my knees.
“ This is yours?”
“ Thanks,” she said. She took the beauty mark and ate it.
“ I ’m Bubbles. Feel like buying me a drink since you didn’t even
tip me one cheesy dollar?”
‘ ‘Oh? I ’m sorry. I ’ve never been in one of these places before.
I didn’t know that tipping was . . . I didn’t mean any disrespect
t’your performance. ’ ’
“ Listen, it’s not that I need the money. Last week I made
fifteen hundred, tax free—working four nights.”
“ Fifteen hundred a week? Doing this?”
“ Well, you don’t really do this.” Bubbles was wearing a
black shortie nightgown. Sheer. She kept positioning herself to
engage my vision frontally. To avoid that I wound up looking
over my own left shoulder. “ I mean, you get on stage and it
kinda happens—like puberty or a rash.”
“ I s e e - ”
“ Look, how’s about I keep you? Huh? Your shoes’re all falling apart. It knocks me over. I mean that grown-up men can be poor. It’s kinda romantic. You could live off me—treat me like,
oh, an end table—and I ’d be happy.”
“ That’s an attractive offer,” I said. I got off my bar stool.
“ But—just so happens—I ’m in the wrong place. Gotta get going.”
“ You sure?”
“ Yeah. I thought this was a restaurant. Nice meeting you.”
And I started to leave then. I did. It’s important for my selfesteem to remember that—no matter what happens from here on in. I was on my way out. The Smoking Car held no particular
attraction for me. I ’m a male, with strong male urges, but I
haven’t much of file voyeur in my makeup. Bubbles didn’t arouse
me: her female—what would I call it?—female pressure, I
guess—that pressure made me feel uncomfortable. Sad. I felt
sad for her. And so I turned to leave The Smoking C a r. . .
But, just then, this early Neanderthal specimen came trudging out of a room in back. His appearance diverted me: six foot five at least, maybe 270 pounds, unshaven and covered with the
24
D. Keith Mano
least artistic tattoos I ’ve ever seen. The kind of person who
curses the way I say my prayers: for spiritual comfort. He was
lugging a Steel Sack that clanked. And, as he made for the rear
exit, one of the elderly customers hailed him.
“ Hey, Leonard. Not so fast. W here’s that forty bucks The
Car owes m e?’’
“ You’ll get it, you’ll get it.”
“ When, Leonard? Who d ’you think you are, Tony Wilson all
of a sudden?” My lungs inhaled for me—aaaah—I didn’t order
a breath. And the name, Tony Wilson, disquieted Leonard, too.
He took a step backward. He clanked toward the man.
“ Fuck Tony Wilson. At least I ’m not all talk and no hard-on
like him .”
“ He was hard enough for Rita. He had her doin’ a maypole
dance.”
“ Tony Wilson can rim me out. If he ever shows up again—”
“ My friend,” I said. It just came out of me.
“ Tony Wilson can—”
“ MY FRIEN D ,” I said again.
“ Yeah?” Leonard glanced over. “ W hat’s your problem?”
“ My problem is Tony Wilson—I don’t like hearing bad things
said about him. ’ ’
“ Tough titty, asshole.”
“ Because I ’m Tony Wilson’s brother, dickhead. And Ethel
sent me here t’run this place.”
A clap of silence. It felt, well, satisfying. But suddenly, irrevocably—more out of macho than fraternal devotion—I had committed myself to The Car. Maybe Ethel hoped something
like this would happen. If so, she has the nerve of a grave robber. •
“ Jesus,” said Pearl. “ Tony’s long-lost brother. I shoulda figured—Ethel told me you were coming by, but I thought she meant later. Lookit that. A spitting image. The apple, as my
mother says, doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“ What is this shit?” Leonard was pouting. Large men who
pout are something less than winsome.
“ Mike Wilson. I ’m gonna be running this joint until Tony
gets back.”
“ Run? You got experience in this line of work?”
“ No. I ’m hoping you’ll break me in. I figure it’s not like
nuclear physics.”
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25
summer—right Pearl?—people are away, things’re always slow
in summer. I can’t make customers come in. We don’t advertise
on cable or nothin’.”
‘‘Ethel just wants me t’help out, that’s all. She figured, with
Tony gone, you must be overworked.” I was being diplomatic.
‘‘Yeah?” Leonard considered that. ‘‘Okay, sure, I am .” He
reached behind the bar and tossed me a large, page-loose black
notebook. ‘‘Tony always hired the girls. Now it’s your job. We’re
booked through June, but y’never know who’s gonna come down
with a bleeding ovary or an audition for the lead in Phantom o f
the Opera. Ha-ha. You handle their lives. I ’m sick of it.”
“ Well, I ’m not sure I ’m the best qualified t’choose—”
“ You’re a guy, aren’t you? If she strips on stage and doesn’t
fall down and you get homy, hire her. Pearl’ll tell you which
ones are on heroin or under 14. ”
“ I ’ll help, don’t worry, boychik.”
Doris, one of the Silicone Sisters (so named because, well,
guess . . .) yelled down from onstage, “ You look like Tony—is
your cock big as his?”
“ I—I ’m not sure—”
“ You don’t know how long your cock is?”
“ I mean, I ’m not sure I—”
“ His was eight inches, with a dogleg to the left.”
This will be the hardest part—the language (verbal and physical). I ’m bound to come off looking like an uptight prig. And I can’t meet eyes (or breasts). Offstage, the women saunter around
in revealing gear—if there are two or three of them, I spend so
much time averting my gaze that I get dizzy. I ended up staring
at my broken shoe a lot.
This, unfortunately, makes me seem “ shy.” And shy—
wouldn’t you know—is going to make me attractive. If I draped
myself all over these girls, if I groped them, they’d run away.
Instead, as Bubbles hinted, I ’m some sort of a challenge. They
don’t know I ’m a priest, but—in this ambiance—I have the sensibility of one. They’ll probably all want to seduce me. Or at least “ bring me out.”
Pearl introduced me to the regulars—one is a mattress salesman, one a retired homicide detective, one something else. Then I went behind the bar and drew myself a Coke. It was my first
act of ownership. I reached into what looked like an ice drawer
and out popped a tabby cat. This cheered me up: I ’m a whiz
26
D. Keith Mano
with cats. I know just where to tap them behind the tail for
maximum good feeling. Cats’ll walk a mile to be tapped by me.
“ His name is Lazarus,” Pearl said. “ He was locked in here
when the old owner got shut down. He survived on tap beer and
pretzels. How’s Ethel doing?”
“ Pretty good. Frankly, I don�
��t know her all that well. W ho’s
Rita?”
“ A girl.”
“ Yes. I ’d guessed that. Is she missing, too?”
“ She’s been out three shifts. But maybe she’s back home in
Puerto Rico. Or taking a trip t’Maine. On that stage, ladies and
gentlemen, you’ll find the least responsible women in the
world.”
“ Were she and my brother—you know?”
“ They call me Pearl because the clam kept his big mouth
shut when he was making me. I ’ll keep quiet about your business, to o .”
“ Okay.”
“ Now you’re taking over—you got any changes in mind?”
“ The ravioli has to go—it looks awful. Who makes it?”
“ My mother. The guys love my mother’s ravioli. I ’ve trained
them. Besides, what’s a drunk know about taste? Lunch is
poured around here. ’ ’
“ Your mother? How old is she?”
“ Don’t ask.”
“ The ravioli is fine, I guess.”
“ Well, frankly it tastes like toasted Modess. Maybe it’d have
a little nip if you blessed it. ’ ’
“ Bless?”
“ Tony said, you know—in Nebraska you were with some
kinda church. ”
“ Good God, does anyone else know?”
“ I don’t think so. With me your secret is safe.”
“ Please. I ’m dead if anyone from the diocese finds out. Dead. ’ ’
“ Start growing a mustache.”
“ Maybe I w ill.”
I have.
I ’m here with Amy’s dolls at 2 a.m. Tomorrow I move to a
furnished one bedroom apartment near The Car. I ’m subletting
from a friend of Pearl’s who has gone to Colorado for the summer. I haven’t resisted any of this very much, have I?
TOPLESS
27
I tried. I had it out with Ethel as soon as I got back—which
was a mistake. I should’ve let her put the kids in bed first. It’s
kinda hard to yell teal loud at a nursing mother. According to
Ethel, despite the cars and the swimming pool, matters do not
proceed well. Tony is in hock to his eye sockets—there are two
mortgages, plus some outstanding “ loans” from backers that’re
overdue. Ethel showed me check stubs and agreements—most
of which I didn’t understand.
“ Still, you should’ve told m e,” I said. It came out sounding
petulant and not grown-up. “ You shouldn’t’ve let me walk into
a topless bar unprepared.”
“ You’re a man of the world, aren’t you?”
“ That’s the whole point—I ’m supposed t’be a man out of the
world. Listen, I told my girlfriend, Kay, she could come have a
meal in the restaurant I was managing. Now, what do I do?
You’re asking me t’risk my vocation and my love life.”
“ Yes? These children are your blood. This is all they have—
I apologize for the sordidness of it. I wish I was asking you
t’run, I don’t know, a florist’s shop maybe. But that’s where it
is. I ’m a mother. I get ruthless when I haveta protect my children. And Tony’s your brother. He put you through seminary.
That topless bar you’re so fastidious about made you a priest.”
“ Well, where is Tony?”
“ I don’t know.” Ethel started to cry. I felt crummy. “ Mike.
They’ll understand. And it’s a business, that’s all. We run it
clean. Men come in t’have drinks and watch women dance. It’s
not a whorehouse. Tony never stood for any hanky-panky.”
“ All right. For a little while. Just till he gets back.”
The kids marched in then—all those who were old enough to
march. And they also started to cry: a kind of enthusiasm for
tears set in. I rubbed my upper lip to hurry the mustache along.
I needed a whole, new wardrobe. Amy had already asked me
what BOSTON SUCKS meant.
“ Do you know a girl named Rita?” I said. Ethel looked up.
‘ ‘I know two at least. Which one? Rita G or Rita the Hawk?”
“ I ’m not sure.”
“ Listen—take my advice. Don’t get involved with any of
them.”
“ I ’m not getting involved. You can bet I ’m not getting involved.”
“ They can be very attractive. They can be a lot of fun. But,
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D. Keith Mono
take my wont for i t . . . there’s always a little something wrong
with a topless dancer.”
FRIDAY, JUNE 24
Why am I here? What dark urge am I making room for? Or is
this a chance to surprise and conquer grace? If there is a divinity
that shapes our ends—and it is on that premise that I have charted
my life—then my adventure with The Smoking Car is meant to
prove something, I think. Certainly I ’m jeopardizing, not only
my insignificant career, but my relationship to God. Not that
He wouldn’t forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive Him for my own
failure. I would run from Him out of shame.
Women.
I have unfinished business with women. And it is angry business. You walk down the street here, and they come along—one after another—beautiful, lascivious, with a YOU CAN’T HAVE
ME sign on. It’s my imagination, I know, I ’m attributing motives to them out of standard male paranoia, but I feel it. So now, here. I ’m going to withhold from them. YOU CAN’T
HAVE ME.
They better want me. And God better endure my little game—
because I gave up my promising career as a rogue male for Him
and for Kay. So there.
I suppose this all has something to do with Mother. She lies,
in my memory, framed by the door of her bedroom. Which
threshold I was not permitted to cross. Her room contained, you
know, “ women’s things.” In my childhood I imagined those
things to be delicate and sharp instruments. Femininity and convalescence are associated in my mind. The allergies Mother had, I know, were real enough. But they were also an excuse to
avoid the men in her life. And to drink. “ Let it go for now,”
she’d say, no matter what my need was. “ Let it go for now—
your mother isn’t feeling well?” They aren’t sure—the crash ran
my mother and father together, made them one—they aren’t
sure, but I guess Mom was driving the Chevy that night. YOU
CAN’T HAVE ME. No matter what you do.
And then there was Amanda . . .
All this is a preface to My First Full Day Running a Topless
Bar.
TOPLESS
29
The Car is very low tech and comfy—sort of like a lower
middle class paneled playroom. Directly opposite the bar is a
stage that consists of a trapezoidal platform, about three feet
high, covered with gritty, worn red indoor-outdoor carpet. The
wall behind the stage is sheeted over with mirroring. To the left
of the stage (as you look from the bar) there’s a folding table
with cold cuts and bread on it. (Lunch is free from noon to three
o’clock.) Also the famous afterbirth-like ravioli. On the right is
a jukebox, where, for free, the girls punch in dance music.
There are flashing colored lights and some modest strobe
effects above the stage—and two poles, such as you’d see on a
carousel. The trapez
e hangs down between them.
Looking sharp left, to the rear of the joint, still sitting at die
bar, you see a passage that leads back to the men’s room (right)
and to an office slash kitchen area (left). Beyond the kitchen is
a back door that leads out to a small yard with one aged tree of
paradise in it and some old Coke coolers. In that direction,
behind the bar, there is a trap door and wooden staircase that
lead down to the basement. The women’s locker room is to the
left of the stage, behind the ravioli table.
The bar has about twenty stools. Besides those, there are at
least fifteen tables around die stage. I guess the place can seat
sixty or seventy. Not much light enters. The railroad windows
are heavily curtained. This makes The Car seem isolated in time
and space. Photosynthesis does not take place.
It’s surreal. The music roars and bangs, so loud it’s impossible to communicate sense. Disco lights spark and flicker in the 24-hour darkness. Tonight, around 1 a.m ., it was SRO. Maybe
100-120 men in The Car. Men who represent five million years
of evolution. Men, most of them with families, staring up at
these icons—because that’s what the female figure is to them: a
symbol, a device one might use in hypnosis. And they stare
hour after hour: for each man, the dancer moves only in his
honor. This, I have to remind myself, was my brother’s line of
work.
Leonard came in at noon. (The Car is open from 11:45 a.m.
to 4:00 a.m.) His formal hours are 8 p.m.to 4 a.m ., but—this
Leonard made a point of mentioning—he’s often in mornings
and afternoons, to help load inventory or handle special problems. He fixed a pipe under the sink in the girls’ locker room last week. A plumber, Leonard says, would’ve run us a great
deal more.
30
D. Keith Mono
He introduced me to Jako, who comes in around 8 a.m . to
clean die joint. Jako is an absolutely credulous black, about six
foot tall and 120 lbs. Thin. His hair smoothed back with grease,
like old photos of Sugar Ray Robinson. Obviously a drinker, if
not something worse—but with a sunny disposition and a propensity for saying “ That so? Ma-an!” on hearing the most trivial piece of information. Jako is fascinated by the resemblance between me and Tony. Keeps saying, “ You lose weight, Boss?”