Fall of 1978.

I move to Manhattan from Scranton, Pennsylvania.

Manhattan in the late 70s is dingy and dangerous, but it’s where I want to be, where I need to be if I am to pursue a career as a writer.

I have $50 in savings. I’m sleeping on a borrowed couch. I’m hungry. I need a job that provides fast cash…and food. With no college degree and a limited résumé, I have but one choice: Wait on Tables. I have an advantage. My Grandparents own and operate a restaurant in Scranton. It’s called, “Mama LoRusso’s.” I’ve never worked there, but really, how hard can it be?

I’m in the Broadway District, walking west on 48^th street, passing restaurant after restaurant. A creeping intimidation stops me from going in and asking for work. At Eighth Avenue I stop for a red light. I look up and see a big bland beige hotel looming against a cloudless powder-blue sky. A street-level sign reads, “Howard Johnson’s Family Restaurant.” The word “family” gives comfort, and courage. I finger-comb my hair, walk in, ask for the manager. She approaches. I ask if she’s hiring. She asks if I have any experience. “Why, yes,” I lie right to her face, “I’ve worked in my Grandparent’s restaurant for seventeen years.”

I’m hired.

ORPHANS ELEVEN

Howard Johnson’s – 1978

The orphans have landed. All girls. A roving clump of pointy elbows, spindly knees, exploding hair; all of them decked-out in pastel dance togs. From behind my counter I watch them skip, shuffle, and hop towards me in a cloud of preteen exasperation. They take up eleven of the twelve chromium stools. Ten feet away, the orphan’s mothers screw themselves into Howard Johnson’s signature orange-vinyl circular booth. It’s the only table that will fit eleven mothers. And it’s near the bar.

Muñeca, the manager, her hour-glass girth barely contained in her orange polyester tunic, is suddenly behind me. “Behold,” she says, “Annie’s Orphans. Every Saturday at 4:30. Your first customers. Make sure you get their order right. They only get an hour between shows.”

A desperate little whimper escapes through my lips.

Muñeca pokes me, “Oh, no. Do not cave on me. Not now.”

“But…I just got here. I haven’t been trained. I don’t even know the menu, yet,” I say.

“Trial by fire. Look, I need you.”

“But I can’t breathe.”

“It’s easy,” says Muñeca. “They get the Kiddie Menu. Every dish is named after a character in a nursery rhyme. Just ask them who they want to eat. You can do this.”

“I can?”

“You said you have seventeen years experience working in your Grandparent’s restaurant. Yes?”

“Yes, I said that.”

“Then this should…” – a cloud lifts – “wait a second. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one. No. I forgot. I’m thirty-six.” I press a finger against my nose to make sure it isn’t growing.

“No, I believe you’re twenty-one. That means you started working in your Grandparent’s restaurant when you were…what…four years old?”

The truth seems far more dangerous than a lie, so I say, “Actually, I was five.”

“What did you do in your Grandparent’s restaurant?”

“I was a bartender.”

“A five-year old bartender?”

“My Grandparents are alcoholics.”

Another cloud lifts. “Oh, God,” she says, “You lied. You never worked in a restaurant…the orphans are like your first customers…ever?”

“No…I mean, okay, yes.”

I am familiar with the look on Muñeca’s face: I am about to get fired. But I find out later that Freddy the counterman had called off sick, from Rikers, and Muñeca needs me…really needs me. Instead of firing my ass, she looks to the orphans. “Punishment enough” she mumbles, then turns and spews some medium-rare wrath my way.

“Two things,” she says, “Never lie to me again…”

“I swear I won’t,” I lie.

“…and number your orphans.” She runs off to warn the chef.

I face the orphans, the suddenly silent orphans. They glower at me with half-slit eyes. I remember a documentary I’d seen on PBS about a pack of ravenous wolves and the havoc they’d wreaked on a lost little fawn. There is no sane reason for me to remain here to be eaten alive by children, I say unto myself. I lift my chin in defiance of my fate. I’m not doing this. I refuse to do this. I’m going home. I tighten my apron. The matter is settled, I’m outta here. I pick up my dupe pad. I have rights, you know. I inhale a lungful of what feels like crushed glass. You can’t make me do this! I approach the first orphan. This is not going to happen.

“May I take your order?” I say for the first time ever.

I silently marvel at what I’ve chosen as my opening gambit: “May I take your order?” Nice. Strangely confident, too. So I was right. Waiting on tables isn’t that hard. Look, I’m doing it. This would be a good time to–

“I want Little Boy Blue,” says Orphan One, her voice pitched high and desperate, like a Disney critter calling for help, “with extra crispy french fries.”

“No fries!” shouts a mother from the orange vinyl booth.

“And I want my bun toasted,” says Orphan One.

“No bread!” cries the same mother.

“Anything else?” I ask poor Orphan One.

“No,” yells the mother.

I adjust the paper counterman cap Muñeca had provided and slide over to Orphan Two.

“Good afternoon. May I take your–”

“Humpty Dumpty,” Orphan Two says in a harsh stage whisper, “I want Humpty Dumpty.”

“Defy me in public, will you?” calls another mother from the orange booth, “Very well, you may have it, but no Humpty, and Dumpty on the side!”

Orphan Two scowls the scowl of the rebuked. I scribble “No Humpty Dumpty Side” on my dupe pad, and slide over to Orphan Three.

“May I take your–“

“Gimme Jack & Jill, but no Jill this time. Load me up with Jack.”

“No Jill? What is that?” I ask, “so I can tell the chef.”

“It’s that icky stuff that tastes like a boy’s foot.”

“It’s bleu cheese!” bellows the booth.

I turn to Orphan Four, but am interrupted by Orphan Seven from the far end of the counter. She shouts, “I want Miss Muffet well done,” I feel the need to be close to Orphan Seven while she orders. I dash towards her, but am waylaid by Orphan Six.

“Her and I are sharing Jack Horner,” Orphan Six says, pointing at Orphan Eleven.

“I want Simple Simon,” says Orphan Ten.

“Make sure she don’t get more Horner than me,” says Orphan Eleven.

“But you ordered Simple Simon,” I say.

“No, we ordered Jack Horner.”

“I ordered Simple Simon,” says Orphan Ten.

“Me, too,” says Orphan Four.

“Me, three,” says Orphan Eight.

I scribble incoherent code words for “Simon” and “orphan” and “little bitch” on my dupe pad.

“No mayo,” says Orphan Ten, or is that Orphan Eight?

“I want extra mayo, and give her my lettuce,” says Orphan Four, no, that was definitely Orphan Ten.

Orphan Nine jumps up on bouncy tippy-toes, points to the only unoccupied counter-stool like she’s tattling on it. “I’ll have what she’s having!” she shouts. And the orphans erupt, spewing owlet screeches and piggy snorts. Bedlam is kicking at the front door…it wants in. To survive, I know I need to take control, need to take it and keep it. I flick my paper cap with my right index finger, lay my left elbow on the counter, and casually nod toward the empty stool, “She’s having a bourbon Manhattan,” I say to Orphan Nine, “But you? You’re getting a–a–” I look down at the menu and say the first thing I see, “You’re getting Jack Spratt.”

Now the orphans really laugh. Orphan Nine is the loudest and most emphatic. She laughs and bobs like a crazed little white donkey, her buck teeth snapping at imaginary horseflies, “Yeah yeah yeah Jack Spratt gimme Jack Spratt.” The orphans genuine laughter turns to theatrical laughter, and grows louder and louder. It doesn’t bother me the way people laughing at me usually bothers me, because they aren’t laughing at me; they’re laughing at something I said.

At the peak of hilarity, Orphan Five orders a Cock-a-Doodle Doo, but no one hears her. Not the other orphans. Certainly not I.

I proffer a gentlemanly bow to the herd of mothers who are galloping towards the counter to see why their daughters are laughing theatrically without being paid. I side-step the charging hoard, push through the kitchen door, almost colliding with Chowder, who’s hot-dogging a tray of foot-long frankfurters over his head.

“OUT door!” yells Chowder.

“Sorry,” I say, ducking under his stained armpit into the kitchen. I walk up to Muñeca. She stands center-kitchen, hands on broad hips, amid a chaos of satanic steam, scraping pots, hurling waiters. I hold out my dupe pad, “Here’s their order. Who do I give this to?”

“I can’t hear…what?”

I say, “Who do I give this to?”

“Give what?”

“The orphan orders.”

“Call it.”

“Call it?” I look around for a telephone. “On what?”

“You have to call your order. Out loud. To the chef.”

Muñeca points to a stainless steel steam-table. “Go over there and tell him what you want. Go ahead. Don’t be afraid.”

I walk up to the steam-table; it’s dangerously hot and runs the length of the kitchen. A chest-high shelf holds stacks of plates and bowls. Waist level is a trench, about a foot deep. In the trench a dozen tin pans bob atop a sea of bubbling, crystal-clear lava water. On the other side of the trench, facing the big black scary ovens, five short stubby guys in dingy white chef’s coats shake frying pans, flip burgers, stir cauldrons.

“Hello?” I say.

Crickets.

“Excuse me…hello?”

More crickets, but this time they speak Mexican.

“I need to give someone this order?”

Head chef, Paco, a wall of fat muscle, shakes his head, a petulant bull moose. He turns my way, black eyes blazing. I mistake his sneer for a manly smile, and bravely forge ahead.

“Oh, hello,” I say, “Ted the new waiter here. Muñeca said I should call out my order…to you, I guess. Muñeca means ‘doll’ in Spanish, does it not? Well, she certainly is one. Anyway, here’s my order. May I have a Little Boy Blue? No french fries and no bun, please. Thank you. One Humpty Dumpty. Her mother insists on no Humpty and a Dumpty side, whatever that means. One Jack & Jill. No Jill. I think that’s the cheese. Extra Jack. Not sure what that is, either, but I’ll look it up. One Simple Simon. No mayonnaise. No lettuce. One Jack Horner. Oh, can you split that, please? In two? Thank you. Also a well-done Miss Muffet. Another Simple Simon. One Jack Spratt. And yet another Simple Simon, also no mayo and I think no lettuce.”

I take a congratulatory breath, and hold it. Until I become a writer I figure I’ll probably be doing this for a while…maybe a year…no more. Might as well accept it and be grateful. I exhale, bow my head, and whisper unto myself, “You are now Ted the Waiter. So be it.” The moment consecrated, I open my eyes, and scan the line of chefs, the men I will one day call Brother.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” says Paco, and the other brothers snigger.

“I, er, um, did you get that?”

Paco leans forward, “Get what?”

“My order?”

“What order?”

“The order I just called out–”

“Did you say, ‘ordering’ before you ordered?”

“No, I–”

“Then I did not get your order. If you do not say, ‘ordering,’ I do not hear. I hear ‘ordering,’ I know something is coming. And I hear.”

“No one told me I had to say–”

“I do not care.”

“But–”

“Say it!”

“Ordering!”

“Bueno,” says Paco, and a puddle of silence spreads across the kitchen like blood at a triple homicide. “Call your fucking order?” says Paco.

I clear my throat, and begin, “I need, I mean…”

“Say, ‘ordering.’”

“Um…ordering?”

“Speak up, girl,” says Linda, a short, reedy waitress, speeding by in a gush of propulsive wind.

I speak up: “Ordering! A Little Boy Blue. No fries and no bun, please–”

“No fries or bun? There’s nothing left except tuna fish and air,” says Paco.

“It’s what she asked for–”

“What else?”

“One Humpty Dumpty.”

“I don’t do salads.”

“Who does the salads?”

“I don’t do salads! What else?”

“One Jack & Jill. No Jill–”

“How do you want it done?

“I’m sorry?”

“Your JJ.”

I blink for the first time that afternoon. “My what?”

“Your JJ. Your Jack & Jill. How do you want it done? Medium? Rare? What?”

“I don’t know.”

“You better find out.”

“Okay,” I say, and turn to run.

“Where are you going, you stupid pendejo?”

“To ask Orphan Three how she wants her Jack done.”

“Give me the rest of the order first!”

“Si, I mean, okay. A Simple Simon. No Simon. I mean, lettuce on hold. A Jack Horner. Oh, can you split that please?”

“What else?”

“In two?”

“Jesus fucking…”

“…a well-done Miss Muffet. Another Simple Simon–”

“Goddammit. You cannot say, ‘One Simple Simon,’ then come back ten minutes later and say, ‘Another Simple Simon.’ You must say ‘Two Simons all day.’”

“Okay.”

“Then say it!”

“Two Simons all day.”

“That it?”

“No. One Jack Spratt. And, oh, oops, another Simple Simon–”

Paco’s subsequent implosion is thick and noisy, “What the fuck! Somebody get this fucking queebo outta here.”

Clara thrusts herself between me and the steam-table. She takes a protective hold of my elbow. A sleek ninety pounds, her hair a patch of blond straw screaming in all directions, her profile cool and aquiline, her body odor Czechoslovakian, Clara is the most sophisticated person I have yet to meet in this joint.

“Watch your fucking mouth, Paco,” she says, her tone low and bossy like she was Paco’s soccer coach. “I can talk to him like that,” she says to me, “we fuck.” She releases my elbow, and takes over. “Look on wall near OUT door. Is menu. All items are underlined and obliterated. Jack & Jill is ‘JJ.’ Cock-a-Doddle-Do is ‘Cock.’ Do you get? Never mind. You will. Now, I help.”

She grabs my dupe pad, quickly scans it. “All right, Papi,” she says to Paco, “forget what he said and listen. Ordering! One Boy Blue. Kill fries and bun. One JJ.” She turns to me. “This for orphans?”

“Yes.”

She turns back to Paco, “Well-done! Kill cheese. Extra bacon. One, two, three Simons. All day. Two no mayo. One no lettuce. Split a Horner times two. One Muffet. Well-done. And a Spratt. You got?”

Paco says nothing.

“Answer me, Papi.”

“Heard.”

“Good.” Clara points across the kitchen. “See obscenity over there? His earth name is Juan. He is salad man. Go over and tell him you want Humpty, no…” she looks at my dupe pad, “What does that say?”

“’Little bitch.’”

“No…that.”

“Oh that. That’s, ‘No Humpty. Dumpty side.’”

“Tell Juan you want a Humpty, no croutons. SOS.”

“SOS? What’s–?

“It means ‘sauce on side.’ Do not worry, it will all be clear soon.”

I conquer a minor spasm in my right knee and walk up to the obscenity known as Juan. The air surrounding him is vexed, as if a vicious beating had just taken place. Juan’s two dominant features are his ears – a couple of giant flappers covered in angry black fuzz – and one enormous tooth – a dull yellow enamel block that takes center stage behind his upper lip. The overall effect is of a soiled rabbit locked inside a bubble of pure nastiness.

“Hi, are you Juan?”

Juan squeezes an entire head of iceberg lettuce in one brick-like hand. The lettuce gives a crisp whelp before it disintegrates into shreds.

“That was your skull if you fuck with me,” he says. “What do you want?”

“I want a Humpty…”

“Say “Ordering!” Paco yells from the other side of the kitchen.

“Ordering. One Humpty. No croutons. OSS.”

“OSS? Do you mean SOS?” says Juan.

“I guess.”

“Then say it.”

“SOS.”

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

“Then get the fuck out of my face.”

A stuttering anger takes root in my feet, shoots up my legs, and propels me over to Paco. I’m about to say, “What the fuck is wrong with you bunch of assholes?” but instead I say, “The Orphans need to be out in thirty minutes, so you may want to speed things up.”

The sun sets behind Paco’s eyes. Lickety-split we’re nose-to-nose. He’s so close, I can smell his toothpaste.

“Say that again, maricon,” says Paco.

“I’m sorry, what did you call me?” I ask, sure I sound real tough.

“I called you a maricon. Are you a maricon?”

I think he said, “American,” and answer accordingly. “Yes, I am.”

“You are maricon?”

“Yes. And proud of it.”

“Will someone shut her up?” says Linda, flying by so fast she’s in front of herself. Muñeca swoops in, leads me out of the kitchen. “Maricon means faggot,” she says quietly.

“Why are they so mean?”

“It’s one of the requirements for being a chef. You’ll come to love them soon enough. In the meantime, the orphans are thirsty. Get them something to drink and by the time you’re done, their food should be up.”

Eleven iced-teas (three ice on side, two no ice, three extra ice, four no lemons, five extra lemons, extra straws all day) later, the food is ready.

“Hey, new girl, your food’s in the window,” says Linda, sprinting behind the Orphans. The Orphans, upon hearing Linda, perk up and silently applaud the coming arrival of their food. Muñeca rushes to my side and edges me towards the kitchen. “You hear that? Your food’s up.”

“Why does that girl keep calling me a girl?”

“That’s Linda. She’s from the Bronx. She can’t be explained. Chowder’s going to help you.”

Muñeca shoves me through kitchen door, face first. Once my eyesight returns, I focus on a guy parked this side of the steam-table, his index finger buried in his ear. Must be Chowder. I walk to his side, “Hey.” Chowder disengages his finger, licks it clean. He points to the plates of food lining the upper shelf. “This is you. You’re up,” he says.

Chowder stands six feet, has a sturdy suburban build, blinking brown eyes behind long silky eyelashes better suited to a woman. The one detail that stops him from being classically handsome is an over-sized chin that gives the impression there’s something in his mouth he refuses to chew.

“I’m Chowder,” says Chowder. “It’s my last name. My first name is Clem. But I go by Chowder. I’m an actor, writer, dancer, director, and I make balloon animals. What are you?”

“What am I?”

“Yeah. What’re you doing here? In New York. What do you want to be?”

“I want to write–”

“All the writers I know are queer. Are you queer? I’m not. But look at this.”

Chowder looks around to make sure the coast is clear. Then he lifts his apron, unzips his pants, and pulls out his substantial cock. It looks like a dog’s chew toy. Chowder waves it around, replaces it in his pants, and zips up.

“You like that? Well you can’t have it. Can you stack?”

“I’m sorry…” I say, still stunned by Chowder’s chew toy.

“Can you stack? Listen up. Can you stack?”

“Is that a dance?”

“It’s this.” Chowder stacks four plates of food up his extended left arm, from wrist to shoulder. “And this.” Chowder takes two more plates from the shelve in his remaining hand, fingers expertly gripping the rims like a greedy white spider. “You should be able to carry six, seven plates at once. I can hold eight. When I have an erection, I can hold nine. Ha ha, get it? Go on…you try.”

I stack a Simple Simon and a plate of french fries up my left arm. The plate holding the french fries tips to the left. Chowder and I watch the fries dive into the boiling water, tiny brown sailors abandoning ship. Chowder rolls his eyes at me.

“Paco, we need another order of fries.”

“I give you fries.”

“Give me another order.”

“No!”

“Give me another order or I’ll tell your wife you’re fucking Clara.”

“She knows.” Paco points to the bright red lump on his forehead, “How do you think I got this?” He produces another plate of fries. “Now get this fucking food outta here.”

“Grab what you can,” Chowder yelps, “and follow me.”

Chowder zips off with professional ease. I follow with the confidence of a chubby Olympic skater. We reach the Orphans. They sit up in breathtaking anticipation.

Chowder to me: “Okay, kid, who gets Boy Blue?”

I put my plates down and check my dupe pad, “She does,” I said, pointing to Orphan One. Chowder places the plate in front of her.

“I didn’t order that.”

“Who gets the Jack no Jill?” I point to Orphan Three. Chowder lays the plate in front of her with a silent “voila.”

“That’s not mine.”

I study the Orphans. Something’s not right. Their skyline is different. It used to be short at this end, taller at that end. Now that end is blocking the sun. And this end is in shadow. Fuck! They’ve moved. “Who’s number one?” I say louder than necessary, “Where did she go?”

“What are you talking about?” says an unnumbered Orphan.

Chowder takes over. “Auction time,” he says. “Who gets Simon no mayo?

“Me,” says an Orphan.

“Simon extra mayo no lettuce?”

“Over here,” says another Orphan.

Linda, careening by, barely has time to say, “Girl, Juan said if you don’t pick up your Humpty, he’s going to fuck you on national television.”

“Go,” says Chowder, “I’ll finish here.”

I run into the kitchen and over to Juan’s station. Juan, cleaning his thumbnail with a boning knife, points to an over-sized faux-wooden bowl holding iceberg lettuce, grilled chicken, a whole hard-boiled egg, and a small ramekin of dressing. “Is that Humpty?”

“What do you fucking think?” says Juan barely moving chapped lips. I grab my Humpty and take off.

“Not so fast.” Muñeca stops me at the OUT door. “Juan starts it. You have to finish it.”

“What do you mean?” I say, quite close to violence.

“Don’t panic. I’ll show you.” Muñeca takes the salad. “First you dress.” She sets the salad on a nearby counter, pours the contents of the accompanying ramekin over it. “Next you chop.” Muñeca grabs a steak knife and a fork and attacks the salad with a series of stabbing crisscrosses. “Then you crouton.” She sticks her hand into a metal container, grabs a handful of croutons, dumps them on the salad, “and…there you have it.”

She hands me the salad.

I say, “The Orphan’s mother wants no croutons and the sauce on the side.”

“I can’t help that,” Muñeca says, and walks off.

I have no choice: face the music, get eaten alive. I walk the salad to Orphan Three.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say, “My boss accidentally put Humpty on your Dumpty. I’d get you another, but the evil rabbit will kill me.”

“That’s okay, this is okay” says Orphan Three, digging in with gusto, “just don’t tell my mother.”

Ted the Waiter becomes Grateful Ted the Waiter. I inhale accomplishment, exhale cool poise, and refill the Orphan’s iced-teas. Project iced-tea accomplished, I head toward the kitchen. I’m so busy making sure everyone saw that I was entering through the IN door, I miss seeing Orphan Five return from the bathroom; she takes her seat and looks around for her food.

In the kitchen, Clara, smoking a menthol, leans against a machine that looks like the side of a small fire engine. I happily approach her, for she’s an oasis in this colossal dust storm.

I point to the machine, “What is that?”

“Is espresso maker.”

“What does it make?”

“It makes espresso.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

“You do not know what espresso is. Do you? Do not worry. It does not work. In every restaurant there is something that does not work. Usually co-workers. The orphans have food?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks God, you did it. First time I wait on those bitch orphans, I make three cry and get fired.”

“But you’re still here.”

“I fuck Chef. Want cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“You are waiter. It is your job to smoke.”

“Thanks for the help,” I say, taking a cigarette.

“We all must start and then begin.”

“I detect an accent. Where are you from?”

“Are you KGB?”

“No, I was just–”

“Are you writing book?”

“No, I was–”

“America, you ask too many questions.”

Muñeca appears out of nowhere like a television witch. Clara scatters, leaving me holding the ashtray. “Smoke on your own time,” Muñeca says.

“But I don’t smoke.”

“What did I say about lying? There’s an irate mother waiting for you. Wants to talk to you about her daughter’s Humpty. Also, the orphans need to get back to the theater. They need their checks. Separate, of course. But first…they want their Fudge Days.”

“Their what?”

Muñeca sighs the sigh of someone who hates constantly having to explain herself, “Their Fudge Days. Because they’re Broadway starlets, every Saturday, Howard Johnson’s gives each orphan a complimentary Hot Fudge Sundae. You have five minutes.”

“That’s eleven sundaes.”

“Ask the soda jerk to help you.”

“Who’s the soda jerk?”

“You.”

The IN door of the kitchen blasts open. Orphan Five’s mother, seething like a cartoon bull, steadies herself against the door jamb. Orphan Five by her mother’s side vibrates sobs.

“Where the fuck is my daughter’s Cock-a-Doddle Do?”