I

“…the Sweeter the Juice“

1982 – 8:45pm

OJ Simpson is in, dining with someone who might be his agent. Mr. Simpson dazzles in a slate gray Armani suit and expensive imitation alligator shoes. He is at once theatrically friendly and a presence not to be meddled with. Francois, not a football fan, but a devotee of African American men, is having a grand time waiting on him. I’ve never seen Francois this taken with a customer. After coffee and dessert, OJ rises, and asks Francois to point the way to the Men’s Room. Francois points. OJ thanks him and walks off with powerful strides. Francois, practically drooling, finds me. “Tedee,” he says, “come with me.” He drags me to the Men’s Room. Once there he says, “You are Bohemian. You have no shame. When he comes out, ask him to autograph us.”

Francois flattens his ear against the men’s room door.

Francois whispers, “He is pissing.” Then, “He zips.” Francois presses his ear harder against the door. “He buckles his belt. He is washing his hands. He is done. Allez! Stand back.”

We stand back. We are bobby-sockers waiting outside Frankie Sinatra’s dressing room. The door opens. Francois gasps. Standing before us is Herman Weintraub from table 42.

“Can I help you?” he says, annoyed we’re blocking his way.

“We’re here to clean the bathroom,” I say.

“You clean the bathroom in pairs?”

“I am teaching him,” Francois says.

“Then allow me to pass,” says Weintraub. He walks around us. We stare after him. Behind us we hear, “Excuse me, guys.” It’s OJ, having just exited the other bathroom. We’re standing in his way. Francois quivers under OJ’s mountainous shadow, unable to move. OJ takes him by the shoulders, lifts him, and deftly moves him to one side. He begins to walk off. I call to him.

“Mr. Simpson, will you sign an autograph for…um, my father?” (My father is not a fan – in fact, he hates OJ Simpson.) OJ says, “Sure. What’s his name?”

“Salvatore,” I say.

OJ signs my dupe pad. Francois holds out his pad and says, “This one is for my father.”

OJ says, “Sure thing, what’s your dad’s name?”

“Francois.”

OJ signs, places a giant mitt against the small of Francois’s back, and says, “Great service, by the way.” He smiles, revealing blazing white choppers. He walks back to his table.

Francois, caught up in a post-coitus haze, sighs, “For a man who tackles men for a living, he is very gentle.”

II

Way Way to Go Go

1981 – 7:00 pm

Francois and I stand at the top of the spiral staircase, greeting guests as they arrive. Cornelia Guest and her mother, CZ, are hosting a lavish pre-birthday dinner party for ‘Corny’ in our upstairs private dining room. One long table, approximately 20 or so guests. Cornelia is a bright, friendly, thoroughly charming and engaging young woman. Her mother is, well, her mother. While making the arrangements CZ repeatedly informed Francois and I that everyone on Cornelia Guest’s guest list is a very important VIP. Cornelia on the other hand is just so super-excited about her upcoming debutante ball she doesn’t seem to care who’s important or who’s not.

We nod to the passing guests. Francois whispers: “No one important yet, Tedee. Just pasty white people.” He’s right. It’s a parade of bleak blandness. I even smell moth balls.

Then international artist Andy Warhol mounts the last step, followed by international make-up artist Way Bandy. Francois clasps his hands, says, “Ah, finally,” and walks them to the table.

Way Bandy must have thought it was a masquerade ball because he’s dripping in velvet and has two perfectly placed smidgens of Victorian rouge on his rather high cheek bones, a regular Little Lord Fauntleroy. Warhol wears the same suit he may have worn to his First Holy Communion and carries a Kodak Instamatic camera like a clutch purse. The camera is topped with a Magicube, the kind that burns a permanent blue dot on the retina. Cornelia, radiant in a (Francois swears) vintage Balenciaga strapless gown, runs to Warhol.

“Andy, Andy–”

Andy snaps a picture, blinding Cornelia. She stumbles, blinks her way back to the moment, then snatches the camera from little Andy, placing it on the table near his place card.

“You’ll be sitting here, darling.” She turns to Mr. Bandy. “Way-Way, darling, you sit here, next to Andy.” She gives Way-Way a look that says, “Keep an eye on Andy.”

After air-kisses and cocktails, everyone sits, orders are taken, wine is served. We await the first course. I’m standing across from Warhol. He catches my eye. I mime holding a camera, and silently indicate for him to take my picture. Warhol lifts the Instamatic and aims it at me. I strike a subtle ‘look-I’m-waiting-on-Andy-Warhol’ pose. Way-Way, his eagle eye on Andy, puts a hand over the camera, lowers it, and mouths, “No.” Warhol looks at me and shrugs. The image of my Warhol print hanging in MOMA dissolves.

Francois walks by, “Nice try, Tedee, but you are no Marilyn Monroe. Allez. Appetizer’s are up.”