Thomas Pynchon - Bleeding Edge

Stu Gotz is sitting in his office, with a cigarette in one hand and a paper cup of something ambiguous in the other. Soon the cigarette will be in the cup. He runs a lengthy O-O. “You want to audition, MILF night is Tuesdays, come back then.”

“Tuesday’s my Tupperware party.”

Drawing a thoughtful leer. “Then again, if you want to give it a shot right now…”

“This is more like an investigation I’m on? I need to locate one of your regular customers.”

“Wait, you’re a cop?”

“Not exactly, more like an accountant?”

“Well, don’t let this family-type atmosphere fool you into thinking I know every one of them out there by name. Which I do, but it’s like all the same name? Loser?”

“Wow. Some way to talk about your client base.”

“Laid-off geeks who are more comfortable, hope I don’t offend, jerking off in front of a screen than anything more real-life? Sorry if I don’t get too sympathetic. Please, go on ahead, see for yourself, find a outfit, you’re a what? a 2, maybe? Don’ worry, some’n’ll fit yiz.”

Now, Maxine hasn’t been a size 2 since back when a 2 was really a 2, instead of the current definition, which, for purposes of commerce, can run up to what used to be known as a 16. And beyond. To her credit, she does not blurt thanks for the pleasantry but shrugging begins to look through the contents of a beat-up armoire against the wall, full of somebody’s notion of glamorous lingerie, outfits of subcultural interest—nun, schoolgirl, warrior princess—and spike heels, each pair more, you would have to say, alluring, than the last, not designer footwear exactly, maybe more in the Payless range, the sort of shoes that get podiatrists to daydreaming of Ferraris and personal golf lessons from Tiger Woods.

She settles on platform heels in neon aqua, plus matching sequined thong leotard and thigh-high stockings. Just the ticket, except… “Oh, Mr. Gotz?”

“Dry-cleaned and disinfected, my darling, my personal guarantee.” Somehow not reassured, leaving her pantyhose on, she slides into the alluring getup, and after a few contemplative breaths, sashays out through a curtain of faux Swarovski crystals into the massively air-conditioned, high-decibel dimness of the Joie de Beavre. Two or three girls are spaced along the bar, massaging their pussies, staring semi-stoned into the distance. There appears to be a pole free, and Maxine heads for it, since oddly enough she does happen to know a couple of moves, thanks to a gym she works out at now and then, Body and Pole, far below 14th Street, down in cutting-edge country where pole dancing is already part of the exercise vernacular, though back on the Upper West Side it’s still considered by many—well, by Heidi—to be fatally disreputable.

“Pitiful, thwarted Maxi, why not invest in a vibrator, I’m told there are several on the market that might do the trick even for you.”

“Uptight, judgmental Heidi, why not come down some night yourself, give that pole a try, maybe rediscover your inner good-time girl.”

Maxine’s plan is to improvise a MILF-night routine while scanning faces and hoping for a match with Eric’s license photo. According to Reg, owing to various Eric-conspiracy issues—some geek thing—the young computer whiz has shaved off the mustache in his official mug shot, but so far kept the same hair color.

She makes a point of taking from her purse a dispenser of Handi Wipes and with housewifely thoroughness disinfecting the pole, slowly fondling it up and down while casting demure glances along the bar. Their skins in the spill from this fluorescent indigo lighting register the same pallid hue, as if permanently stained from too much cathode radiation.

Considerately, Stu Gotz, or somebody, has put on a MILF-night mix, which includes a lot of disco, plus tracks from U2, Guns N’ Roses, Journey. And pandering to this crowd, way too much Moby for Maxine’s taste, except possibly “That’s When I Reach for My Revolver.”

Maxine’s never had what you’d call Big Tits, although the connoisseurs here don’t seem to mind as long as they’re Bare Tits. The one body part they won’t be staring at much is her eyes. This Male Gaze she’s been hearing about since high school is not about to intersect its female counterpart anytime soon.

In the course of a dance routine somewhere between vanilla and cherry ripple, including leg hangs, helical descents, upside-down humping of the pole and so forth, Maxine notices this one party out on a remote curve of the bar, drinking you’d say relentlessly what will prove to be Jägermeister and 151, through a Day-Glo straw out of a twenty-ounce convenience-store cup he has brought in with him, and showing no signs of alcohol poisoning, which could mean either unnatural immunity or unreachable despair. She undulates over for a closer look, and sure enough it’s him, Eric Jeffrey Outfield, übergeek, looking, except for the bare upper lip and a newly acquired soul patch, just like his ID photo. He is wearing cargo pants in a camo print whose color scheme is intended for some combat zone very remote, if not off-planet, and a T-shirt announcing, in Helvetica,

REAL GEEKS USE COMMAND PROMPTS

About then on comes Jamiroquai’s “Canned Heat,” whose bass line Maxine has never found a way to resist, and seized in some post-disco swoon she forgets temporarily what she’s come here for, ignores the pole, and succumbs to just dancing, and by the time the music has segued into “Cosmic Girl,” she’s squatting on the bar in front of Eric, who seems more fascinated by her glittery aqua shoes than anything, staying there till the tape ends and everybody takes a break, then slithering over the bar and down onto a barstool next to him.

“I’m out of singles,” he begins.

“Honey, it’s them NASDAQ blues, we all took a bath, it sucks, but maybe you can do me a favor, I’m new in here and you look at least like a semiregular, maybe you can tell me where the Champagne Lounge is in this joint?”

“I’m out of twenties too.”

“No obligation.”

“Next you’re gonna say, ‘But wait!’” He looks quizzically into his lethal drink for a while, as if for the answer to some personal problem to come floating into view printed on one face of a dodecahedron, then in a slow lurch gets carefully to his feet. “I’m headed for the toilet, c’mon, it’s on the way.”

He leads her toward the back and down a flight of stairs. The lighting drifts more and more into the red end of the spectrum. From below ooze romantic string arrangements Maxine thought had been retired in the seventies, no more inviting tonight than they were then.

“I’ll be in here, in case you want to talk. No fees. Promise.”

The Champagne Lounge is cozy in scale, more like a Mad Dog Utility Room. Video screens, some showing only noise, others flickering porno tapes of a low-res Kodachrome vintage, are mounted here and there on wall brackets. Girls sit alone at tables taking smoke breaks. Others straddle clients in the stained velour shadows of “privacy booths” in back. There’s a miniature bar with a couple shelves of bottles whose labels are not immediately familiar to Maxine. “You’re new,” observes the fashion-doll-faced bartender, in a perky voice at some odds with the sullen set of enhanced lips it emerges from. “Welcome to geek heaven. You get one mojito on the house, then you’re on your own.”

“Full disclosure,” sez Maxine, “I’m a civilian, thought tonight was MILF night, guess I got it wrong.”