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Topless
By
Rob Rosen
My friends and I rounded the corner of Broadway at Columbus after having finished a truly stupendous Italian dinner in San Francisco’s famous North Beach district. We were stuffed, yet still full of energy, and decided to cap the night off with a drink or two. And wouldn’t you know it, we were standing directly in front of the historic Condor Club just as we made this decision.
Now, I’d never been in this particular bar before, but I was well aware of why it was indeed historic. San Francisco is the birthplace of television, the martini, and the fortune cookie - just to name a few. But other less, shall we say, noble inventions were created in the city by the bay; namely, topless dancing. The Condor Club happens to have the distinction of being America’s first go-go bar. On June 16th, 1964, Carol Doda appeared atop a white baby grand piano in nothing but a bikini bottom, and an era was born. (I wonder if she had an inkling of just how far the “art form” would come in a mere forty years.)
The Condor Club today is, I’m sure, nothing like it was back then. It’s now a bar, a restaurant, and a nightclub. The go-go booth still resides center stage, but no one goes topless anymore. And still, we ventured in, though there were plenty of topless options just a mere half block away. Proximity, you see, outweighed pruriency.
Anyway, the bar was hopping. Being surrounded by stellar Italian restaurants afforded it a great location. I’m sure the history of the place didn’t hurt none either. And that’s what caught my eye upon entering. The walls were lined with photos of the club’s past. So while my friends went and ordered our drinks, I perused the memorabilia. Ms. Doda, naturally, comprised quite a few of the black and white snapshots. Besides being an innovator in her field, she was also a pioneer in the use of silicon. And it showed. A knockout back then, I wondered what the queen of striptease looked like today. But my reveries were quickly cut short when I spotted one of the photos that was situated mid-wall.
In that picture, for all the world to view, was a face (and body) I wasn’t expecting to see; at least not in a nightclub, and certainly not topless. Though I could have been mistaken. I mean, really, it was forty years and many pounds earlier. Still, the resemblance was uncanny.
“Looks like you’ve seen a ghost,” my friend Marc said, and handed me my drink. I downed it in one fell swoop.
“Yeah, John, you’re white as a sheet. What gives?” added my friend Charles.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Must be something I ate,” I lied and veered them away from the wall to a table on the other side of the club.
The rest of the night went by in a blur, and an alcohol induced one at that. Still, nothing could wipe the horrific image from my rattled brain. Try as I might, I knew it would forever be etched in my memory. And so, I decided to piece together the puzzle of why my grandmother may have been a stripper at the Condor Club back in the sixties. (Oh please, dear Lord, let me be wrong on this one, I thought and prayed.)
***
“Ma,” I said, a few days after my finding, when I was over at my parent’s house for a visit. “Mind if I look at your family albums?”
She looked at me like I was crazy. Normally, she had to force those things on us kids, as well as assorted guests; most notably any and all girlfriends I was crazy enough to bring home with me. “Um, sure, okay,” she said, handing them to me. “Is everything alright?”
“Yep. Just wanted to see something, is all,” I answered, cryptically. Really, I wanted to see if the girl in the picture at the club matched what my Grandmother looked like back then.
I scanned all the albums. They started at her mother’s wedding day and continued to the present. Grandma was a looker, even back then, but she was also quite appropriately dressed in all the photos. Conservatively, I’d even go so far as to say; and not a bathing suit to be seen, topless or otherwise. And though there was a passing resemblance, someone in a wedding gown or a matronly skirt and blouse can hardly be compared to a topless go-go dancer. It’s like that old apples and oranges argument, only with strippers and Grandmothers.
“Um, Ma,” I said, looking up from the albums. “How come there’s no pictures of Grandma before her wedding day?”
My mother looked at me funny, but otherwise gave no indication that she had any idea of what I was getting at. “Well,” she offered. “Cameras weren’t widely owned in her day. Not like today. Most people posed for professionals back then. Like for wedding and baby photos. And Grandma’s family was poor, so her wedding photo might be the earliest one there is of her. I suppose she may have a baby picture of herself somewhere, but not that I’ve ever seen.”
Little did she know that a photo hung in the middle of the wall at the Condor Club that may or may not have been her mother. I’m sure she’d be less than happy about it. Of course, far be it from me to inform her of such a thing, I figured. So I simply let it go. But not before I asked one more pointed question.
“Ma, what did Grandma do before she got married to Grandpa?” I asked.
“Do? What do you mean do?” she asked in return.
“You know. For a job.”
“John, you know that women of her generation rarely worked. And Grandma was only twenty when she married Grandpa, so what could she have done before then? I suppose she helped out around her parent’s house, but other than that, I’d have to say she’s never worked a day in her life. Least not for money.”
Oh to be so naïve, I thought.
***
So, it turned out, the source was to be my only option.
Luckily, Grandma lived nearby and I frequently dropped in to say hello.
“Hi, Gram,” I said from her front porch.
“How much do you need now?” she said, by way of greeting. Okay, fine, I dropped by to say hello usually when I needed money. Guess she knew me pretty well. Now it was my turn to get to know her a bit better.
“Can’t a guy drop by just to say hello to his Grandma?”
“Yes, that would be nice, for a change. Okay, come in. And wipe your shoes off.”
I did as commanded and entered the home that hadn’t changed one iota for as long as I could remember. Neither had Grandma, for that matter. She was, for lack of a better term, grandmotherly, and had always appeared that way to me. She was on the short side. A good twenty pounds heavier than she’d probably like to be. Somewhat wrinkled. And if I had to say so, she was sort of on the pretty side. Kind of like my own mother with an extra twenty years added on. But she definitely didn’t look like a stripper. Then again, I didn’t really know what she looked like, or, for that matter, acted like forty-some-odd years earlier.
Grandma fixed me a sandwich and a glass of milk and sat with me at the kitchen table.
“You’re looking well,” she said and ruffled my hair as I ate.
“You too,” I said and set the sandwich down. “Speaking of which, I was over mom and dad’s the other day and I noticed something funny.”
“Yeah, I told your mom to try some room deodorizer. I think that smell is your father’s socks.”
“No, not that. But I think you’re right on that one. No, mom was forcing me to look at our family photo albums, and I noticed that there weren’t any of you from before you got married. How come?”
Grandma squirmed in her seat and remained silent. She looked down at her orthopedic shoes, her hands, and the table, but not up to me. Instead, she cleared away my plate and started scrubbing it in the sink. Eventually, she said, “Oh, I’m sure there’s a picture of me here or there.”
I knew exactly where, but was biding my time. Instead, I said, “Show me. I’d like to see what you looked like.”
“Why?” she asked, putting the dish on the rack to dry. “I thought you hated family photos.”
“Hate is such a strong word,” I lied, for truly I did hate looking at them. Especially since I’d viewed them all a hundred times before. But there were, I now assumed, some I hadn’t seen.
“Okay,” she said, and left me alone in the kitchen. Five minutes later she reappeared and tentatively handed me another album; one I’d never seen before.
This one was of her family. The one she came from, not the one she produced. All the pictures were ancient and browned from age. I’d only seen her parents in the photograph she had on the mantelpiece. Now there were aunts and uncles and cousins, all from a distant age and a far away land. Grandma was born in Russia. Grandpa in Ireland. It made for a strange mix.
“You were a cute baby,” I said to her, when I’d gotten a few pages into the album.
“Yes, you got that from my side of the family. Be glad you didn’t look like your grandfather when you were born. Your mother might have left you at the hospital.” She grinned at me and handed me a cookie. I accepted it and continued perusing the album.
Mom was right about one thing; Grandma did grow up poor. You could see it in her clothes and the furnishings of her parent’s home. Still, someone had a camera around. And from one page to the next, I watched as my Grandma grew up. And out. The latter pictures were probably the reason my own mom had never seen this particular album.
“Yikes,” I said. “I didn’t know that you…that you were…”
“Such a looker?” Grandma finished my sentence.
“Well, to quote someone from your generation…hubba hubba.”
“Yes, that was the general response I elicited. Back then.”
Of course, I had been right about the girl in the picture at the club and the woman now sitting next to me. There was no denying it. Grandma was a go-go girl. I gulped down my cookie and looked up at her. “Um, Gram, guess where I was the other night?” I asked as she sat down and admired herself in the photos.
“Where’s that, dear?”
“Oh, some bar in North Beach. It’s called the Condor Club. Ever heard of it?”
Grandma stopped looking at the album and looked over at me instead.
“So that’s why you wanted to see these old pictures, huh?” she asked, closing the album. “Well now you know.”
“Does mom know?”
“Heaven forbid,” she said, and grinned. “Though I’d sure like to see her face if she ever found out.”
“It would be more like the back of her head,” I said, with a grin of my own. “Cause she’d be passed out flat on her face.”
We both laughed at that one, but then found ourselves in an uncomfortable silence.
“And Grandpa?” I finally asked to break the quiet.
“Where do you think we met?” She blushed.
“You met Grandpa at a strip club?”
“Well, I assume you’ve been to one. So why not your grandfather?” Now it was my turn to blush. The apple, apparently, didn’t fall too far from the tree, though it did, apparently, skip a generation. “Anyway,” she added. “It wasn’t like those clubs today. It was more burlesque. A show. And not any of that sleazy stuff they have around these days. I was one of the first, you know.”
“To go…um…er…”
“Topless. Yes. You can say it. I’m not ashamed. I needed the money. Actually, my family needed the money. Though they had no idea where I got it from. You know, back then, a poor girl like me had few options. And the money rolled in. Especially once we went topless like that. The tips practically doubled overnight. And we girls had fun. It beat secretarial work by a mile. That Carol Doda sure knew what she was doing. Still does, actually.”
“You still speak to her?”
“Sure I do. We’ve been friends for nearly forty years. She still looks great too. Better than me, unfortunately. And I only worked for six months. Carol reigned for nearly twenty years. Now she owns a lingerie shop on Union Street. She even heads a rock group from time to time. We play canasta together every other week.”
Just then, it hit me: Carol with the big knockers. Of course, why hadn’t I noticed that at the club the other night? Guess the Grandma thing kind of threw me for a loop. “Wait,” I said. “And your friends Marge and Glenda?”
Grandma smiled and nodded. “You should see us when we have a few too many and the music is playing. Then again, maybe you can live without seeing that.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Some things are better left to the imagination.” Though some things are better left out all together, I thought. Yuck, I also thought, but kept it to myself.
“So what do you think about your old Grandma now?” she asked, with an obvious twinkle in her eye.
“Pretty much what I thought of you before, only now I have a great story to tell my own kids. Though next time you ladies are playing canasta, make sure I’m nowhere nearby. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but a live performance might be overkill.”
“Deal,” Grandma said, patting my back.
“I Love you, Gram,” I said and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Same here, kiddo. Same here.”
Copyright © 2005 Rob Rosen
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