Couple of days after getting fired from Howard Johnson’s for grandly messing up an order for Annie’s Orphans, I somehow wind up at the…

Metropolitan Opera Club

1979

Lazy late-afternoon sunlight having nothing better to do pours in through the towering windows of the Metropolitan Opera Club, piercing the room with dusty shafts of golden silence.

The club is empty.

I’m with Martin at one of twenty or so tables set for an elegant dinner. Martin and I met an hour ago while perched next to one another on the ledge of the fountain at Lincoln Center. Martin had introduced himself as the General Manager of the Opera Club; I introduced myself as unemployed. And here we are, an hour later, sitting on lumpy wooden chairs that resemble thrones from a Sixties gladiator movie. I smell money; it’s old and uncomfortable.

“It’s nice in here,” I say, “Elegant.”

“So…you’re unemployed?”

“Yes, I am unemployed.”

Martin lurches his throne nearer to mine, “Have you ever worked in a restaurant?”

“I worked in my grandparent’s restaurant back home in Pennsylvania for seventeen years.”

“Wow. Seventeen years. You’re lying, of course. How about here? In New York. Any experience?”

“I worked at Howard Johnson’s on 8^th Avenue.”

“For how long?”

“An afternoon.”

“What happened?”

“I was orphaned.”

“You talk in riddles.”

“It’s the coal dust,” I say.

“There you go again.”

I look around the room and imagine opera people eating pheasant-under-glass, hitting high-Cs while chewing on dainty bird bones. It’d be nice to work here, a real achievement. But I don’t know how to bring it up. So I say, “What’s it like to work here? With Opera people?”

“It has a certain scalding magnificence. Given the chance, would you like to work here, in the Opera Club?”

“I’d rather be a member. I love opera,” I say, not intending to hedge my bet.

“No, you don’t love opera. You say that merely to get my attention. You’ve never even seen an opera. Have you?”

“No” – and hoping I didn’t blow my chance, I add – “But I’d still like to join. Opera looks cool.”

“Opera is not cool. It is transcendent. And one does not ‘join’ the Metropolitan Opera Club. One is either born into it or one begs to work here.”

Does he want me to beg? He lifts an abnormally large orthopedic loafer, his left, and swings it up and over his right knee. He cups his chin with his right hand, and smiles – a crusty professor waiting for the correct response. Yes, he wants me to beg.

“I’d really like to work here” I say.

Martin uncrosses his leg; it’s an abrupt movement, designed to startle. It works. I sit up, startled. He, too, sits up, and stares out the window. We remain still for a full thirty seconds. Then, Martin slumps back into his chair, re-crosses his leg, and, seemingly resigned to the inevitable, looks directly at my crotch.

“Fine. You start now. We have uniforms in the back. Tonight is Monday. We premiere a new opera tonight. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis is our guest of honor. You must never look directly at her.”

“Why, will I go blind?”

“You are now working in the Metropolitan Opera Club, my friend. Here, a sense of humor is useless, and unwelcome. Mrs. Onassis is due at 6:30 pm. She will begin her evening there, behind that velvet rope, where she will be on full display so that we can all pretend we are not looking at her.”

“I’ve read that she doesn’t like people staring at her.”

“No, you did not read that. Because she doesn’t care. She doesn’t even notice. It’s the Opera Club people who look down upon those who stare at her. They think she will distract them from their food.”

“Is the food that good?”

“No, it is that bad. One needs to concentrate to keep it down. Mrs. “O” will stand behind the velvet rope for one glass of champagne. Three ice cubes. Then I will escort her over there to table Twenty-One where she will be seated between Leonard Bernstein and Mike Nichols. You must remember not to walk too swiftly past Mr. Nichols, as the slightest breeze will upend his hair. It’s been rumored that his toupee was woven by angels.”

Martin stops suddenly and grins like a child awaiting his birthday cake. The cake never arrives.

“Laughing at my jokes is not a requirement to work here, by the way.”

I produce a coarse laugh. Martin loses his grin, and continues.

“You will take care of Mrs. Onassis, and no one else. There is no menu. Everyone gets the same meal. Tonight it is wet cardboard posing as roast beef, canned string beans, and mummified mashed potatoes. Old money prefers its food as dull as last year’s textbooks.”

“Thank you, by the way. For the job.”

“You are welcome, by the way. Your first shift here and you will be waiting on history with a capital Jackie “O”. Do you know why I do this?”

“You’re very kind?”

“I am very kind and you are very pretty. I’m also an aggressive bottom. After the opera, will you come to my apartment and work me over?”

“Can we eat first?”

~~

At Martin’s insistence I arrive an hour early for my next shift. I find Martin in his office. On his desk are two miniature coffee cups and a plate of flat ugly twigs. Martin sits at his desk in shirt-sleeves, his suit-jacket slung across the back of his chair. His enormous loafers lie on the floor against the filing cabinet like a pair of obedient lap dogs. The room is warm and smells of stocking feet.

“Despite the coffee incident, you did well the other night. You’re a natural.” Martin pushes the plate of twigs toward me.

I finger one of the disagreeable brown slats.

“It’s biscotti,” says Martin.

“It’s stale.”

“It’s supposed to be. You dip it in your espresso. It’s that little coffee cup in front of you.”

“So that’s espresso–”

“Now you know. Not to worry. I don’t think Jackie-O really wanted an espresso.”

“She asked for one.”

“She was mistaken.”

“Did she say anything about me?”

“She barely noticed you.”

“Oh—”

“No, that’s very good. A professional waiter never points a spotlight on himself. Speaking of spotlights, I have a surprise for you. Tonight we’re doing – I should say, you’re doing – La Gioconda.”

“That’s like a lamb stew, isn’t it?”

“It’s an opera.”

“I knew that.”

“No, you didn’t. Hunger confuses you. Take a bite.”

I bite into the biscotti; it tastes like dry yellow newspaper. I try chewing.

“Later, after dinner service, you’re to run down to the Dress Circle and knock on the door. Three knocks. Jose is expecting you.”

“What is he expecting me to do?”

“He’s the usher. He’ll let you in so that you may watch the opera from the back. If you are to work here you need to be well-versed in our product. Now, this is important, so listen up. We are not supposed to do this. Dress Circle does not allow standing room. You must remain absolutely still, and do not utter a sound. The only noise one hears in the Metropolitan Opera House should come from the stage. Traditionally there are twenty minutes of bows after every act. Ignore the bows, and run back up here to serve champagne and cookies.”

“My first opera…wow.”

“You can thank me later tonight.”

~~

When Old Money gathers in groups and ties on the feedbag it emits a rich monotonous hum, accentuated by an occasional clink of hefty flatware on delicate china. It’s the song of privileged contentment.

Tonight, that song is excessively loud. Another gala opening, and my third shift. The Opera Club men, spiffy in white tie and tails, smell of burnished wood and eat only the meat on their plates. The women, in comfortable ball gowns that look more like bejeweled housecoats, push their string beans from one side of the plate to the other, smiling stiffly. Martin stands guard along the perimeter, eyes peeled for brush fires. I stand on his left side – the sweetheart spot. A co-waiter not in Martin’s line of vision, looks at me and pretends to spit. I mention this to Martin. He says, “He’s jealous. Stand closer.”

A stately fellow with polished silver temples rises purposefully from his table. He scans the room, spots his quarry, makes his way to Martin. The guy must have been an athlete once, probably in England, because he walks like he’s carrying a cricket bat. He reaches Martin’s side, turns his back to the room, and speaks through the side of his mouth.

“Young Mr. Stillman looks as if he’s in a Klezmer band. Kindly take him aside and remind him that ruffled shirts are verboten.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You need to do something with the string beans.”

“I’ll talk with Chef.”

“Tell him nothing fancy. Just edible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And who is this?” he says, looking at me.

“This is Teddy.”

“Ted,” I barely eke out.

“He seems adequate,” he says to Martin, then, to me, “Look alive, my man! This is not McDonald’s.”

I do as I’m told. I stand tall and look alive. At this height, eye to eye with Stately Fellow, I detect an almost imperceptible sneer. He pulls a handkerchief from his suit coat pocket, wipes the unpleasantness of the moment from his mouth, refolds the handkerchief into three precise points, replaces it in his pocket, and heads back to his table with a dismissive jaunt. I have a sudden and strong desire to leap on him. He’s the kind of guy who needs to be knocked over.

Stately Fellow stops and chummily greets a chunky, bespectacled man with electrified-cat hair. Martin indicates Stately Fellow with a nod.

“So you know, that’s Mr. Townsend. A gentleman’s gentleman. His money is so old he keeps it at the Smithsonian. He is the president of the opera club. Your boss. Your other boss, that is. And, if you must know, that obese gargoyle Mr. Townsend towers over is James Levine.”

“The conductor?”

“He calls himself a conductor. We call him a traffic cop. Ah, the gargoyle waves. Go and see what it wants. Don’t linger. He’s grabby tonight.”

~~

Years later, James Levine and I have anonymous phone sex on the same night he conducts Götterdämmerung at the Met. Mr. Levine really enjoyed the sex and instead of hanging up he tells me who he is, and invites me to a place called Bayreuth for the summer.

“It’s in Germany,” he says, interpreting my silence as confusion.

“Of course it is,” I say, “And yes, I’d love to.”

Physically he’s quite unappealing, but I figure if I insist on separate hotel rooms I can placate him with plenty of phone sex. Jimmy – I am to call him “Jimmy” now – says he’ll call me the next day with the details.

Then he says, “By the way, what do you do?”

“I’m a waiter,” I say, “In fact, I often waited on you at the Metropolitan Opera Club.” And since we just had phone sex, I remind him of the time he groped me under my apron. All of a sudden someone is banging on his door, and he has to hang up.

He doesn’t call the next day.