The Warwick Hotel — April, 1980

My day off from the Opera Club, and after wandering around town all afternoon to get away from my tap-dancing roommate, I stumbled into the lobby of the Warwick Hotel on West 54^th Street. The city air was piss hot and smelled of manure; it made me woozy. I needed to sit for five minutes. I had discovered early in my wandering career that hotel lobbies were ideal spots for quick respites and bathroom breaks. But, lo, some jerk doorman wearing a dark brown polyester overcoat and a Hello-I’m-Clive name tag stopped me at the revolving door. “Can I help you?” he said. And because I was tired and hot and intimidated, I said the first thing that popped into my head, “I’m looking for work.” I already had two shifts a week at the Opera Club, but the opera season was ending, so I made an instantaneous decision to look for another job, right there, at the Warwick. I mean, why not?

And Hello-I’m-Clive said, “A job as what?” And I said proudly, “A waiter,” because, well, I was a waiter, temporarily. And so it was that I was ushered into the Sir Walter Raleigh Room, a restaurant with a floor-to-ceiling mural of a guy wearing pink pantaloons, supplicating himself before a queen who looked a lot like Carol Burnett. And after waiting for about ten minutes, I was approached by Max, the portly general manager. He wore a shiny gray suit and walked on pin-point feet, a fat ballerino. He was from the Philippines, but spoke with a Yugoslavian accent, hitting his consonants as if vowels were for sissies. He hired me, dubiously impressed by my “seventeen years” of experience. I was to work breakfast and lunch. Max instructed me to arrive early the next morning to fill out the necessary paperwork, and to wear black pants and a white shirt – an apron and waiter’s jacket would be provided. He then asked me where I lived. I said I was subletting a couch from a chorus-boy acquaintance on 241^st street in Inwood. He decreed that something ominous was in the air, and it would be a good idea for me to bring a change of clothes and a toothbrush with me to work. The toothbrush rattled me not, as people often commented on the state of my breath, but the change of clothes caused some concern. I spoke within myself, saying, “Is this a come-on?”

The morning of the following day, clothed in black and white, I was assigned to trail behind Judy Ludlow, a short, emaciated waitress with thyroid eyes and treacherously long red hair. Judy snarled at me, and said, “I don’t like people trailing me. I’m not a wagon train. I’d prefer if you just watched me…from over there.” She pointed across the room with a wrinkly hand that should have been attached to a septuagenarian. I tried liking her, but she kept talking. “Having someone follow me around makes me crazy. When I’m crazy I eat. I can’t afford to eat. I’m a model.” And I said unto myself, “What do you model? Farm implements?” I trailed Judy from a distance all morning and afternoon and learned nothing except that Judy did indeed eat. A lot. She ate toast from the giant industrial toaster in the kitchen basement, shoving whole slices in her mouth when she thought no one was looking. She ate the food left over on customer’s plates. She gobbled martini olives by the handful. And she spent a lot of time in the bathroom.

I decided to quit after my first shift. I was, after all, still employed by the Opera Club. But before I could escape, Max announced a staff meeting in which all were expected to attend. I thought I’d be polite and attend the meeting – seeing that I had filled out all the necessary paperwork – and afterward, cop a free glass of wine, then skedaddle home to Inwood, never to return. Max announced at the meeting that what he had greatly feared had come to pass. A Transit Strike. All buses and subways were down. Yellow cabs and livery drivers acting in solidarity were out of service, as well. And no one knew how long it would last. It could go on for months. Therefore, to provide the excellent service the Warwick Hotel was known for, all staff were confined to the hotel, until further notice. Rooms to be provided.

I had a decision to make. Walk two-hundred and fifty blocks to Inwood to watch Bobby tap dance on the coffee table or stay in luxury at the Warwick Hotel for the duration of the transit strike. I raised my hand and got called on by Max. “Where’s my room,” I said.

That night I called the Opera Club from my spacious room on the fifteenth floor of the Warwick Hotel, and informed Martin I would not be returning to work, as I had taken a new job. Martin cursed me with words he only used while being fucked, then hung up. I also called my roommate Bobby and told him I wouldn’t be home for a while, possibly weeks, and Bobby told me it was just as well because I owed back rent and the locks were changed. But all of that mattered not. I spent the evening lounging in the enormous tub in the enormous bathroom in my enormous room at the Warwick, drinking wine I bought from the liquor store around the corner from the hotel, using the last of Bobby’s rent money. I spoke within myself, saying, “All is well.”

At ten o’clock that night, the entire kitchen staff, reeking of grease, garlic, and hairy sweat, piled into my room, and announced that all thirteen of them were my roommates for the duration of the strike. Upon seeing the look on my face, Luis, one of the kitchen guys said, “What? You thought you’d have the room to yourself?” Then the kitchen staff set up an all-night poker game and salsa party.

I got back in the tub, and wept.

~~

I stayed on after the transit strike. I’d lucked into a one-room apartment on 102^nd Street off Broadway for $220 a month. I had a job and an apartment. No friends, yet, but I’d begun work on a screenplay that was destined to make me a million bucks and a ton of friends. I was determined to be a film director even though I had dropped out of NYU on the advice of my advisor, a cat name Haig Manoogian. He said I was wasting my money and his time. I decided to show Mr. Manoogian that I had what it took and spent my evenings writing screenplays. At work, I thrived. Okay I admit, waiting on tables wasn’t easy, but I was getting better at it, better at dealing with customers, better at working with the chef, even better at manipulating the manager.

I ass-kissed Max so much he took me aside one lovely Saturday morning and told me he was so happy with my work he wanted me to wait on his family. They were coming in for a celebration. I didn’t know what they were celebrating, but wherever it was, it was thrilling…to them. Max’s family liked me, and I liked them. During our convivial reveries I spotted Max smiling in the knowledge that he had done well to hire me. It came time for a toast. Max had chosen a delightful Asti Spumante. He told me to pour myself a glass. I poured myself a double. I was busy, so I downed it quickly, on an empty stomach. Later, while serving the family its main course, I accidentally smashed a tray of eight lobster dinners against Sir Walter Raleigh‘s pantaloons.

Looking for work, I would often choose a random neighborhood and wander around it in search of opportunities.

That following Monday, I wandered…