“To be honest,” she said, “I’m a little embarrassed about my father.”
“Because he’s making a living exploiting women, you mean.”
The jukebox was about a decade behind, but I didn’t mind. That was high school and those were good years. Swim team and sock hops. “Just Like Me” was playing.
Squirmingly, she said, “Well, of course, how he makes his money embarrasses me, but...” She sighed, dipping a french fry in catsup. “...he pays my tuition. He pays the rent on my apartment.”
“You’re not in a dorm?”
“No, I’m a senior, and anyway I don’t like roommates. You get assigned somebody and you’re just stuck with them. No, Daddy fixed me up with a new pad near the campus. In many respects he’s been very good to me.”
“But you feel like you’re letting him pay your freight with, what? Dirty money?”
She leaned forward, her expression so earnest it hurt to look at. “Jack, I’m not anti-sex or anything. Where do you think the whole Free Love movement started, but on campus?”
I kind of thought Hugh Hefner started it, and guys like this girl’s uncle just kicked it into inevitable high gear. You can’t get the genie back in the bottle, particularly if it’s Barbara Eden.
But I figured I should keep that to myself.
She was saying, “Our group is accepting of all forms of love, including gay and interracial, any sexual contact that’s adult and consensual. Free Love is about keeping the government out of the bedroom, keeping their grubby hands off sex before marriage, sex in marriage, birth control, abortion, even adultery.”
Right then I was wondering how her group encouraging the government to ban pornography fit into this line of thinking.
She answered without my having to ask: “But what my father and uncle are involved with exploits sexuality in general and women in particular. Do I have to tell you that the Climax Club is a viper’s den of drug addiction and prostitution?”
That word viper suddenly brought to mind those snake-handling religious zealots who shared her feminist group’s aversion to pornography.
I just listened to her go over the party line and enjoyed my burger. It was juicy and the cheese riding it had a nice sharpness, the grilled onions sweet and crunchy. Once again, my fountain Coke was perfect. This was one great town to eat in. She was letting her burger get cold, doing all that talking.
“Jack, we’ve done the research — the vast majority of those girls on stage...”
“Young women,” I corrected.
“...young women on stage,” she said, taking no offense, as if I were being helpful and not a smartass, “have long histories in their short lives of abuse, often of incest. They’ve been raped, going back to their early teens... even before! And it’s left them terribly damaged. They’ve learned to believe that they have nothing to offer but their sexuality. They’re seeking the approval and the shabby love of these grotesque substitute fathers, who toss them lecherous looks and crumpled dollar bills!”
I was working lazily at my fries. “Don’t these screwed-up girls... young women... have a right to make a living, the best they can?”
Her eyes showed white all around. “Not when they’re being exploited!”
“But shouldn’t it be up to them? You want some dessert?”
“No. No, I don’t want dessert.” She was shaking her head. “I’m surprised to hear you talk like that.”
“What’s wrong with dessert?”
“Nothing! I mean, justifying these girls... women... stripping in public, doing obscene gymnastics for the benefit of a bunch of, of drooling cretinous...” She fought to find the word, then came up with the perfect one. “...men!”
“We could share the coconut cream.”
“Oh... oh, all right!”
We ordered one piece, two forks.
“Corrie,” I said, “those men are sad souls, too. They’re just looking for some companionship, and they’re paying top dollar for not much of it.”
“Don’t be silly.”
I kept my voice friendly, not teasing. “Come on. Don’t you have any compassion for some guy who can’t see a pretty girl naked without paying for it? Or who lives a loveless marriage, tied to a woman who doesn’t want sex anymore but still expects her man to haul home a paycheck?”
“That’s sexist drivel. You’re making the women out as the exploiters in the Climax Club equation.”
“In a way they are.”
Her frown had disappointment in it. “I would never have taken you for a misogynist.”
“What’s that?”
“A woman hater.”
I waved that off. “That’s not what I am. What’s the word for thinking all people are shits?”
“...Misanthrope.”
“That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’ve never heard that word before? How is that possible? You seem articulate enough. You do read books, don’t you? From time to time?”
“Sure I do. But words like that don’t turn up all that often in Louis L’Amour and Ian Fleming.”
Or, for that matter, in Climax Magazine.
The pie came. We shared it, as planned. The intimacy was a little awkward but overall nice. The pie itself made life worth living.
She was studying me, trying not to look like it, just sneaking peeks. Finally she asked, “You think all people are terrible?”
“No. There’s decent ones. And the terrible ones usually have some decency left in them. It’s definitely a mixed bag.”
Leaning forward earnestly again, she said, “So then you see what happens in a place like the Climax Club as, what? Understandable, because all people are terrible?”
I met her gaze. “No. I see what goes on there as consensual. And isn’t that what the Free Love Movement is all about?”
She sighed, shook her head. “Those dancers make dates with customers and get paid for sex, Jack. That’s prostitution! It spreads disease and misery and... and...”
“And it’s consensual. The worst thing you can say about what your uncle Max does for a living is that he’s crass.”
“He’s crass, all right! He’s vulgar and crass and... and...” Other diners were starting to look at us a little. The jukebox was playing, “I’m a Believer.”
“Vulgar and crass covers it,” I said. “You and your father are obviously at loggerheads. But what about you and your uncle?”
She seemed to subtly shift gears. “Oh, I’ve always got along fine with Max. He was nice when I was a little girl. Always had candy for me.”
I grinned. “He wasn’t offering it from the back of a van, by any chance?”
She choked on some iced tea. “No, he wasn’t that kind of uncle. He was always funny and nice. Generous with presents and things, and would sit and talk to you like a person. That’s the only thing that makes me kind of feel bad about, you know, demonstrating outside his club.”
“You’ve done that before?”
“Many times.”
“You’re just giving him free advertising on the news, you know.”
“We don’t look at it that way!” She sighed. “But I do feel bad. Still, he always was a redneck, a hick, whereas Daddy went to college and everything.”
I leaned in, really keeping my voice down. “Listen, this security job I’m doing... it involves some serious threats against your uncle.”