it might be. Makes the sacrament
look like
pre-packaged magic. Give me fresh-baked bread. Even
if crumbs of God are lost.
When I leaned over to say goodbye, Bertha asked, “ Is the
carriage ready?” Someone from the early twentieth century,
waiting to escort her home.
She was as dry and fretful as the fields of stunted com around
us. We all need moisture.
I kept my hand on Kay’s knee all the way back to Lekachman.
An assertion. And she accepted it.
Of course, the subject of our screenplays came up again—
deadlock. We discuss plot and character, but she won’t show
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D. Keith Mono
me her first draft, and I won’t show her mine. We’re both afraid
the other’s will be better, I guess. Which better be the case. I
mean, if we’re both writing at the same le v e l. . . well, it’s hard
to figure there’d be two geniuses in Lekachman, Nebraska. At
the same moment in history. Two nicely matched mediocrities,
more like.
As for Schantzy—this morning he decided I should teach a
senior citizen Bible class—yes, on top of the young people’s
class (both of them), the teen class, the counseling program at
the air base, the parish survey, penny socials and you name it.
This is too much. PRIEST GOES ON STRIKE.
On top of that, Schantzy had me mixing cement for his new
patio—which, actually, I prefer to teaching Bible classes. He felt
guilty about it, though, I could see that. The congregation didn’t
hire me as his personal handyman and indentured servant. Even
brought me out a beer to show his big-heartedness.
And (this is how crazy things are), in the middle of it all,
Schantzy says, “ Let’s arm w restle.” And I think, “ Oh, no—
here comes a big moral dilem m a.” Just as I figured, I ’m much
stronger than he (though he’s bigger), and he’s CHEATING,
using his whole body for leverage. And I ’m maintaining our
balance—wondering whether to crush him (and make our relationship even more distant) or take a dive—when out pops Mrs.
Schantz. Now this isn’t your typical Christian scene—two macho clergymen grunting at each other. We’re both sheepish—so we both quit pushing AT THE SAME TIME. And we both
almost fall over, from the sudden lack of resistance. There we