My regular is an elegantly dressed gentleman in his mid-50s, slightly overweight in a way that calls out for the word “portly.” He is soft-spoken and a little dull, but he pays me to listen—two or three nights a week, he comes to the club and buys me drinks and tells me his troubles, but never demands a dance. He likes me, he says, because I am “classy”—in fact, he tells me, I’m too classy for this place. I look around Backstage Bill’s: Smoke hangs languidly in the air, untroubled by air conditioning or filtering machines; 1970s-style wood paneling lines …read more
Source: Salon
