THE BOTEL — EARLY 80s

He catches me staring at his high heels. I can’t help it…they’re filthy.

“I’m breaking them in,” he says.

“They’re lovely,” I say. It’s my first time meeting with the chef-slash-manager, and I want to be agreeable.

“I’m not a drag queen,” he says vehemently, “I’m an entertainer! My stage name is Tess Cargót, but don’t call me that when I’m behind the line. Confuses me.”

He’s a short, bristly blond with skin the color of cake batter. Late 40s. Behind his frayed kitchen apron he wears a tattered tank top and British army underpants. He smells like an overripe casaba melon.

“What shall I call you?”

“Monday thru Friday it’s Malcom. Chef Malcom. On the weekends they call me Shirley.” To show he’s not kidding, he unscrews the small bottle of cocaine that hangs around his neck on a chain and snorts an ample spoonful.

“Got it…” – I try to remember what day it is – “…Chef Malcolm.”

“How much experience did you say you had?”

“Years. I lost track.”

“I ask because you come across as blatantly naive. And you’re wearing too much perfume. What is it, Hai Karate?”

“Aramis.”

“Lose it. Our owner doesn’t like aromatic waiters.”

“Who is the owner?”

“Did you see that old woman sitting out front in her big-boy muumuu?”

“You mean that old guy in the caftan who scowled at me?”

“Yes, that’s her. She’s the owner. I run the place. She collects and spends the dough. Her name is John Whyte. She was a top male model in her day. Still is, according to her, even though no one’s pointed a camera at her in decades. Try not to catch her eye. She’s vicious. She’ll rip you to shreds if she’s in a bad mood. I should know. She’s my ex-boyfriend twice removed. Every waiter has to work Tea Dance. It’s where you’ll make your money. Are you shy?

“Not that I’m aware–”

“Before Tea Dance, do fifty sit-ups and throw on a jock strap. Just a jock strap. You’ll clean up. Bruce works Tea Dance naked. Last summer he made enough dough to buy a minivan. Tea Dance starts in an hour. The only training you’ll need is as follows: Our drink specialty is the Blue Whale. I think it’s rum, blue curacao, and pineapple juice. ‘Bottoms’ love Blue Whales. ‘Tops’ drink beer, only. ‘Scat Queens’ prefer frozen Strawberry Daiquiris. I should know.”

“Scat queen? What’s a scat–”

“I have to take a dump. Wanna watch?”

“I think I’ll pass–”

“Suit yourself, and oh, Welcome to The Pines.”

~~

Shirley thinks I need more training, but Chef Malcolm says it’s time I faced the music, so he kicks me right into my first shift. A Tuesday afternoon. The Botel is never busy on weekdays. I’m by myself, working the deck. Weather is glorious. Sunny. Low humidity. About 70°. Technicolor-blue sky. White cotton-candy clouds. Salty sea breeze. I have two tables: a seven-top and a single lady. The single lady is sitting by herself at a table overlooking the bay, working on a cheeseburger and a diet coke. She’s African American, and stunning, decked out in a fancy silk headdress, sweeping caftan, and wrap-around sunglasses.

Parked at the seven-top is a gaggle of blond women, arguably in their forties, wearing bikinis stuffed with augmented breasts. They’ve ordered three Chef’s salads and seven plates. I place the salads on the table with some awkwardness, as purses, beach bags, and other rich-girl paraphernalia has been carelessly strewn about. No one lifts a manicured finger to help, because they are, all of them, staring at the bonny black lady.

“We need extra plates,” says a blond.

“They’re on their way,” I say.

“And extra dressing,” says another blond.

“I know,” I say.

“Do we get refills?” asks a blond.

“Iced-tea gets refills. Diet cokes do not,” I say.

“Doesn’t sound fair,” says a blond.

“It isn’t,” I say.

“They’re basically the same thing,” a blond says.

“Do tell,” I say.

“My husband’s in the business,” says a blond, “I know how much you people pay for diet coke. We’re entitled to free refills.”

“She’s not happy,” says the blond sitting next to her.

“Neither am I,” says the blond on the other side.

“I’ll mention your unhappiness to the manager,” I say.

“We need those plates,” says a blond.

“I’ll be right back.”

I fetch the plates, refill water glasses, and escape over to the single lady. I enjoy chatting with her. When she speaks it’s like she’s singing a lullaby for grown-ups; her voice soothes. We talk about the weather, books we’re reading, and the seven painfully thin, top-heavy blonds who keep staring at her.

“I’ll bet this is the closest they’ve ever been to a black woman,” she says.

“No. They’re jealous of your cheeseburger,” I say. The single lady and I chuckle together; her soft pulsating laugh causes me think about my mother, and I’m suddenly quite homesick. “You know, you have a lovely voice,” I say. “Even when you laugh. So melodious.”

“Thank you,” she says, “I like that word.”

“Melodious?”

“Yes. It sounds so–”

“Melodious?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever sing?”

“Occasionally.”

“Do you ever sing in public?”

Ten feet away, the blonds do a collective spit take.

“I’ll be appearing in Manhattan this Fall,” says the lady, on purpose ignoring the blonds.

“I live in Manhattan,” I say. “Where will you be singing? I’d love to come and hear you.”

“I’d like that. I’ll be appearing at Radio City Music Hall.”

“Radio City–? Wait. Who are you?”

“Roberta Flack.”

“Roberta ‘Killing me Softly’ Flack?”

She nods. She smiles.

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry I’m Roberta Flack, or sorry you didn’t know who I was?”

“Sorry I didn’t know who you were…are.”

“Believe me, it’s unbelievably refreshing,” she says, and looks over at the seven blonds.

“Oh, so that’s why they’re staring at you,” I say.

“I suppose. Oh, look. They’re waving,” says Roberta, “Better see what they want, hon, then bring me my check.”

I walk over to the band of blonds.

“We overheard,” says a blond.

“You had no idea she was Roberta Flack, did you?” says a blond.

“No, I did not. She’s very–”

“We need more dressing. And water.”

I get the blonds more dressing, refill their diet cokes to keep them happy, and walk a check over to Roberta. She pays, leaving a very nice tip. On her way out, she stops by the seven-top where I’m attempting to clear the plates without “accidentally” dropping a left-over Chef’s Salad on a blond lap. Roberta taps me on my shoulder —

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” she says, “I’ll see you in the city.” She turns to the blonds, “Goodbye, ladies. Make sure to tip your waiter. And don’t be stingy.”

She winks at me. The blond faces are puckering up, the novelty of a being in the presence of a mega-star having dissipated. Above, a threatening dark cloud looms. The breeze has ceased. The stillness is all-of-a-sudden and scary. It’s as if a spaceship with evil aliens has just landed.

“Uh-oh…something’s brewing,” says Roberta, and she’s gone. I’m tempted to run after her to ask her if I can be her private butler and serve her cheeseburgers all day, but the blonds call me over to tell me they’re not happy with the service, and to show me how much they’re not going to tip me.

My summer of fun has officially begun.