The orphans had landed. All girls. A roving clump of pointy elbows, spindly knees, and exploding hair. All of them decked-out in an overabundance of pastel dance togs. All of them hungry. From behind my counter I watched the orphans skip, shuffle, and hop towards me in a cloud of preteen exasperation, then squeak and squeal themselves onto the chromium stools. Ten feet away, the orphan’s mothers screwed themselves into Howard Johnson’s signature orange-vinyl circular booth. It was the only table in the restaurant that fit eleven mothers. And it was near the bar.

My manager, Muñeca, her hour-glass girth barely contained in her orange polyester tunic, was suddenly behind me. “Behold,” she said, “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.”

I whimpered, startled by a sudden inability to breathe. Muñeca poked 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,” said I.

“Trial by fire. Look, I’m short a counterman today. I need you.”

“But I can’t breathe.”

“It’s easy,” said 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 parent’s restaurant. Yes?”

“Yes, I did. I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I was a bartender.”

“A five-year old bartender?”

“My parents are alcoholics.”

Another cloud lifted, and it truly hit Muñeca. “Oh, God,” she said, “You lied. You never worked in a restaurant…the orphans really are your first customers…like ever?”

“No…I mean, okay, yes.”

I was familiar with the look on Muñeca’s face: I was about to get fired. But Freddy the counterman had called off sick, from Rikers, and Muñeca needed me. Instead of firing my ass, she looked to the orphans. “Punishment enough” she mumbled, then turned and spewed some medium-rare wrath my way. “Two things,” she said, “Never lie to me again…”

“I swear,” I said.

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

I faced the orphans, the suddenly silent orphans. They glowered at me with half-slit eyes. I remembered a documentary I had once seen on PBS about a pack of ravenous wolves and the havoc they had wreaked on a lost little fawn. “There is no sane reason for me to remain here to be eaten alive by children,” I said unto myself. I lifted my chin in defiance of my fate. “I’m not doing this. I refuse to do this. I’m going home.” I lifted my chin higher and tightened my apron. “The matter is settled.” I picked up my dupe pad. “I have rights, you know.” I inhaled a lungful of what felt like crushed glass, and approached Orphan One. “May I take your order?”

It was, indeed, my first time taking an order, ever, and I silently marveled that I had chosen such an apt opening gambit: “May I take your order?” Nice. Strangely confident, too. I was right. Waiting on tables wasn’t that hard. I thought this would be a good time to–

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

“No fries,” shouted a mother from the orange vinyl booth.

“And I want my bun toasted–” said Orphan One.

“No bread,” cried the same mother.

“Anything else?” I asked poor Orphan One.

“No,” said the mother.

I adjusted the paper counterman cap Muñeca had given me twenty minutes ago, and slide over to Orphan Two.

“Good afternoon. May I take your–”

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

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

Orphan Two scowled the scowl of the rebuked. I scribbled “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 said, “so I can tell the chef.”

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

“It’s bleu cheese,” bellowed the booth.

I turned to Orphan Four, but was interrupted by Orphan Seven from the far end of the counter. She shouted, “I want Miss Muffet well done,” I felt the need to be close to Orphan Seven while she ordered, and dashed toward her, but was waylaid by Orphan Six.

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

“I want Simple Simon,” said Orphan Ten.

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

“But you ordered Simple Simon,” I said.

“No, we ordered Jack Horner.”

“I ordered Simple Simon,” said Orphan Ten.

“Me, too,” said Orphan Four.

“Me, three,” said Orphan Eight.

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

“No mayo,” said Orphan Ten, or was that Orphan Eight?

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

Orphan Nine jumped up on bouncy tippy-toes, and pointed to the only unoccupied counter-stool like she was tattling on it. “I’ll have what she’s having!” she shouted. And the orphans erupted, spewing owlet screeches and piggy snorts. Bedlam was kicking in the front door with patent leather Mary Janes: it wanted in. To survive, I knew I needed to take control, needed to take it and keep it. I flicked my paper cap with my right index finger, laid my left elbow on the counter, and casually nodded toward the empty stool, “She’s having a bourbon Manhattan,” I said, then turned to Orphan Nine. “But you? You’re getting a–a–” I looked down at the menu and said out loud the first thing I read, “You’re getting Jack Spratt.”

Now the orphans really laughed. Orphan Nine was the loudest and most emphatic. She laughed and bobbed 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 turned to theatrical laughter, and grew louder and louder. It didn’t bother me the way people laughing at me usually bothered me, because they weren’t laughing at me; they were laughing at something I said. At the peak of hilarity, Orphan Five ordered a Cock-a-Doodle Doo, but no one heard. Not the other orphans. Certainly not I.

I proffered a gentlemanly bow to the herd of mothers who were galloping towards the counter to see why their daughters were laughing theatrically without being paid. I side-stepped the charging hoard, and pushed through the kitchen door, almost colliding with Chowder, who was hot-dogging a tray of foot-long frankfurters over his head.

“OUT door!” yelled Chowder.

“Sorry,” I said, ducking under Chowder’s stained armpit, and into the kitchen. I walked right up to Muñeca, who stood center-kitchen, hands on broad hips, amidst a chaos of satanic steam, scraping pots, hurling waiters. I held out my dupe pad, “Here’s their order. Who do I give this to?”

“I can’t hear…what?”

I said, “Who do I give this to?”

“Give what?”

“The orphan orders.”

“Call it.”

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

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

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

I walked up to the steam-table; it was dangerously hot and ran the length of the kitchen. A chest-high shelf held stacks of plates and bowls. Waist level was a trench, about a foot deep. In the trench a dozen tin pans bobbed 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 shook frying pans, flipped burgers, stirred cauldrons.

“Hello?” I said.

Crickets.

“Excuse me…hello?”

More crickets, but this time they spoke Mexican.

“I need to give someone this order?”

Head chef, Paco, a wall of fat muscle, shook his head, a petulant bull moose. He turned my way, black eyes blazing. I mistook his sneer for a manly smile, and bravely forged ahead.

“Oh, hello,” I said, “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 took a congratulatory breath, and held it. Until I started directing movies, I figured I’d probably be doing this for a while…maybe a year or so. Might as well accept it and be grateful. I exhaled, bowed my head, and whispered unto myself, “You are now Ted the Waiter. So be it.” The moment consecrated, I opened my eyes, and scanned the line of chefs, the men I would one day call Brother.

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

“I, er, um, did you get that?”

Paco leaned forward, “Get what?”

“My order?”

“What order?”

“The order I just called out–”

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

“No—”

“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,” said Paco, and a puddle of silence spread across the kitchen like blood at a triple homicide; I would’ve spoken, but I was afraid of losing a limb. “What’s your fucking order?” said Paco.

I shook myself out of shock, referred to my dupe pad, cleared my throat, and began, “I need, I mean…”

“Say, ‘ordering.’”

“Um…ordering?”

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

I spoke 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,” said 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 blinked 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 said, and turned to run.

“Where are you going, you stupid pendejo?”

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

“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 was thick and noisy, “What the fuck! Somebody get this fucking queebo outta here.”

Clara thrust herself between me and the steam-table and took a protective hold of my elbow. A bony ninety pounds, her hair a shaggy patch of blond straw screaming in all directions, her profile cool and aquiline, her body odor Czechoslovakian, Clara was the most sophisticated person I had yet met in the city, so far.

“Watch your fucking mouth, Paco,” she said, her tone low and bossy like she was Paco’s soccer coach. “I can talk to him like that,” she said to me, “we fuck.” She let got of my elbow, and took 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 grabbed my dupe pad, quickly scanned it. “All right, Papi,” she said to Paco, “forget what he said and listen. Ordering! One Boy Blue. Kill fries and bun. One JJ.” She turned to me. “This for orphans?”

“Yes.”

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

“Yeah.”

“Then answer, please, Papi.”

“Heard.”

“Good.” Clara pointed 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 looked 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, you will all appear soon.”

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

“Hi, are you Juan?”

Juan squeezed an entire head of iceberg lettuce in one brick-like hand; the lettuce gave a crisp little whelp before it disintegrated into shreds.

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

“I want a Humpty…”

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

“Ordering. One Humpty. No croutons. OSS,” I said.

“OSS? Do you mean SOS?” said Juan.

“I guess.”

“Then say it.”

“SOS.”

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

“Then get the fuck out of my face.”

A stuttering anger took root in my feet, shot up my legs, and propelled me over to Paco. I was all ready to say, “What the fuck is wrong with you bunch of assholes?” but instead I said, “The Orphans need to be out in thirty minutes, so you may want to speed things up.”

The sun set behind Paco’s eyes. Lickety-split we were nose-to-nose. He was so close, I could smell his toothpaste.

“Say that again, maricon,” said Paco.

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

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

I thought I’d heard, “American,” and answered accordingly. “Yes, I am.”

“You are maricon?”

“Yes. And proud of it.”

“Will someone shut her up?” said Linda, flying by so fast she was in front of herself. Muñeca swooped in, gathered me up, and led me out of the kitchen. “Maricon means faggot,” she said, sotto vocce.

“Why are they so mean?”

“It’s one of the requirements for being a chef. You will 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 was ready.

“Hey, new girl, your food’s in the window,” said Linda, sprinting behind the Orphans. The Orphans, upon hearing Linda, perked up and silently applauded the coming arrival of their food. Muñeca rushed to my side and edged 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 shoved me through the kitchen IN door. Face first. It took a few seconds for my eyesight to return, and when it did, I focused on a guy parked this side of the steam-table, his index finger buried in his ear. Must be Chowder. I walked to his side, “Hey.” Chowder disengaged his finger, licked it clean, and pointed to the plates of food lining the upper shelf. “This is you. You’re up,” he said.

Chowder would’ve been classically handsome, except for one detail; a detail I could not pinpoint. As he stood, Chowder was six feet tall, had a sturdy suburban build, blinking brown eyes, long silky eyelashes better suited to a woman, and an oblong face with an over-sized chin that gave the impression there was something in his mouth he refused to chew.

Yeah, it’s the chin, I thought.

“I’m Chowder,” said Chowder. “It’s my last name. My first name is Clem. But I go by Chowder. I’m an actor, writer, dancer, director, novelist, and I paint cars. What are you?”

“What am I?”

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

“I want to be Alfred Hitchcock–”

“Alfred Hitchcock is queer. Are you queer? I’m not. But look at this.”

Chowder looked around to make sure the coast was clear, lifted his apron, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his substantial cock. It looked like a dog’s chew toy. Chowder waved his cock, replaced it in his pants, and zipped up.

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

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

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

“Is that a dance?”

“It’s this.” Chowder stacked four plates of food up his extended left arm, from wrist to shoulder. “And this.” Chowder took 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 stacked two plates up my left arm, a Simple Simon and a plate of french fries. The plate holding the french fries trembled then toppled. Chowder and I watched the fries dive into the lava water, tiny brown sailors abandoning ship. Chowder puffed out a sigh, rolled his eyes, and turned to Paco.

“Paco, we need another order of fries,” said Chowder.

“I gave you fries.”

“Give me another order.”

“No!”

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

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

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

Chowder, decked out in his ceramic suit of armor, zipped off with professional ease. I followed with the confidence of a chubby Olympic skater. When we reached the Orphans, they sat up in breathtaking anticipation. Chowder turned to me, “Okay who gets Boy Blue?” I put my plates down and checked my dupe pad, “She does,” I said, pointing to Orphan One. Chowder placed the plate in front of her.

“I didn’t order that.”

“Who gets the Jack no Jill?” I pointed at Orphan Three. Chowder laid the plate in front of her with a silent “voila.”

“That’s not mine.”

I studied the Orphans. Something wasn’t right. Their skyline was 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 said louder than necessary, “Where did she go?”

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

Chowder took over. “Auction time,” he said. “Who gets Simon no mayo?

“Me,” said an Orphan.

“Simon extra mayo no lettuce?”

“Over here,” said another Orphan.

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

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

I ran into the kitchen and over to Juan’s station. Juan, cleaning his thumbnail with a boning knife, pointed 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?” I said.

“What do you fucking think?” said Juan barely moving chapped lips. I didn’t think; I grabbed my Humpty, and took off.

“Once Orphan Three gets this, I’ll be done,” I muttered, “Once Orphan Three gets this, I’ll be done.”

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

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

“Don’t panic. I’ll show you.” Muñeca took the salad. “First you dress.” She set the salad on a nearby counter, poured the contents of the accompanying ramekin over it. “Next you chop.” Muñeca grabbed a steak knife and a fork and attacked the salad with a series of stabbing criss-crosses. “Then you crouton.” She stuck her hand into a metal container, grabbed a handful of croutons, and dumped them on the salad, “and…there you have it.”

She handed me the salad. I took it. I looked at it. I said, “The Orphan’s mother wanted no croutons and the sauce on the side.”

“I can’t help that,” Muñeca said, and walked off.

I had no choice: face the music, get eaten alive. I walked the salad to Orphan Three – now Orphan Eight – and said, “Look, I’m sorry. My boss accidentally put Humpty on your Dumpty. I would get you another, but the evil rabbit will kill me.”

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

Ted the Waiter became Grateful Ted the Waiter. I inhaled accomplishment, exhaled cool poise, and refilled the Orphan’s iced-teas. Project iced-tea accomplished, I headed toward the kitchen. I was so busy making sure everyone saw that I was entering through the IN door, I missed seeing Orphan Five return from the bathroom; she took her seat and looked around for her food.

In the kitchen, Clara, smoking a menthol, was leaning against a machine that looked like the side of a small fire engine. I happily approached her, for she was an oasis in this colossal dust storm.

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

“It 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 said, taking a cigarette.

“We all must start and 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 appeared out of nowhere, like a television witch. Clara scattered, leaving me holding the ashtray. “Smoke on your own time,” Muñeca said.

“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 sighed the sigh of someone who hated 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.”

Before my heart exploded, the IN door of the kitchen blasted open. Orphan Five’s mother, seething like a cartoon bull, steadied herself against the door jamb. Orphan Five stood by her mother’s side, vibrating sobs.

“Where the fuck is my daughter’s Cock?”

Later, after an orgy of orphan ass-kissing, Muñeca cornered me in the kitchen where I was six inches into a foot-long hot dog. Muñeca removed the other half from my grasp and suggested that it would be a good idea if I left and never returned.

Next day I met a slim little fellow named Bobby in the bathroom of the student lounge at NYU. Bobby, a tap dancer who acted, was a junior in the theater tract. His parents had set him up in a tiny one-bedroom apartment at the tippy-top of Manhattan. We hit it off and he said I could sleep on his couch for $50 a month. I accepted, gave him the first month’s rent, and went in search of work…again.