Lazy, late-afternoon sunlight having nothing better to do reached in through the towering windows of the Metropolitan Opera Club and slapped me in the face. My eyes stung. I craved a drink. And a cheeseburger. The club was empty. I was with Martin at one of twenty or so tables set for an elegant dinner. Martin and I had met an hour earlier 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 had introduced myself as unemployed. Here we were, an hour later, sitting on lumpy wooden chairs that resembled thrones from a Sixties gladiator movie. I smelled money; it was old and uncomfortable.

Martin lurched his throne nearer to mine, “Have you ever worked in a restaurant?” he asked.

“I worked in my parent’s restaurant 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.”

“For how long?”

“An afternoon.”

“What happened?”

“I was orphaned.”

“You talk in riddles.”

“It’s the coal dust,” I said.

“There you go again.”

I looked around the room and imagined opera people eating pheasant-under-glass, hitting high-Cs while chewing on dainty bird bones. It would be nice to work here, a real achievement. But I didn’t know how to bring it up. So I said, “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 said, 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 added – “But I’d still like to join. Opera’s 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 for it.”

The moment required emphasis. Martin lifted an abnormally large orthopedic loafer, his left, and swung it up and over his right knee. Then he cupped his chin with his right hand, and smiled – a crusty professor waiting for the correct response. I considered my response for about two seconds.

“May I work here?” I said.

Martin uncrossed his leg; it was an abrupt movement, designed to startle. It worked. I sat up, startled. He, too, sat up, and stared out the window. We remained still like that for a full thirty seconds. Then, Martin slumped back into his chair, re-crossed his leg, and, seemingly resigned to the inevitable, looked 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 didn’t read that. Because she doesn’t care. She doesn’t even notice. It’s the Opera Club people. They look down upon staring. They think she will distract people 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. 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, cold 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, but I do this because you are very pretty. After the opera, will you come to my apartment and fuck me?”

“Can we eat first?”

~~

At Martin’s insistence I arrived an hour early for my next shift. I found Martin in his office. On his desk were two miniature coffee cups and a plate of ugly flat twigs. Martin sat behind his desk in shirt-sleeves, his suit-jacket slung across the back of his chair. His enormous loafers lay on the floor against the filing cabinet like a pair of obedient lap dogs. The room was warm and smelled of stocking feet.

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

I fingered one of the disagreeable brown slats.

“It’s a biscotti,” said 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 bit into a biscotti; it tasted like an old dry yellow newspaper. I tried 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. 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 was excessively loud. Another gala opening, and my third shift. The Opera Club men, spiffy in white tie and tails, smelled of burnished wood, and ate only the meat on their plates. The women, in comfortable ball gowns that looked more like bejeweled housecoats, pushed their string beans from one side of the plate to the other, smiling stiffly. Martin stood guard along the perimeter, eyes peeled for brush fires. I stood on his left side – the sweetheart spot. When a co-waiter wasn’t in Martin’s line of vision, that waiter would look at me and spit. I mentioned this to Martin he said, “They spit because they’re jealous. Stand closer.”

A stately fellow with polished silver temples rose purposefully from his table. He looked around, spotted his quarry, and made his way to Martin. The guy must have been an athlete once, probably in England, because he walked like he was carrying a cricket bat. He reached Martin’s side, turned his back to the room, and spoke through the side of his mouth.

“Young Mr. Stillman looks as if he’s in a Jewish wedding band. Kindly take him aside and remind him that ruffled shirts are not allowed.”

“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 said, looking at me.

“This is Ted.”

“He seems adequate,” he said to Martin, then aiming a glare at me, “Look alive, my man! This is not McDonald’s.”

I did as I was told; I stood tall and looked alive. At this height, eye to eye with the stately fellow, I detected an almost imperceptible sneer. He pulled a handkerchief from his suit coat pocket, wiped the unpleasantness of the moment from his mouth, refolded the handkerchief into three precise points, replaced it in his pocket, and headed back to his table with a dismissive jaunt. I had a sudden and strong desire to leap on him. He was the kind of guy who needed to be knocked over. He stopped and chummily greeted a chunky bespectacled man with electrified-cat hair. Martin indicated the 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 this 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 had anonymous phone sex on the same night he conducted Götterdämmerung at the Met. Mr. Levine really enjoyed the sex and instead of hanging up he told me who he was, and invited me to a place called Bayreuth for the summer.

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

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

A summer spent at James Levine’s side while he conducted glorious Germanic music? Ach tung! Physically he was quite unappealing, but I figured if I insisted on separate hotel rooms I could placate him with plenty of phone sex. Jimmy – I was to call him “Jimmy” now – said he’d call me the next day with the details.

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

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

He didn’t call the next day.