10- End of the world
Journal: March 11, 1987
The My Way Lounge is the end of the world, a dark little
place on the far end of Main Avenue in Passaic with a brick front and a simply
sign, changed only once a few years back when someone shifted the door around
in order to modernize. But inside, only the first four feet of the place saw
any change. It still has the same race track overall bar from my first visit
here in the 1970s, fitting into the front like a bullet fitted into the chamber
of a gun.
The back has so much wasted space that you can fit a whole
other bar inside of it, space left over from when the bar still had a stage in
back, and a dance floor, with an more enlightened crowd coming here to listen
to music and dance, not gawk at near naked women the way that we do now.
The stage for these dancers sits inside the oval bar with a well-worn
track down its middle from the countless feet making the countless marches
across its surface. The best view, of course, is along the narrowest sides of
the bar, where the dances come within three or four feet of where we sit on
stool. On most nights, these stools are taken first, dominated by drooling
macho jerks with lusting eyes, clutching-fingered men that want more than just
a look for the money they give in tips.
Last night, I came in early – always a mistake for me. But
it was quiet, and these seats were available.
The latest attraction here is not the dancers, but a
blonde-haired full busted barmaid who manages to upset the usual seating
arrangements, making her side of the stretched-out oval heavier with customers
than the other side. On many nights, she draws more attention than the dancers,
but last night was not the case. It was too quiet for that, filled with
regulars who come here as much for talk as to gawk, choosing the less voluptuous
bar maid on the other side instead.
Me? My attention was fixed on Peggy, a dancer who has become
a familiar figure in my life over the last few months, but someone who I’d seen
longer than that going around the go-go circuit. She even dances from time to
time at the Wall Street go-go bar a half block from my house. But it is here at
the My Way that she started seriously flirting with me, a frustrating flirting
that has left me more than a little confused.
It is hard to guess her age exactly, but I think she is
under 30, partly because of her reaction to the cruel jests some of the other
customers make, claiming she is 35 or older. She hates these as well as any
jest about her weight. She is bigboned with a well-developed chest and
shoulders, and some flab, but nothing ugly or even what you would call pudgy
simply built with all the positive connotations.
One of the bar maids warned me weeks ago not to jest about
her age or weight, saying she’s worried about both, since she is forced to
compete with much younger women. It is hard to keep up with girls 20 or
younger.
Last night, Peggy probed me about both these issues, age and
weight, and I’m still uncertain whether I was being manipulated or not, or
whether I was supposed to make a move on her. Was she testing me to see if I
would get fresh with her? She tried to tell me that her regulars come because
they like her wonderful personality, something that it partly true, although
sometimes I think Peggy is too naïve to be believed, especially in a place like
this.
In this world, it is difficult to distinguish between fake
and real, who is lying and who is telling the truth, everything twisting and
turning, a confusing maze of alternate realities I can make no sense out of.
The previous time, I saw her here, she grabbed my arm
several times, or hit me lightly as punishment for my continue stream of
teasing, the physical contact meaning something to me, but I’m not sure to her.
Last night, I blew thirty bucks buying drinks for her,
myself and the barmaid, inspired, of course, by the continued touching and
hugs. She kept telling me she needed a hug, so I kept giving her some.
But what does it all mean? Was I supposed to advance the
relationship? Or did I somehow blow it? Or is it merely manipulation so I can
keep on buying her drinks?
This last is a stinging indictment of this whole way of
life, part of this world which uses people and then throws them away.
But Peggy is unlike many of the other people I’ve seen here,
someone who isn’t totally self-centered, in love with things beyond these says
such as the New York Giants.
Why she dances here, I still don’t know, since she must make
a good wage as an accountant. She is not like the rest of us losers who come
here to drown our miseries in a little sensual stimulation.
The worst part of last night was waking up this morning with
a hangover, and the upset stomach from the intake of greasy chicken I ingested
while still under the influence.
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