Nature’s Exotics
Stories of a family business
by Jon Kramer

Nonfiction. These events took place in Maryland circa 1970s.

Part 1 – The Topless Bar of Antique Row
© 11-22-20 Jon Kramer / 1,709 words

In the 1970’s our family rock and gem business – Nature’s Exotics – was located in a quiet backwater of run-down buildings next to the railroad tracks in Kensington, Maryland. Some years prior, when two antique stores and a junk shop opened next to the Kensington General store, the merchants got together and had a brainstorm: they named the block “Antique Row” as an advertising ploy. After a few years the cheap rent and catchy title attracted more junk, more antiques, and a series of permanent indoor Flea Markets that took over the neighborhood and added some dubious legitimacy to the Row. But traffic was enough enhanced to keep the Row running and word spread.

Phil’s Service Station, located on the corner, was minted some 40 years prior and fit right in with the antique theme. The local myth – promoted endlessly by Phil himself while sporting an antique Union Oil jacket and flat-top haircut – was that Frank Lloyd Wright had a hand in designing the place. This wholly unsubstantiated claim allowed Phil an air of superiority and was relentlessly used to promote his brand.

Ain’t no other Frank Lloyd Wright gas station around for a thousand miles! Phil bragged. On that point alone he was, technically, correct. The only gas station on the planet that Wright actually designed and built – the Lindholm Service Station – is located in Cloquet, Minnesota, some 1,174 miles up the road. I had a hard time understanding why Phil thought any of this mattered. Did anyone buying gas give a damn who designed the pump island? Would people actually drive across town for an oil change at a place supposedly designed by a dead – if famous – architect? I dunno, maybe they would. Phil certainly thought so.

Despite his eccentricities, or perhaps because of them, we all loved Phil and had a great time with him. My brother Bill and I would drive by his place yelling out the window: “Freak show at the gas station!” which amused Phil. He’d waive while explaining to the customers the sophomoric actions of the local hooligans. The phrase was actually derived from a comment Phil had made about the rock shop – our rock shop – to other Row tenants, calling it a “freak show” before he’d gotten to know us.

We didn’t actually plan to join the Row – it just turned out that way. The rent was cheap and the location worked for us. The fact we landed on the Row was fitting, however: We exhibited regularly in local mall antique shows. And if people were looking for old stuff, our inventory of rocks and fossils was second to none. Even our youngest “antiques” were millions of years older than the 17th century books and spittoons offered in the shops next door. Why settle for an 1890’s American flag when you could have a dinosaur tooth 65 million years older for a quarter the price?

There was a subtle rivalry on the Row, every place trying to corner the market in their own unique way. Across the street was a clock shop. “Oldest Antiques On The Row!” they claimed with a ludicrously large sign hanging off the peeling stucco above the tiny entrance. That claim, of course, was a matter of opinion, resting in your interpretation of “antique” I suppose. Yeah, they had timepieces dating back 300 years, but we had pieces of time dating back to 2.7 billion years. They hated us.

The name of our enterprise, Nature’s Exotics, was unusual and, at times, quite entertaining. I don’t recall who thought of the title originally – perhaps it was some amalgam of parts thrown into the air during a creative brainstorming session. But it was settled on – fair and square – in the Kramer Family Democracy where everyone had an equal vote. Being an up-and-coming Hippy in the post Woodstock era I thought it pretty cool to have such a psychedelic nature title. I suspected my brothers and sisters felt similarly. It’s doubtful, however, that Mom and Dad were influenced in the same way, but they nonetheless liked the name and made it official. The title, as you might imagine, was at times misinterpreted. This became especially apparent at times we worked late into the night.

Our storefront was just down the hill from Connecticut Ave – a major artery into DC. This was years before the Metro subway, so the traffic was heavy day and night. One of the benefits of the route was an all-night deli – the Continental, located just across the street – which served up a Philly Cheese Steak subway sandwich of local repute. The Continental was well known among the late-night partiers and bar crowd. The owner – Tony – knew us well and we joked around with him from time to time. He had the upper hand, as will be pointed out shortly.

Sometimes my siblings and I had to work late – unloading shipments from Mexico, or packing for another mall show. It was grueling work, made tolerable by the “no rules” off hours in our family business. Beer, wine, and a little pot had the equitable effect of mellowing out the disparity of four siblings working close together for long hours late into the night. When the lights were on the shop sign was lit – as were the occupants – and much activity buzzed around the store both inside and out during our nocturnal goings-on.

Sometimes horny drunks would pop into the Continental asking about “action” that might be found in the neighborhood. After serving them, Tony would helpfully suggest they check out the topless bar down on Antique Row. It’s just down the hill, he’d say encouragingly. They advertise exotic dances! Go check it out, I hear they got a good show going on down there….

So these half-in-the-bag desperados would cruise down the hill looking for exotic dancers and invariably see our sign: Nature’s Exotics. What could be more enjoyable than natural exotic dancers? They’d come stumbling in, boisterous and bombastic.

“Exotics? Yep, were into that! they’d bellow. Where’s the bar?

This quickly became a game to us: “Right out back,” we’d point and off they’d charge through the boxes and piles of rock, heading around the corner past Phil’s to “the back”. But there wasn’t a back. There were just more antique shops and these, invariably, were closed. After wandering around for 20 minutes searching in vain for the topless joint – they’d find their way back to us, albeit a bit confused.

“Where’s the bar, again?” Right out back…

We just WENT OUT BACK! There’s nothing there!

Oh really? Then they must have closed it. It was just there…Sorry, used to be one there… Eventually they’d ask “Is this some sort of joke? Indeed it was.

Sometimes the late-night phone calls were even more enjoyable. On one such occasion we were packing for a show circuit heading up into New England. The shop was strewn with cartons and packaging. Mike had some weed, Diane some wine, Bill and I supplied the beer. By midnight we were all pretty far gone, our collective inebriation turned up to 11. Then the phone rang.

Thinking the caller might be our parents – who else would call at this hour? – I answered trying to sound as soberly nonchalant as possible. Helloooo….?

“Is this the Exotics place? When d’ya close?” came a slurred question.

There are times when someone tries to ask you a serious question and for some reason your brain flips a trigger and the Joke Machine explodes. Instantly you are completely helpless: no rules of decorum, no polite refrain, no diplomatic abstinence has the slightest control over your actions. For the next several moments you are controlled by hilarity with no other option than to laugh uproariously.

I held the phone out into the air above my head, my hand over the mouthpiece and roared with laughter. I was pointing to the phone and trying to say something but couldn’t get it out. I wanted to say the guy on the line was drunk and looking for dancers, but I was laughing so hard I was crying. There was a contagious cascading effect on my siblings who, one-by-one, started laughing too.

Obviously, this guy thought we were an exotic dancer bar. Although his question was not unreasonable in light of our name, I could not get enough of a grip on myself to answer him. As I slid down the wall in a fit of laughter I managed to blurt out, Just a minute, here’s the Manager… whereupon I handed the phone to Mike.

Mike, who has a natural gift of acting sober and fully together when the situation calls for it, took the phone and started the interrogation, Who is this? I’m busy! What do you want?!

Hullo? Hullo? I’z jus askin when you close. When’s last call?

Who wants to know?! Mike demanded.

This is Tom, I’m a patron, OK?. All I’m axing is when you close…

I’m too busy for this crap, Mike responded tersely and kept the ball rolling, Here, ask the waitress! Mike handed the phone to Diane. She grabbed it, giggling. She could hardly speak but managed to take Mike’s lead. May I help you?…

The guy’s getting a bit tweaked at this point and draws out his words slowly: All… I… want… to… know… is… when… the… fuck… do….you… close?!! he yells.

Diane was a little taken aback by this. Well, Sir, that depends on whether you’re a stupid jerk or just a drunken idiot… she said curtly.

Goddamnit! All I’m asking is how late youz open, for Chrisakes!

Sir, you are being rude, I’m turning you over to Security… Diane handed the phone to Billy, who ironically on weekends, actually was a bouncer at a late-night topless bar downtown.

Who the hell is this?!!, Billy barks into the receiver.

None of your damned business!, the caller yells back and slams the phone down.

Seems we lost a patron that night.

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