The Warwick Hotel

1979

The opera season ends next month; so does my job. Best way to find a waiter gig in Manhattan is to pick a neighborhood, wander from restaurant to restaurant, ask if they’re hiring. I’ve been wandering all afternoon. No luck. I’m three blocks from Central Park. The air is piss hot and smells of manure; it’s making me woozy. I need to sit for five minutes. I stumble into the lobby of the Warwick Hotel on West 54^th Street. I’ve discovered early in my wandering career that hotel lobbies are 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 stops me at the revolving door. “Can I help you?” he says.

I didn’t intend to apply here, but inspiration hits.

“I’m looking for work.”

Hello-I’m-Clive says, “As what?

“A waiter,” I say, because, well, I am a waiter, practically, temporarily.

I’m 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 looks a lot like Carol Burnett. I’m approached by Max, the portly general manager. He wears a shiny gray suit, walks on pin-point feet, and speaks with a Slovakian accent, hitting his consonants as if vowels were for sissies. He hires me, dubiously impressed by my “seventeen years” of experience. I am to work breakfast and lunch.

He instructs me to arrive early the next morning to fill out the necessary paperwork, and to wear black pants and a white shirt – a waiter’s jacket will be provided. He asks me where I live.

“I’m subletting a couch from a friend in Inwood.”

“Inwood? That’s way up there. Best bring a couple changes of clothes and a toothbrush.”

The toothbrush rattles me not, as people often comment on the state of my breath, but the change of clothes causes concern. I wonder, is this a come-on?

The morning of the following day, clothed in black and white, I’m assigned to trail Judy Ludlow, a short, emaciated waitress with thyroid eyes and treacherously long red hair. Judy snarls, “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 points across the room with a wrinkly hand that should have been attached to a septuagenarian. I try liking her, but she keeps 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 say unto myself, “What do you model? Farm implements?”

I trail Judy from a distance all morning and afternoon and learn nothing except that Judy does indeed eat. A lot. She eats the toast from the giant industrial toaster in the kitchen basement, shoving whole slices in her mouth when she thinks no one was looking. She scarfs down the food left over on customer’s plates. She gobbles martini olives by the handful. And she spends a lot of time in the bathroom.

I decide to quit after my first shift. I am, after all, still employed by the Opera Club…for a couple of weeks anyway. But before I can escape, Max announces a staff meeting in which all are expected to attend. I’ll be polite and attend – seeing that I’ve already filled out all the necessary paperwork. Afterwards, I’ll cop a free glass of wine and skedaddle home to Inwood, never to return.

Max announces at the meeting that what he has greatly feared has come to pass. A Transit Strike. All buses and subways are down. Yellow cabs and livery drivers acting in solidarity are out of service, as well. No one knows how long it will last. It could go on for months. Therefore, to provide the excellent service the Warwick Hotel is known for, all staff are confined to the hotel, until further notice. Rooms to be provided.

I have a decision to make. Walk two-hundred and fifty blocks to Inwood, or stay in luxury at the Warwick Hotel for the duration of the transit strike. I raise my hand and get called on by Max.

“Where’s my room,” I say.

That night I call the Opera Club from my spacious room on the fifteenth floor of the Warwick Hotel, and inform Martin I will not be returning to work, as I’ve taken a new job. Martin curses me with words he only uses during sex, and hangs up.

I spend 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.

“All is well,” I say unto myself.

Ten o’clock that night, the entire kitchen staff, reeking of grease, garlic, and hairy sweat, piles into my room. They announce that all thirteen of them are my roommates for the duration of the strike. Luis, the sous chef, sees the stunned look on my face.

“You thought you had the room to yourself, didn’t you?”

The kitchen staff sets up an all-night poker game and salsa party.

~~

The transit strike ends. I stay on.

Months and months go by, and one day, Max informs me that he’s so happy with my work he wants me to wait on his family. They’re coming in for a celebration later that day. I don’t know what they’re celebrating, but whatever it is, it’s thrilling…to them.

Max’s family likes me, and I like them. During our convivial reveries I spot Max smiling in the knowledge that he has done well to hire me. Time for a family toast. Max has chosen a delightful Asti Spumante. I pour eight glasses. Max tells me to pour myself a glass. I pour myself a double. I’m busy, so I down it quickly, on an empty stomach. Later, while serving the main course, the tray holding eight lobster dinners and eight ramekins of hot, melted butter; slowly and inexorably slips out of my grasp on its way to crashing onto Max’s table. To prevent that, I smash the entire tray against Sir Walter Raleigh‘s pantaloons.

Later, after the screaming dies down, I am unable to convince Max that I saved his family from severe butter burns. Max informs me that it will cost thousands to repair Sir Walter’s pantaloons.

The next day, I pick another neighborhood, and wander…