A life in the theater is easier to achieve than a life in film…or so I think. So I apply and land a job at Charlie’s, a legendary Broadway hangout. A poor man’s “21.” To work there is to mingle with theatrical luminaries and their assistants. Maybe I’ll impress David Merrick with my three-star service. Maybe I’ll befriend Uta Hagen and become her closest confidante because I make her chortle with glee. Maybe I’ll write a play.

CHARLIE’S

mid-80s

I train for the requisite two days. My first shift is a Monday lunch, and my first customer just sat. Confidence is high. I’ve been at this waiting-on-tables business for five years now. You can handle this, I say unto myself. You can handle anything…except…except…what if my first customer is somebody really important in this crazy show-biz world I now find myself working in? What if I screw up? What if he–

“Go get ‘em, Tiger,” says Frankie D.

“I’m ready.”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not ready.”

“It’s one guy. Nobody important.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s 11:30 in the morning. Nobody important comes in here before three in the afternoon. You’ll be fine.”

Frankie D is a good kid. He’s also an opera singer. Or so he claims. I’ve not heard him sing. Nice enough speaking voice, although how anyone so young and skinny can sing opera is beyond me, and I know opera, having worked at the best opera house in the world for three months. Frankie D and I are the only waiters scheduled. No matinee today. Matinees are five-waiter days. Today is just a regular day in a mid-town theatrical watering hole. I grab ice-water and a basket of bread, and make for the table. It’s all the way in the corner, exactly where I would sit if I was sitting here by myself.

My guy is in his 60s, tall, balding, thick glasses, long legs that jutt into the aisle. He sports a clean white tee under a well-worn cardigan, jeans, and expensive old man shoes. Rumpled, but well-off. An air of dissatisfaction surrounds him. He’s bent over the table reading a slim volume. Nothing important about him. Just a grumpy Gus with a book. Must have wandered in by mistake.

“Good evening, sir,” I say, still on evening-shift time.

The guy looks at his watch, then at me. He has helpless, misty eyes. Or maybe he needs to clean his glasses. He cocks his head, feigning confusion, and looks down at his watch again. Ah, a perfectionist.

“I mean, good morning, sir.”

The guy nods, as if to say, “better.”

“Would you like something to drink before din, er, lunch?”

“Tea. Make sure it’s hot,” he returns to his book.

“Yes, sir.”

Most restaurants keep a pot of hot water on the back coffee burner for tea, but in my experience, it’s never hot enough. Mr. Time Keeper will certainly reject it. I grab an individual teapot – one of those little metal jobbies – drop in a teabag, fill it with the not-so-hot water, then walk it behind the line and put it directly under the Salamander/broiler. On a tray I place a cup, saucer, spoon, lemon wedge and a couple of creamers. I wait exactly one minute, and, with a napkin, carefully remove the teapot from the heat. The teapot is so hot it burns through the napkin. I secure the teapot on the tray, and head for the table.

“Here you go, sir,” I say, and set the teapot, cup and saucer in front of my guy. “Use your napkin to pour. It’s damn hot.”

The guy squints, his eyebrows meet above his nose – it’s clear he’s never heard a waiter say, “damn.” He grabs the teapot with naked fingers, quickly whips his hand back, placing it on his lap, out of sight.

“Told you,” I say, emboldened by the fact that he’s too old to hit me.

“That you did. What’s the soup today?”

“We have two. Split Pea and Chicken Noodle.”

“How’s the Pea Soup?”

“Coagulated. You could hang wall paper with it.”

I’ve not seen the pea soup. But Francois taught me that’s it’s sometimes okay to warn a customer not to order a certain item—even though it’s probably perfectly okay—because it makes the customer feel as if he’s being well-looked after, as if he’s in on the secret.

“How’s the Chicken Noodle?”

“Fresh this morning.”

It wasn’t, but he’ll never know.

“I’ll take it.”

“Bowl or cup?”

“Bowl. Extra crackers. Lots of noodles.”

Serving soup is easy. Grab a bowl. Under-line it with a plate. Ladle the soup. Line the under-liner with crackers. I do so, making sure to get lots of guts, that is, noodles. I walk the soup to the table. The guy has his fingers in the ice-water. He sees me, removes his fingers, and re-places his hand on his lap. I set the soup in front of him, and wait, like Jeeves. The guy looks at the soup, nods, digs in. I nod back, and walk away.

So far, not bad…

Minerva, floor manager and non-apologetic star-fucker, arrives later than his usual lateness. Removing his jacket, he scans the dining room. No reaction until he spies the guy sitting alone in the corner. His eyes pop. The shock of what he sees almost knocks him over. He drops his jacket on a table, and hightails it to Frankie D.

“Who has table 101?”

“The new guy,” says Frankie D.

“The new guy? Are you nuts?”

Minerva trundles over to me and quivers in place. His real name is Mervin. Chubby, 40, dressed like the oldest member in a glee club, he’s an actor-singer-dancer who never acted, sang, or danced in any show, anywhere, but somehow got an Equity Card and the attitude to go with it. I learn later that they call him Minerva after “Mrs. Miniver,” because his demeanor is that of a crusty old woman living through a war. He’s currently battling with his hairline.

“I’ll bring the check to 101,” Minerva squawks,” got it?”

“I’m sorry, what–?”

“When table 101 is ready for his check, I will bring it. I’m not kidding. Don’t fuck with me on this.”

“Okay,” I say, and back up, not from fear, but because Minerva’s breath smells like an open grave.

Frankie D gets a party of four business-folks, and snaps to it with ease and grace. All I have is my single. Nothing to do but wait discreetly, and keep an eye on Minerva keeping an eye on my one table. Twenty minutes later, the guy finishes his soup, sits back, and sticks his fingers back in the ice water. I casually approach the table.

“More tea?” I ask.

“No!” the guy says, practically shouting in alarm.

“Something else? Burger. Tuna sandwich?”

“No. Soup was enough,” he says, calming down.

I’m feeling close to the guy, so I ask, “What are you reading?”

“Garbage,” he says, and holds up a battered copy of “Death of a Salesman.”

“Oh, that. I never saw it.”

“Indeed…you and the other half of the globe.”

“I’m sorry?”

“China is about to get an earful. Check. Please.”

I find Frankie D, and ask for help, as it’s my first ever check for Charlie’s. Together we add the soup to the tea…tack on NY State sales tax….staple calculator slip to check. I slip it inside a plastic check-presenting tray, and call Minerva over.

“101 wants his check.”

Minerva smooths all three of his hairs and grabs the check. He walks to table 101 as if he’s in a royal procession. I watch him place the check on the table; watch him back up two paces; watch him genuflect.

Frankie D, watching with me, says, “What the fuck is she doing?”

Minerva spews incoherent, but desperate words of praise to the poor guy. My guy says, “Thanks,” and hands Minerva an American Express card. Minerva takes the card and sprints it back to me. I run it. Minerva grabs it, and is off. He places the check on my guy’s table like he’s presenting a baby to King Solomon. My guy signs the check, looking up with ill-disguised disgust. Minerva genuflects once more, then scoots off.

My guy rises and gathers his coat. I help him with it.

I say, “So, did the host just genuflect before you?”

“That he did,” he says with finality.

“Sorry about that. He probably mistook you for a saint.”

“I get that a lot,” he says and holds out his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back. What’s your name?”

I take his hand; it’s firm like a catcher’s mitt, “I’m Ted. Ask for me next time. I’ll keep the supplicants at bay.”

“I will, Ted” he says. He turns to go, but stops, turns back, like there was something he missed; something he needs to get to the bottom of. He says, “Most of these guys here don’t want to be here. They want to act. Sing. I guess dance. What about you?”

His query takes me by surprise. When taken by surprise I often sound like a duck-billed platypus singing the National Anthem. I manage to spit out, “I’m thinking about writing a play…maybe?”

He leans in and suggests I heat up a pair of knitting needles and jam them into my eyes. “It’ll have the same effect,” he says. Then he pokes me in the chest, and walks out.

Minerva’s in my face again, spewing cadaverous halitosis.

“What did he say to you? What did he say to you?”

“He wanted to know my name.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Of course, I did.”

“He didn’t ask me for my name.”

“When he comes in again, I’ll introduce you.”

“Don’t you– How dare you? Do you know who that was?”

“Just some rumpled guy with a book,” I say.

“That was Arthur Miller. You just waited on Arthur Miller, the greatest playwright ever, living and or dead.”

I look at the signed Amex slip. “Your Mr. Miller is a lousy tipper.”

Minerva snatches the check, and huffs off. Frankie D calls to me as he passes by with an armload of burgers.

“You got Joey Heatherton and friends on 303.”

“The Joey Heatherton? I thought you said no one important comes in before three.”

“Tell that to Joey.”