Rusty’s – 2014

My younger brother, Tommy, is diagnosed with an inoperable glioplastoma brain tumor. My family needs me. I give up my apartment, my NYC life, and move back to Scranton. Six months into my self-imposed exile, Tommy dies. My reason for returning home has evaporated into a depressing mist of sadness and despair. I’m fifty-eight years old, jobless, broke, living with my mother. I need something to lift me up. How about a job?

I have but one salable skill. Thirty-years of waiting on tables. I should get snapped up like that! I’ll find a good gig and show ‘em how it’s done.

I mean, how hard could it be?

So I wander…

But find nothing. Seems Scranton restaurants aren’t interested in waiters with thirty-years of experience.

Friday night, I’m in my local watering hole, well into my third glass of red wine. I tell the bartender my woes. She points to a guy at the other end of the bar, an elf-like fellow, short black curly hair, sad brown eyes, a grown-up Dondi. She tells me his name is Rusty; tells me he’s the chef at Rusty’s Italian Bistro; tells me it’s a two-star restaurant in this one-star town; tells me its been in existence for 30 years; tells me it’s owned and operated by Rusty and his mother, DeeDee; tells me DeeDee is known for being fierce; tells me Rusty’s employee turnover is huge.

My kind of joint.

I approach the guy. He’s annihilated. Gigi, a scrawny young woman with abnormally red lips holds him up.

I smile at him.

“Hey, there. What can I do you for?” he happily slurs.

“Work,” I say, adding, “I have thirty-years of experience.”

Gigi slips him a sneer. He tells me he can’t deal with me now, so why don’t I stop by his restaurant tomorrow afternoon for an interview.

I skip home.

Next day I walk into Rusty’s kitchen. Rusty’s behind the line, prepping; he has no idea who I am. I remind him that he told me to swing by for an interview.

“I did?”

“Yes, but, listen, if this is a bad time, I can come back…”

“No, no…it’s okay. I guess you’re hired. Come back Monday and report to Donna. She’s the head waitress. She’ll train you.”

Monday afternoon. I walk down the hill to Rusty’s. From the outside it’s fraying around the edges a bit, peeling paint, cracked plaster. Inside, it’s gloriously old-fashioned, quaint murals of Italy, Chianti bottle candle holders, a not-unpleasant though pungent aroma of stale garlic, a restaurant’s body odor.

I spy Donna. She’s waiting for me. She’s about my age, blond page-boy, skinny legs, bulgy knees. Maybe ninety-eight pounds. She sports a black blouse, black skirt, black apron, black tights. A career waitress. Arms folded, she gives me a quick scan and takes me on a tour of the dining rooms. There are three: Front, Back, and Bar.

I ask her about table numbers.

“We don’t do table numbers here.”

And I say: “Um – er – what?”

“We don’t do table numbers here,” she repeats.

And again I say: “Um – er – what?”

“Tell me your name again?”

“Ted,” I say.

“I need you to pay attention, Teddy.”

“It’s Ted,” I say.

“So, Teddy, like I said, twice, we don’t do table numbers here. When you’re ready for your table, simply tell Rusty that you’re ready for your table. You’ll need to describe which table you’re talking about. For example: ‘I’m ready for my table with the two Grilled Salmons and the Shrimp Scampi,’ if that’s what the order is. Or you might say, ‘Rusty, I’m ready for my two-top with the cheese ravioli and linguine white clam.’ We have two clams sauces, by the way, red and white, don’t mix them up or DeeDee’ll get mad. You have to warn Rusty if you’re dealing with meat…by that I mean anything with a temperature. You need to tell Rusty that you’ll soon be ready for whatever it is you will soon be ready for. You’ll say, Rusty, I’m almost ready for my table with the steak, or the prime-rib or the lamb chops, or whatever…this way Rusty knows to begin warming up your steak, or prime rib or lamb chops, or whatever. Now if Rusty’s off golfing, Anthony will be behind the line…you can’t miss him, he only has three fingers on each hand. He’s nuts…he thought the electric meat slicer was having an affair with his wife and attacked it while it was on ‘thick slice.’ They keep him around here out of pity, or else he has something on them…anyway, and this is important, before dealing with Anthony, you have to ask him who he is. Besides being nuts he has multiple personality disorder. There’s four or five people banging around inside his skull. If he’s Doctor Death, leave the kitchen immediately and call 911…if he’s Peter the Pelvis, tell him you’d rather speak with Connie…she’s his nicest persona and still has a part of her brain left….now the point is…whoever is behind the line, be it Rusty or Anthony the one-man-herd, make sure you communicate what you need, otherwise you’ll screw up the kitchen’s timing…you’ll screw up your timing…you’ll screw up everybody’s timing…and DeeDee will get mad.”

Donna walks me to the bar.

“As you can see, this is the bar. Never never never go behind the bar during service. Migs will kick your ass. Babs goes behind the bar all the time, because she knows Migs won’t hit an old woman. But you…he’ll kick your ass. Write your drink orders on a dupe and put it here. Make sure Migs knows. Say, ‘ordering’ or something. Don’t scream it. Say it. Migs will make the drinks and put them there. Don’t let them sit there for long, though. No more than thirty-seconds. Otherwise DeeDee’ll get mad.”

“Are you talking to yourself?”

“I think so. Maybe.”

“Well, keep it down. I don’t want you disturbing customers. You should know our customers think they’re movie stars, especially the ones who’ve been coming here for years. We have a ton of doctors and lawyers, politicians and judges, and one priest who packs a .38 caliber special. You have to know how to handle him, otherwise, you might get shot…and DeeDee’ll get mad.”

I really say unto myself: Honey, I can handle a priest with a pistol. I know what I’m doing. I’ve waited on Kings and Queens. Kennedys and Kramdens. Presidents and Pedophiles. I’ve waited on every religion known to science. Catholics and Jews. Muslims and Hindus. Satanists and Sex addicts. Lutherans even. I’ve worked weddings. Christenings. Bar Mitzvahs. Birthdays. Funerals. First dates. Last dates. Break-ups. Engagements. Divorces. Sweet Sixteen. I catered Brises for Christ’s sake. I was the Bris king of Mid-Town Manhattan. Temple Hessed made me an honorary mohel.

“Rusty tells me you waited on tables in Manhattan for thirty-years. If I were you, I wouldn’t talk about it. This is Scranton. You’ll sound all ‘know-it-all,’ and DeeDee’ll get mad.”

But I can circumcise people.

“See this big knife. Be careful with it. This is the bread station.”

We’re at a stainless-steel table with a large cutting board that looks like it’s been hacked to death by large predatory birds.

“We only have one busboy. We call him Bow-Wow, because he looks like…well, we call him Bow-Wow, but not to his face. Never to his face. To his face we call him Francis, even though his real name is Jack. He’s here on Saturday only. He’ll bread your tables, but you gotta keep reminding him. Otherwise he hides out back, smoking other people’s cigarettes. Which reminds me, don’t leave your cigarettes laying around…or any medication. Now, the rest of the week, Sunday through Friday, you get your own bread. Two slices per customer. You have to heat it. You cut it like this. Slice. Slice. Slice. Then put it in that toaster oven over there. Don’t stick your bread in and walk away. You’ll forget about it, your bread will burn, and DeeDee’ll get mad. Wait for it. Takes about thirty seconds. When it’s so hot you can’t touch it, pick it up and put it in a basket with crackers and bread sticks. Three bread sticks per customer. Just three. DeeDee’ll stop you and count the sticks. If she counts more than three per person, she’ll get mad.”

I’m a four-star waiter. I know how to take care of my people. If someone wants an extra freaking bread stick, I’m going to give it to them…dammit!

“Take the menu home. Study it, but bring it back. We’re short. I realize that all of this is a lot to take in on your first day. Don’t worry. You won’t get a table for at least a week. So watch and learn. I have a plan for you. In the meantime, stay out of everybody’s way, otherwise, DeeDee’ll get mad.”

She stares at me, waiting for me to say something.

“Don’t you have any questions?”

“Yes. What do you mean, you don’t do table numbers?!!!!!”