Early Glimmerings

1980. TJ's Pub
""""""""""""""

The preppiest frat-bar in Hookville, home of the nation's preppiest
public university. By 10:00 each night, the place is totally Biffed out,
wall-to-wall Topsiders and L.L. Bean, boys buttoned-down and khakied,
girls in wrap-around skirts in those floral prints usually found only on
dinette upholstery in travel trailers....

Distinctly unpreppy Mazoola is a regular, for three distinctly unpreppy
reasons: jalapeņo-loaded nachos; bucket-sized salads for $3.50; and Mike
and Terry, the dueling bodhisattvas of Missile Command, capable of
lowering per-hour, per-machine revenue to under $2. Maz's ritual is to
arrive shortly after opening, grab supper, and hang in the corner
video-geeking until either a couple of bucks had been spent or the press
of well-groomed, sexually predatory WASPs sends him screaming into the
night.

One night, 10 o'clock finds TJ's even more crowded than usual. Maz
figures it's some sort of theme evening: Lacoste Appreciation Day;
Pledge Week Revels; the Trust-Fund Smoker. Muttering darkly, he slides a
little closer to the game console, moves his nachos a little further
away from traffic.

At 10:30, there's a commotion. A half-dozen women, all waitresses or
bartenders in the pub, step out from the office in heels, wigs, cocktail
dresses. Alien missiles wipe out Maz's remaining cities as he watches a
little blonde being lifted onto the table near him. She's beautiful--on
many a night has Maz sat and soulfully gazed upon her as she tends
bar--she's scared, and she's more than a little bit drunk.

The scene repeats itself across the room. Something vaguely thumping
comes on the jukebox. The dancers start their wobbly undulation. And as
our hero watches, open-mouthed, they begin to disrobe.

Guerrilla theater? Mass hysteria? Some hither-to-secret mating ritual of
the congenitally well-off?

Maz frantically casts about for some clue as to what the fuck is going
on; if it's the latter, he definitely plans to be out of there before
they get to the part where they pluck out the eyes of the unworthy.
Fortunately, he finds enlightenment in the form of a Xeroxed flyer
tacked to the wall directly behind the most beautiful, most wobbly of
bartenders: Tonight's a benefit for charity; all tips collected by the
dancers will go to the March of Dimes.

Above the heads of cheering fratboys the six goddesses writhe and
beckon. By now, they're down to lacy brassieres, garter belts,
thigh-highs. Maz is already light-headed, breathing shallowly, when he
notices something even more unbelievable: When a patron steps up and
tucks a dollar into the dancer's garter, she kisses him. And not a quick
thank-you peck on the cheek, either: We're talking hot, steamy,
tongue-in-the-mouth-and-eyes-closed kissing.

A dollar and thirty seconds later, Maz is wearing most of the little
blonde's lipstick and learned that she's a Bacardi fan. He stands before
her, stupefied, transfixed by the way her thighs gleam as they rise
above her stocking-tops--just like they do in magazine layouts!--before
being shoved out of the way by her next admirer.

"Three more songs!" someone calls, and Maz dives to the bar, waving a
$20 bill over his head. "Change!" he cries, "I need change!"

She's so beautiful--so scared and beautiful. What must it feel like to
be up there, Maz wonders, so exposed and terrified... but at the same
time the absolute center of attention? No brassy, pneumatic blonde,
she's more of a quiet type, with languid, sleepy eyes and a crooked,
quick little smile. It's a look that Maz naively presumes must appeal
only to those with higher, more refined tastes--fortuitously enough,
people much like himself.

But tonight, she's overwhelmed with admirers, pin-striped phalanxes of
Izod-clad worshipers, each bearing their crumpled tribute. And
determinedly she takes them all on, with only an occasional pause to
wipe her mouth, straighten her wig, tug up a stocking.

Maz makes it through the line three more times before the last song
starts. He has committed to memory the smell of her makeup; the taste of
her liquor; the size, shape, and relative sharpness of each of her
teeth; the slightly trembling solidity of her back and shoulders in his
hands; and the absolutely unparalleled touch of his fingers upon the
inch of warm, bare skin between stocking and garter. Desperately,
despairingly, he scribbles his name and number on a scrap of paper,
folds it into his last $10, and forces his way to her feet.

They're still kissing as the final chorus fades away. Pulling back with
a jerk, she looks up. With no music, all that's left is a bar-load of
yelling, jeering pre-law students. Quickly, she slips off the table,
grabs her clothes, and darts back into the office. Maz drops the last of
his quarters into the game and nurses his beer, but she never reappears.

Several weeks later, after making high score on Red Baron, he thumbs the
trigger button to enter his initials: "M" "A" "Z". Behind him, the day
bartender exclaims: "You're Maz? Hey, Nancy," he calls, "here's the guy
who wrote you that note!"

Smiling, the waitress comes over. She's a pleasant-enough red-head...
but she's not *her*. "Wow, thanks for the kind words," she says, "it was
really flattering. I would've come looking for you that night, but I
must've dropped the note when I was opening my tips. I found it in my
stuff when I got home that night."

Maz smiles, says something nice. Over the waitress's shoulder, he sees
the night bartender--*his* bartender--come on duty. She looks at him,
blinks, looks away.