1985

I’m working the Sojourn Bar & Grill, a cavernous joint in the heart of the Theater District. The owner/manager, Sherry Feldcamp, once ran a lively spot on the Upper West Side, called Café Celebré. Wall-to-wall celebrities. You couldn’t swing a dead possum without hitting an Oscar nominee. Sherry closed Café Celebré and opened the Sojourn, convinced it would be a huge success. How could it not? All of her friends are famous.

Third week in and business sucks. We’re a staff of six; we’ve got decent food, loads of booze, but no real customers. A mere smattering of celebrities. I’m averaging $10 a night.

I’m in the kitchen, hanging with Spence the chef. He’s a Brit with crooked teeth, thatched hair, and a flat tummy. He’s telling me about his girlfriend, Kate. She works a nifty gig on the Upper West Side. Cheesy Italian joint. Part of a chain of restaurants run by a couple of goofball ex-hippies. A couple of successful goofball ex-hippies: Kate makes boatloads of cash.

“Ask her if they’re hiring,” I say.

PERRETTI’S ITALIAN CAFE

This is me in the sixth month of my thirty-third year on my first day working in an Italian restaurant on Colombus Avenue and 72nd Street. It’s my thirteenth restaurant job in nine years. That’s not normal. Francois once said, “Tedee, find a good gig…and stay there.” I’m in the basement. Basements are inherently lonely, and here I am, acutely lonely, surrounded by stillness and dust, hoping this job works out, praying it’s that ‘good gig.’

Kate who got me the job said every waiter has to scoop one tray of butter, because they go through a lot. She said: “We go through a lot of butter. So, go downstairs to the prep kitchen. Grab a large metal tray. Arrange forty-nine small plastic ramekins on it. Get one industrial tub of butter from the walk-in. Find the ice-cream scoop, and neatly scoop one ball of butter into each ramekin. Cover tray with foil. Store on a rack in the walk-in. Come upstairs for more training.”

I’m scooping the good scoop and smelling expensive flowers. I point my chin over my left shoulder and spy an immaculate female, about my age, dark blond, quietly pretty, wearing pressed jeans, a powder-blue cashmere sweater set, and a pearl choker. Kate said we can wear whatever we want on the floor, but this gal is dressed for afternoon tea with Madam Senator. She spots me and squeezes her lips into a tight little acorn. I do not know what sin I’ve committed, but she’s on to me. I need to be careful how I play this.

“Hello,” she says, “I didn’t know we were hiring.”

“It’s my first day,” I say.

“I see. I only have two shifts. What’s your name?”

“Ted.”

“I’m Scary.” She grabs a metal tray and slams it on the stainless steel table next to mine. I am obliged to move a foot to my left. “My name is Sally, but around here they call me Scary.”

“To your face?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“This is a restaurant. We give each other nicknames. I like mine. Keeps the weirdos at bay. How’d you get the job?” she says and picks up the bin holding the plastic ramekins and dumps exactly forty-nine onto the metal tray from a height. It’s a gatling gun.

“Kate recommended me,” I say, checking myself for bullet holes.

“How do you know Kate?”

“I work with…I used to work with her boyfriend, Spence. He’s a chef at – ”

“I know,” she says, cutting me off, “I met him. He works at that place with the movie stars. Did he really drag his penis across Madonna’s chicken satay?”

“No, he didn’t drag it –”

“All those movie stars. Why’d you leave?”

“The owner’s movie star buddies came every night, but she refused to cash in on them. One mention in Page Six would’ve packed the joint. Middle of Restaurant Row, one block from a dozen Broadway shows and we did five covers a night.”

“Yes, but all movie stars.”

“Five movie stars times three waiters equals possible eviction. Mine. Last week, Kate stopped by to pick up Spencer. I told her I couldn’t pay my rent She said you were hiring. And here I am, scooping her butter.”

“Kate always gets her trainees to do her side-work.”

“I don’t mind,” I say, “Gives me something to do.”

Scary warms slightly; I can tell because her shoulders drop an inch and she leans in, “Kate tricked me into scooping her butter for two weeks. It’s not right. I would never make the person I’m training do all my work. It’s a form of tyranny. She sits on her ass while you do all her work. She goes home with two-hundred dollars. You go home with nothing.”

“I get dinner, right?”

“Bowl of pasta.”

She clams up. Watches me scoop.

“You’re fast,” she says, impressed, I think.

I scoop three scoops in as many seconds. I say, “I began my career as a soda jerk.”

“I hate scooping,” she says.

Life being a transaction, I make my play. “If you want,” I say, “I’m almost finished. I can scoop your butter for you.”

“Absolutely not.” Her skin darkens from pure-white to eggshell. “I will not trick someone into doing my side-work. I am not Kate.”

“Are you sure? It’ll take me no time.”

Scary’s acorn tightens as she works it out: Stand firmly behind her liberal convictions and stick up for the underdog…or get out of scooping butter.

“It would be good practice,” she says.

“Yes, it would.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Like you said. Good practice.”

She hits me with steady blue eyes. “Don’t tell Kate you’re scooping my butter. We don’t need another waitress melt-down.” She walks to the door, turns, “We don’t need another waiter, either. But good luck.” She smiles – it’s disarming – then slips out, leaving behind an invisible eddy of Chanel N°5.

A tall, toothy, solid Nordic Blond appears in the spot where Scary just stood. She gives me a quick up-and-down, not subtle, but not intrusive, either. She smiles, a careful smile. She doesn’t hate what she sees. She zooms in for a closer look; her curiosity is infectious, and I am besotted. I want to tell her everything I know. Nordic eyes my first tray of butter; notices me scooping another…

“You’re scooping Sally’s butter, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good idea. She’s an actress, by the way. She just acts scary. In fact, that’s her nickname.”

“You guys call her ‘Scary’ to her face.”

“She loves it.”

“What do you call her behind her back?”

“Whitey.”

“She complained that she only has two shifts.”

“Because she only just started. I’ve been here a year. I’m Jill. I have three shifts. And I’m a Rhodes Scholar, so don’t ever yell at me.”

“Hi, Jill. I’m Ted.”

“How’d you get the job?”

“Kate. I worked with her boyfriend–”

Jill bleats, loud and deep, a hungry reindeer, “You worked at The Sojourn with Spence and the Movie Stars? I love celebrities. Did Spence really urinate in Madonna’s pea soup?”

“No. He may have accidentally-on-purpose burned Cher’s beef satay.”

“Oh no. Don’t tell me he burned Cher’s beef. I love Cher. I saw her in concert in Arkansas before she got famous again. Wait. Cher and Madonna were in the restaurant at the same time?

“Same table.”

“Cher was at Madonna’s table?!

“Yes. So was Sean Penn.”

“Ooooh, did he misbehave?”

“He and Madonna’s brother had a hair pulling contest.”

“Who won?”

“Madonna. She made them stop.”

“Who else?” she says, about to burst. “Who else was there?”

“Paul Stanley from Kiss.”

“Was he in make up?” Jill is loving this. Me, too.

“Not the black and white goop he wears on stage. But definitely blue eyeliner.”

“Who else?”

“Chastity.”

“Chastity? You actually saw Chastity? She’s hardly ever spotted in the wild. Was she fat?”

“Beefy.”

“British People said Chastity wants to be a boy. I think she’s fattening the cattle before she takes to the knife. You’re really good at scooping. I hate scooping. We all hate scooping.”

“What the hell, I’ll do yours, too.”

“It would be good practice.”

“That’s what Scary Whitey said.”

A short, red-headed meteorite flies in, trailing smoke. It’s a blur, but it appears female. The blur brakes mid-room, one hand on hip, greatly pissed off. And there she is, in focus, indeed a female, wearing an olive-green tank top, no bra, ruffled cowgirl skirt, clanking bangle bracelets, and dingy red combat boots. She spits out her cigarette. Lifts her arms. Clenches her hair. She hasn’t shaved her armpits in weeks and weeks.

“I can’t. I can’t,” she says.

“What’s wrong?” says Jill.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?

“I’m late. Leslie’s pissed. And I don’t have time to scoop butter.” She points at me. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Ted.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Scooping butter. He’s new.”

“Who’s he trailing? Not me!”

Time to speak for myself. “Kate,” I say. “I’m trailing Kate. I worked with her boyfriend, Spence. He’s the chef at The Sojourn–”

“I know Spence. He’s the only boyfriend of Kate’s I haven’t fucked. Is it true he shot a load in Sean Penn’s tenderloin?”

The image is stunning, but before I can respond, she’s halfway out the door.

“Thanks for scooping my butter.”

And, she’s gone.

“That was Flynn,” says Jill, “She’ll take time. Have patience.”

“I guess I’m scooping her butter.”

“Yes, you are. See you upstairs.” And Jill’s out the door, too.

I am alone again, but I’ve got plenty to do, no time for Weepy Ted. I finish Scary’s tray of butter and begin Jill’s. Floating dust flits about in expectant circles, heralding royalty, and another waitress enters. She walks slowly, a bird, maybe a sandpiper. She sees me, and turns away, not embarrassed or disgusted or annoyed, but because she has things to do before she confronts who I am and why am I scooping everyone’s butter? She doesn’t seem to mind being looked at, so I look. She’s petite, but sturdy, wearing high-waisted black chinos, and a semi-sheer white blouse. Her standout feature is her paper-cutting jawline. She’s got soothing eyes, hazel and feathery; but her bangs are unfortunate and her fingernails a disgrace. In the summing I’d say well-bred, but with diminished means. She carries four, maybe five cloth totes, which she carefully stows in the corner, one atop the other. Through her blouse I see her back muscles flex with the grace typical of dancers and tiny dockworkers. She removes a pair of black sneakers from one of her bags and drops them on the floor. They land perfectly in place. She slips out of her walking shoes and into the sneakers. She ties a frilly apron around her waist. The apron is stocked with pens that are topped with troll-doll heads blazing with Neon Red and Electric Yellow hair.

“Kate mentioned you,” she says, finally, “She said your name is Ted and that you have experience. Do you?”

“Yes, I do. I really do. This time.”

“Wait a minute. You’re not lying, are you? All Ted’s lie.”

“God’s honest truth.”

She fluffs the hair on her dolls. “Kate says you drink a lot.”

I nod yes and tell her I like her trolls.

She holds the red one up, twirls it until its hair settles into a soft peak. She winks at me. I’ve connected.

“I’m Richly. Richly French,” she says, “The girls have you scooping their butter?”

“Yes.”

“That’s mean,” she says, then takes a moment, “Well, you might as well scoop mine.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll probably only get one shift. Monday lunch. So listen to me. If one of us asks you to cover a shift, do it. Never say no. You’ll work a lot.”

“I’ll make a note of that.”

“Don’t forget. See you upstairs.”

Five trays of scooped butter later, I head upstairs for more training. At the top of the stairs, I run into the General Manager, the woman who hired me.

“Hello, Leslie,” I say.

“What are you doing here?” she says, head cocked, confused.

“Working.”

“Wrong day, kid. Your first day is tomorrow. Come early. I’ll start you scooping butter.”

Standing outside, looking in the restaurant’s wide front window, I see Richly at a table, taking an order. She sees me and points her troll doll at my crotch. I look down. My fly is open.

I zip-up, and wander off, thinking this might just be that ‘Good Gig.’