One or two men have joined the waiting line. No one is really sure whey they're here--the men's room is a short five feet away--but no one pays any attention. Music is piped in from the main room and some have started dancing to it, watching themselves in the wall mirror; pouting, panting, grinding, one woman stares in a hypnotized daze at the reflection of her own breasts. People balk before turning on the water--the tilting phallic shaped faucets make washing one's hands a curiously obscene act
6. Basketball Beefcake
Wholesome as milk and doughnuts, the waiter scoots by, gathering used ashtrays and empty glasses on the way. Like most people here, his clothes are what you see first, from the unmuddied sneakers and bleached athletic socks to the bright satin basketball uniform with the letters stitched on the back: 15 Lansdowne. He is part of a team which is playing a game and the game is this: look but don't touch. Smooth-faced youth and athletic grace are the common denominators among the waiters here. He weaves between tables and chairs like a pro headed for that tie-breaker basket. Clean hair, clean suit, clear eyes, clean cut; we're convinced that when the bar closes at 2:00 a.m. he will head home in a blue Ford station wagon driven by a saddle-shoed, gum-chewing, pigtailed girl.
7. Clearing Out
Suddenly the music stops. It is 2 a.m., and out of nowhere materialized uniformed policemen, plaid-jacketed plainclothesmen, and a searchlight the size of a cannon. The disc-jockey abandons his notorious sound system to steer the bright beam over the crowd. The silver-studded dancers break apart like mercury and slither sullenly towards the exit. There is a twenty minute wait for coats;the boy with the orange cape has donned less auspicious clothing and bustles about the cloakroom, calling out numbers, grabbing tickets, rolling his eyes.
This is taxicab territory; unlike other parts of Boston, there was no mass exit at 12:30. The people here had enough money to pay a five dollar cover charge (two drinks included,) fifty cents for a mandatory coat check, $1.75 for additional drinks and eighty-five cents for a pack of cigarettes--cab fares are no problem. Within minutes, everyone is packed in mud-splattered yellow vehicles and wending homewards.
Look. Two men jitterbug their drunk way down Lansdowne Street, shreiking and twirling and smashing into hard brick walls. Their noise intrudes in this damp, silent alley; the warehouses know no human sound or stink from five p.m. to nine in the morning. The men wail deep and coo softly, as if speaking through thin silk stockings.
Listen. Between the clicks of the taxi meter and quiet complaint of a car engine, the residual hum of music made by machines reminds you that you went to 15 Lansdowne Street, danced, drank, had a dashing good time. The hum is softer than anything you will hear