A Note Before Reading: This is the final installment of a three-part essay. To begin at the beginning, go here.
+++
And so the beading continued. And as boutiques, galleries and museum stores began to take my memory wire bracelets on consignment, I expanded my horizons – creating earrings, necklaces, and clasp bracelets. I even gave in ultimately to the pressure of popular culture – I created a website.
It would be a while, though, before I would learn what the foray into jewelry design was about for me. And during that year (plus) of being immersed in glass beads – calmed by their colors, shapes and feel – I would learn what love and neighbors are about….
… Running downstairs and knocking on Tim’s door. I’ve got a date in ten minutes, but because I’ve just put lotion on my hands, I can’t maneuver the clasps on the bracelets I want to wear. Tim answers the door with a towel around his waist. He was just about to step into the shower – but, like the brother I never had, he answers the call. Fumbling (as guys do), he manages the clasps. He settles my nerves and wishes me “Godspeed” on my date. Were it not for the precariously draped towel, he would accompany that wish with a hug…
… Going to Debbi’s the morning after the big break-up conversation. Sitting on her couch and drinking coffee. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. “You didn’t drag it out.” Her tears for me, her tears for the process, allow me to cry, too…
… Calling Julie during one of those weeks in the middle. “I’m confused,” I say. “I need to talk this out.” Julie responds in a tone that goes with her cowboy curtains. “Come on down,” she says. By the time I get to her apartment, the bottle of Jack Daniels is on the table. Julie pours and listens. She asks the right questions. Her observations are so wise…
+++
September 11, 2001. I have a dental appointment, and because it’s a morning appointment, I am running late. I almost don’t notice the flashing light on my answering machine, but when I do, I decide to play it – quickly, before dashing out.
“Katie, oh God, it’s Deb – Are you up? Oh my God – I thought of you ‘cause of New York – Oh my God – the Trade Center’s been hit. And the Pentagon. Oh my God. This is major.”
Click.
But, it doesn’t click.
I have no idea what she was talking about in the message that was recorded while I was in heavy R.E.M.
I continue out the door, figuring I’ll stop by her place on my way to the dentist.
The front door to her first-floor apartment is slightly ajar. I push it open. “Deb?” I call. No response. But her TV is on. I stand there in her living room, looking at a shot of downtown Manhattan in a cloud. I don’t even know what I’m looking at. I cannot possibly process this.
I wonder where Debbi is, and for some reason, I still think I’m going to the dentist’s office. I head to the carport in the back. She and neighbor Kate are just returning from Starbuck’s.
“Can I use your phone?” I ask Deb. (I don’t want to go back to my apartment. Having seen people, I suddenly realize I need them.)
“Of course,” Deb responds. “Did you see – ?”
We go back into her apartment, and I call my dentist’s office. No problem cancelling – they’re closing up anyway. I then call my friend, Sue, with whom I am supposed to meet later regarding the book we’re working on. When I tell her I’m not coming over, that I’m not going anywhere, she’s disappointed. “Turn on your TV,” I tell her. “You’ll understand.”
Dan arrives, he and Debbi having recently made amends. It’s so good to see him, to get a Dan hug.
By mid-day, we’re all gathered around Deb’s TV. Julie had insisted on going to work at the hotel, but Tim’s there, and Sara. Kate pops in and out. We’re just looking at the screen, trying to process the event.
Suddenly, in the spirit of Elizabeth, we decide to pool our resources for a pot-luck. We all grab whatever’s appropriate from our respective refrigerators, and soon, we have a meal, complete with wine and beer. And when we need more wine and beer (and God knows, we will), we run down to the corner.
Together, we get through the day.
Later that night, I go into Deb’s kitchen to do some dishes. I need to get away from the television. As I begin soaping plates and glasses, something inside me opens up and allows me to feel. I turn off the water and quietly take myself outside, through Deb’s kitchen door. I sit on the short wall that borders the driveway, and I let myself bawl like a fucking baby.
After a few minutes, Julie comes out to see if I’m okay. “I thought you’d be out here crying,” she says, as she gives me a hug.
+++
I hope never again to experience the disorientation that was September 11th. But if I must, I hope I’m again surrounded by people I love. There is no other way to handle such a day.
But I’ve also learned from the neighbors who have become my friends that it’s not just a day like September 11th that one should have to handle alone. It’s any day. Because, on any day, your sense of balance might be thrown; your sense of the future might feel completely up for grabs; your sense of yourself might lose its context. And when that happens, it’s good to have people around you who never had to love you, but who chose to – over time.
+++
Sometimes, when I’m in my apartment, I’ll hear my neighbors chatting outside, and I’ll decide to join them. Other times when I hear them, I’ll decide to stay in. This is the privacy I always craved; the privacy I once thought was synonymous with being an unfriendly neighbor. This is respect and unconditional love. We place no requirements on our friendships. We have no expectations. We just happen to be there for each other. And the reality of that, which is bigger than all of us, enables each of us to grow in amazing ways.
***
2011 Postscript: This essay reflects an era that’s come and gone. With the exception of Tim, all referenced neighbors have moved away (though Deb and Julie remain dear friends). Several years ago, Jack sold the building to Stanley (an angel of a landlord), and last year, Stanley sold the building to some Not-a-Person, LLC. And so my building has become typical. I am blessed, though, for having “lived here when.” Few people get such an enchanting experience of love, spirit, and spontaneity. I will always be grateful for the timing.
Showing posts with label Manhattan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Manhattan. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Audio Moves
I am 53 years old, and I’m not sure what that means.
When I was a kid, 53 was “getting up there.”
When I was a kid, few people made it into their 90’s.
These days, I may or may not be middle-aged. I’m just not sure. In my heart, I feel incredibly young. Some days, in fact, I feel that I’m just “playing office” or “making house.” Some days, I look around the home I’ve established (an apartment, granted), and I wonder, When did I get to be so grown up? Who told me I should put those spoons in that drawer?
And then there are those other moments – those moments when I arise from the couch – and I hear the noise of my age.
I hear the noise… a noise that says, I’m standing up now.
When did I start doing that?
When did I start providing a soundtrack to my ups and downs?
… Back in 2008, I had the resources and time to take a wonderful trip back east. It began in New York and ended in Virginia. It spanned three weeks.
While I was in NYC, I moved about. I spent the first two nights with some friends in Queens. Then, I cashed in some Amex points for two nights at a Radisson on West 33rd. And I spent the final two nights with some college buddies who always have room for me at their place. (Their place happens also to be on 33rd , but in their case, it’s the east side.)
During one of my Radisson days, I’d made arrangements to hook up with my friend Alyssa – another college buddy. She agreed to meet me at my hotel, and we’d take it from there. I emerged that morning and told her that I had two interests: either the World Trade Center site downtown or our old campus stomping grounds uptown.
Alyssa (perhaps influenced by her own emotions) shared that there was not much to see at Ground Zero. We headed north.
During our walk up Broadway, we had a great time catching up, and the eighty-plus blocks passed by quickly. Before we knew it, we’d arrived at the famous Columbia gates, and we entered College Walk.
The Columbia campus is something to behold. Remarkably imposing buildings. At the south end, Butler Library – with its columns and with the names chiseled into its façade: Homer. Herodutus. Sophocles. Plato. Aristotle. Demosthenes. Cicero. Vergil.
And facing Butler is Low Library, a domed structure that rises above the rest – the campus centerpiece.
Between the two, and leading up to Low, are “the steps.”
The Steps.
Just north of College Walk, there is a group of about seven steps. Then, after a bit of even pavement, scored with a nice brick design, there are probably 30 or so more steps.
Back in the day, that first group of seven was the place to meet.
Those were The Steps.
Back in the day, we’d plan to hook up with our friends between classes.
We’d hook up on the steps.
And more often than not, we’d pass a joint. That’s what the steps were about back then.
The Steps.
… So when Alyssa and I entered College Walk, just three years ago, we each were probably entertaining memories. (I know I was.)
And when we decided to just sit down and take it in for a minute, we were both feeling nostalgic.
We climbed three or four rows up.
Then, we readied ourselves to sit.
As we descended into our positions, we each made a noise.
Once we had settled, I turned to my friend.
“Alyssa,” I said, “I think they lowered the steps.”
When I was a kid, 53 was “getting up there.”
When I was a kid, few people made it into their 90’s.
These days, I may or may not be middle-aged. I’m just not sure. In my heart, I feel incredibly young. Some days, in fact, I feel that I’m just “playing office” or “making house.” Some days, I look around the home I’ve established (an apartment, granted), and I wonder, When did I get to be so grown up? Who told me I should put those spoons in that drawer?
And then there are those other moments – those moments when I arise from the couch – and I hear the noise of my age.
I hear the noise… a noise that says, I’m standing up now.
When did I start doing that?
When did I start providing a soundtrack to my ups and downs?
… Back in 2008, I had the resources and time to take a wonderful trip back east. It began in New York and ended in Virginia. It spanned three weeks.
While I was in NYC, I moved about. I spent the first two nights with some friends in Queens. Then, I cashed in some Amex points for two nights at a Radisson on West 33rd. And I spent the final two nights with some college buddies who always have room for me at their place. (Their place happens also to be on 33rd , but in their case, it’s the east side.)
During one of my Radisson days, I’d made arrangements to hook up with my friend Alyssa – another college buddy. She agreed to meet me at my hotel, and we’d take it from there. I emerged that morning and told her that I had two interests: either the World Trade Center site downtown or our old campus stomping grounds uptown.
Alyssa (perhaps influenced by her own emotions) shared that there was not much to see at Ground Zero. We headed north.
During our walk up Broadway, we had a great time catching up, and the eighty-plus blocks passed by quickly. Before we knew it, we’d arrived at the famous Columbia gates, and we entered College Walk.
The Columbia campus is something to behold. Remarkably imposing buildings. At the south end, Butler Library – with its columns and with the names chiseled into its façade: Homer. Herodutus. Sophocles. Plato. Aristotle. Demosthenes. Cicero. Vergil.
And facing Butler is Low Library, a domed structure that rises above the rest – the campus centerpiece.
Between the two, and leading up to Low, are “the steps.”
The Steps.
Just north of College Walk, there is a group of about seven steps. Then, after a bit of even pavement, scored with a nice brick design, there are probably 30 or so more steps.
Back in the day, that first group of seven was the place to meet.
Those were The Steps.
Back in the day, we’d plan to hook up with our friends between classes.
We’d hook up on the steps.
And more often than not, we’d pass a joint. That’s what the steps were about back then.
The Steps.
… So when Alyssa and I entered College Walk, just three years ago, we each were probably entertaining memories. (I know I was.)
And when we decided to just sit down and take it in for a minute, we were both feeling nostalgic.
We climbed three or four rows up.
Then, we readied ourselves to sit.
As we descended into our positions, we each made a noise.
Once we had settled, I turned to my friend.
“Alyssa,” I said, “I think they lowered the steps.”
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Mom's Ex-Boyfriend
I should say it, right from the start: I’m taking liberties with the label.
They weren’t an “item,” as it were. Mom simply dated him. It was the late 40’s, and she was living in Manhattan. She was sharing an apartment with college friends, and because she had not yet met Dad, she was enjoying the company of a number of men. Back then, apparently, men and women dated a variety of others. They weren’t all focused on establishing exclusivity, so calling him her "ex-boyfriend" is stretching it a bit.
Still, though, they dated. And they dated enough for her to mention his name when she wrote in her journal during an oceanic voyage to Europe in 1948.
I once read that journal entry, where she compared him to a man on the ship. But aside from that, I don’t have too many details. I remember only Mom’s sharing with me that, at the time of their going out, he was at a loss for what to do with his life. Still in his early 20’s, he was considering becoming a rabbi. That, or maybe something else. He wasn’t sure.
He also told Mom a story once, and it was quite amusing. You see, when he was a child, he had surgery that resulted in his getting a glass eye, and perhaps because that acquisition began at such a young age, he ended up with more than one ocular back-up. And for some reason and at one point, he needed to use the eye that was kept at his mother’s in Ossining. So he let her know that he wished to retrieve it.
“Oh, no!” his mother responded. “That’s your Bar Mitzvah eye!”
...When Mom returned from her trip to Europe, Dad was waiting for her. And shortly after that reunion, they made plans to marry. They were living in Greenwich Village before and after their April 1950 wedding, and it was around that time that Mom ran into her “ex.”
He was in the neighborhood because he was taking classes at the New School. (Still unsure of his future; still trying to find himself.)
He also was strapped for cash.
When he asked Mom if he could borrow five dollars, she didn’t think twice. She went into her wallet, extracted the bill, and handed it to him.
And that was the last time my Mom saw Peter Falk.
She's always remembered him fondly.
July 2nd Postscript: I stand corrected. I'm not sure how the story became urban legend, but it did. I just spoke with my mother on the phone, and learned -- after 30 or so years of believing what I stated -- that I got the story wrong. Peter borrowed the $5 from her back when the two were dating. They were at a pizza place, and he was short on cash. A few days later, he dropped by the office where she worked, and he paid her back. Let the history books be written accordingly, and my apologies for getting it wrong!
They weren’t an “item,” as it were. Mom simply dated him. It was the late 40’s, and she was living in Manhattan. She was sharing an apartment with college friends, and because she had not yet met Dad, she was enjoying the company of a number of men. Back then, apparently, men and women dated a variety of others. They weren’t all focused on establishing exclusivity, so calling him her "ex-boyfriend" is stretching it a bit.
Still, though, they dated. And they dated enough for her to mention his name when she wrote in her journal during an oceanic voyage to Europe in 1948.
I once read that journal entry, where she compared him to a man on the ship. But aside from that, I don’t have too many details. I remember only Mom’s sharing with me that, at the time of their going out, he was at a loss for what to do with his life. Still in his early 20’s, he was considering becoming a rabbi. That, or maybe something else. He wasn’t sure.
He also told Mom a story once, and it was quite amusing. You see, when he was a child, he had surgery that resulted in his getting a glass eye, and perhaps because that acquisition began at such a young age, he ended up with more than one ocular back-up. And for some reason and at one point, he needed to use the eye that was kept at his mother’s in Ossining. So he let her know that he wished to retrieve it.
“Oh, no!” his mother responded. “That’s your Bar Mitzvah eye!”
...When Mom returned from her trip to Europe, Dad was waiting for her. And shortly after that reunion, they made plans to marry. They were living in Greenwich Village before and after their April 1950 wedding, and it was around that time that Mom ran into her “ex.”
He was in the neighborhood because he was taking classes at the New School. (Still unsure of his future; still trying to find himself.)
He also was strapped for cash.
When he asked Mom if he could borrow five dollars, she didn’t think twice. She went into her wallet, extracted the bill, and handed it to him.
And that was the last time my Mom saw Peter Falk.
She's always remembered him fondly.
July 2nd Postscript: I stand corrected. I'm not sure how the story became urban legend, but it did. I just spoke with my mother on the phone, and learned -- after 30 or so years of believing what I stated -- that I got the story wrong. Peter borrowed the $5 from her back when the two were dating. They were at a pizza place, and he was short on cash. A few days later, he dropped by the office where she worked, and he paid her back. Let the history books be written accordingly, and my apologies for getting it wrong!
Monday, May 9, 2011
Monday Reruns: 20 Years Later
(original post-date: May 5, 2010)
This month marks my 20th year living in Los Angeles, and Los Angeles also is the place where I have lived the longest.
Although I was born in Connecticut, most of my first 17 years were in Virginia, under the care of my parents (granted, that care was rather remote during my three years in boarding school).
From Virginia, I went to New York, where I would experience my four years of college life within the confines of university housing. Thereafter, there were about seven years of apartment-sharing with roommates.
Then, I met a man with a lease, and I fell in love (not with his lease, mind you).
For a while, the man and I shared his lease in a dismally unpopular area of upper Manhattan. After we married, we moved to a better neighborhood in Brooklyn. Nearly three years into our marriage, we loaded our worldly possessions into a 15-foot rental truck, doused the cats with the prescribed dosage of Dr. Goodpet’s Homeopathic Stress Drops, and drove across the country.
I don’t want to talk about the first L.A. apartments my ex and I shared. We ran a bit of a gamut until we figured it was the marriage, not us, that needed to be “moved.” Suffice it to say, where I live now is the place I moved to when I ended that marriage. Where I live now is the place I’ve lived longer than any other place in my life.
So, here I am, in a place that I have got to call home.
What makes it so?
Something that struck me early after moving to L.A. is that this city is so many things. Unlike New York, which is in your face the minute you walk out into it, L.A. is – potentially – whatever you want it to be.
Are you a surfer-dude? Live in Venice. You’ll find your ilk.
Like shopping? An apartment near the Americana in Glendale will probably work well for you.
Need quiet? Tuck yourself away in some corner of the Valley or find a place in a remote area of Brentwood.
I’ll admit that for the first four years of my living here (i.e., before I ended my marriage and landed in Los Feliz), I was giving serious thoughts to moving back east. It just didn’t feel right to me. But now, I’m in the ‘hood I need to be in. It’s urban. It’s diverse. It’s not altogether safe. It’s alive.
I love my Los Angeles.
It’s funny. In New York, with the hustle and bustle of so many people cramped together on so small an island, you don’t have to define yourself beyond simply being a New Yorker. And if you can just get through your day, make it home, and remember to pick up the dry cleaning, you are an activist.
Los Angeles, an equally populated city, is utterly different from that.
I recall a line from Kramer vs. Kramer in which the Meryl Streep character, during the courtroom scene, referred to moving to California “to find myself.” Within the context of that movie (and perhaps because I first heard it from a Manhattan movie theatre seat), the concept of finding oneself in California sounded very touchy-feely. Like the character had probably gone to some commune in the Big Sur area. Perhaps engaged in some activities meant to release energies otherwise trapped in an inhospitable chakra.
But there is some truth to the concept of “finding oneself” in California. And it doesn’t all relate to East Coast prejudices about this wacky state that’s likely to fall off the continent following the next big tremor…
When I arrived in Los Angeles, I knew only one thing about myself: I was a New Yorker.
And, guess what? Los Angeles didn’t give a shit!
And so… I had “to find myself.”
The good news is that I did.
And I’m guessing that if I weren’t okay with the self I found, I wouldn’t still be here.
This month marks my 20th year living in Los Angeles, and Los Angeles also is the place where I have lived the longest.
Although I was born in Connecticut, most of my first 17 years were in Virginia, under the care of my parents (granted, that care was rather remote during my three years in boarding school).
From Virginia, I went to New York, where I would experience my four years of college life within the confines of university housing. Thereafter, there were about seven years of apartment-sharing with roommates.
Then, I met a man with a lease, and I fell in love (not with his lease, mind you).
For a while, the man and I shared his lease in a dismally unpopular area of upper Manhattan. After we married, we moved to a better neighborhood in Brooklyn. Nearly three years into our marriage, we loaded our worldly possessions into a 15-foot rental truck, doused the cats with the prescribed dosage of Dr. Goodpet’s Homeopathic Stress Drops, and drove across the country.
I don’t want to talk about the first L.A. apartments my ex and I shared. We ran a bit of a gamut until we figured it was the marriage, not us, that needed to be “moved.” Suffice it to say, where I live now is the place I moved to when I ended that marriage. Where I live now is the place I’ve lived longer than any other place in my life.
So, here I am, in a place that I have got to call home.
What makes it so?
Something that struck me early after moving to L.A. is that this city is so many things. Unlike New York, which is in your face the minute you walk out into it, L.A. is – potentially – whatever you want it to be.
Are you a surfer-dude? Live in Venice. You’ll find your ilk.
Like shopping? An apartment near the Americana in Glendale will probably work well for you.
Need quiet? Tuck yourself away in some corner of the Valley or find a place in a remote area of Brentwood.
I’ll admit that for the first four years of my living here (i.e., before I ended my marriage and landed in Los Feliz), I was giving serious thoughts to moving back east. It just didn’t feel right to me. But now, I’m in the ‘hood I need to be in. It’s urban. It’s diverse. It’s not altogether safe. It’s alive.
I love my Los Angeles.
It’s funny. In New York, with the hustle and bustle of so many people cramped together on so small an island, you don’t have to define yourself beyond simply being a New Yorker. And if you can just get through your day, make it home, and remember to pick up the dry cleaning, you are an activist.
Los Angeles, an equally populated city, is utterly different from that.
I recall a line from Kramer vs. Kramer in which the Meryl Streep character, during the courtroom scene, referred to moving to California “to find myself.” Within the context of that movie (and perhaps because I first heard it from a Manhattan movie theatre seat), the concept of finding oneself in California sounded very touchy-feely. Like the character had probably gone to some commune in the Big Sur area. Perhaps engaged in some activities meant to release energies otherwise trapped in an inhospitable chakra.
But there is some truth to the concept of “finding oneself” in California. And it doesn’t all relate to East Coast prejudices about this wacky state that’s likely to fall off the continent following the next big tremor…
When I arrived in Los Angeles, I knew only one thing about myself: I was a New Yorker.
And, guess what? Los Angeles didn’t give a shit!
And so… I had “to find myself.”
The good news is that I did.
And I’m guessing that if I weren’t okay with the self I found, I wouldn’t still be here.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Moments of Sheer Flippancy
It’s probably been close to four decades since I’ve sought out bubble gum, and I don’t even know if Bazooka Gum exists anymore. But, when I was a kid, it was a go-to purchase at those small, family-owned shops that existed in a simpler economy. For a penny, a kid could purchase a piece. (And after spending a nickel on a Coke, a penny was quite the extravagance.)
The two-layer unwrapping process led to the pink pillow of sugar (ostensibly divisible by two, but did anyone ever share a piece?). And inside the outer wrapper was the infamous Bazooka Joe comic, complete with a “fortune” that was written in extremely small print just below the final frame of the illustrated cartoon story.
Just as I’ve continued, in my adulthood, to pay attention to the brief and random forebodings that come at the end of a Chinese meal, I used to give my Bazooka Joe fortune a few moments of my time.
Back then and to this day, I never let the words guide my life (or play with my hopes and wishes), but I always respect them for their potential to make me think.
Sometimes a “fortune” provides a good impetus for reflection.
Sometimes a “fortune” provides wisdom that one cannot grasp when going through the day-to-day movements of life.
Other times, it is way beyond random.
There is a Bazooka Joe “fortune” that I will always remember.
It said: You will never become a giant shoelace.
It may be a reflection of my self-esteem back then, but becoming a giant shoelace was something I never worried about. I don’t know; call me confident. Maybe, too, because there were no role models…
So while I did not relate the fortune to my own personal fantasies, I nevertheless gleaned some wisdom from it. I learned that adults with jobs (e.g., the Bazooka Joe fortune-writer) can get bored in those jobs, and those moments of boredom can lead to flippancy.
…Once I entered my adulthood, I found employment in a variety of areas (none requiring the skills and strengths of a giant shoelace). And to this day, the longest job I’ve ever kept was at a burger-slinging joint in central Manhattan. My primary shift was the lunch rush, and I loved the work. It was no frills and totally aerobic. I took my earnings home with me everyday. My tips paid the rent and gave me enough left over for some kind of night-life. Better yet, there were no office politics.
We were a weird work family who got along well and probably would never have met had we not all landed at that particular joint. The waitresses – eight of us – found our gender balance in a variety of bartenders and an all-male kitchen staff. There often was a party atmosphere permeating the place. Flirtation and flippancy were the norm.
And every twelve weeks or so, our Mama Manager would let us girls know that, before we’d left for that day, we’d need to “do” ten menus.
“Do” ten menus. Here’s what that meant: the restaurant was part of a big citywide chain, and – wise to printing deals – had stocks and stocks of pre-printed menus. They saved money by ordering menus in mega-bulk, and they didn’t sweat price changes. Why? Because their menus didn’t even bother to list prices.
Accordingly, an untouched menu would include line items that looked something like this:
Cheddar Burger ______
So: it was the job of us waitri – on a regular basis – to sit around (before we’d left for the day) and replace dog-eared or out-priced menus with fresher, cleaner, up-to-date versions.
… And so we sat, that one afternoon, the eight of us gathered around two checkerboard squares. We’d begun sipping our complimentary bar beverages (the management was lax on that score), and we were in a fine mood. The cheddar burger had been raised to $3.50. The bacon-cheese was a whopping $3.95. We soon gathered a rhythm as we each filled out our requisite ten menus. And each of us, too, found blank spaces within those menus – spaces where we were expected to add listings for the dishes that hadn’t made the print-run.
There were Chicken Nuggets.
And I believe a Fried Shrimp dish was the other hand-written feature.
… As I sat there, enjoying my Bloody Mary, filling out prices and spaces, I also had a moment of silent camaraderie with the fortune-teller back at Bazooka.
Which is to say, even after I’d written in the Chicken Nuggets and the Fried Shrimp, there was still some empty space on the menu in front of me.
A canvas, if you will.
And so, I entered in a nonexistent menu item:
“Pheasant Under Glass w/FRIES…. $25.99”
For all my ensuing days there, I never heard word-one about that entry. And only once, while taking an order, I saw that a customer in my station had that menu.
(I felt a little anxious before he ordered.)
Fortunately, he went for the Cheddar cheeseburger.
(Perhaps he was on a budget.)
… I’m glad I never got into any trouble for my moment of flippancy. It would have sucked to have been fired from that place.
Sure, maybe I was a little bored at times, but I wasn’t ready to open the next chapter on my “career path.”
I mean, where would I have gone?
I didn’t have much of a plan, you see. I knew one thing and one thing only: I would never become a giant shoelace.
The two-layer unwrapping process led to the pink pillow of sugar (ostensibly divisible by two, but did anyone ever share a piece?). And inside the outer wrapper was the infamous Bazooka Joe comic, complete with a “fortune” that was written in extremely small print just below the final frame of the illustrated cartoon story.
Just as I’ve continued, in my adulthood, to pay attention to the brief and random forebodings that come at the end of a Chinese meal, I used to give my Bazooka Joe fortune a few moments of my time.
Back then and to this day, I never let the words guide my life (or play with my hopes and wishes), but I always respect them for their potential to make me think.
Sometimes a “fortune” provides a good impetus for reflection.
Sometimes a “fortune” provides wisdom that one cannot grasp when going through the day-to-day movements of life.
Other times, it is way beyond random.
There is a Bazooka Joe “fortune” that I will always remember.
It said: You will never become a giant shoelace.
It may be a reflection of my self-esteem back then, but becoming a giant shoelace was something I never worried about. I don’t know; call me confident. Maybe, too, because there were no role models…
So while I did not relate the fortune to my own personal fantasies, I nevertheless gleaned some wisdom from it. I learned that adults with jobs (e.g., the Bazooka Joe fortune-writer) can get bored in those jobs, and those moments of boredom can lead to flippancy.
…Once I entered my adulthood, I found employment in a variety of areas (none requiring the skills and strengths of a giant shoelace). And to this day, the longest job I’ve ever kept was at a burger-slinging joint in central Manhattan. My primary shift was the lunch rush, and I loved the work. It was no frills and totally aerobic. I took my earnings home with me everyday. My tips paid the rent and gave me enough left over for some kind of night-life. Better yet, there were no office politics.
We were a weird work family who got along well and probably would never have met had we not all landed at that particular joint. The waitresses – eight of us – found our gender balance in a variety of bartenders and an all-male kitchen staff. There often was a party atmosphere permeating the place. Flirtation and flippancy were the norm.
And every twelve weeks or so, our Mama Manager would let us girls know that, before we’d left for that day, we’d need to “do” ten menus.
“Do” ten menus. Here’s what that meant: the restaurant was part of a big citywide chain, and – wise to printing deals – had stocks and stocks of pre-printed menus. They saved money by ordering menus in mega-bulk, and they didn’t sweat price changes. Why? Because their menus didn’t even bother to list prices.
Accordingly, an untouched menu would include line items that looked something like this:
Cheddar Burger ______
So: it was the job of us waitri – on a regular basis – to sit around (before we’d left for the day) and replace dog-eared or out-priced menus with fresher, cleaner, up-to-date versions.
… And so we sat, that one afternoon, the eight of us gathered around two checkerboard squares. We’d begun sipping our complimentary bar beverages (the management was lax on that score), and we were in a fine mood. The cheddar burger had been raised to $3.50. The bacon-cheese was a whopping $3.95. We soon gathered a rhythm as we each filled out our requisite ten menus. And each of us, too, found blank spaces within those menus – spaces where we were expected to add listings for the dishes that hadn’t made the print-run.
There were Chicken Nuggets.
And I believe a Fried Shrimp dish was the other hand-written feature.
… As I sat there, enjoying my Bloody Mary, filling out prices and spaces, I also had a moment of silent camaraderie with the fortune-teller back at Bazooka.
Which is to say, even after I’d written in the Chicken Nuggets and the Fried Shrimp, there was still some empty space on the menu in front of me.
A canvas, if you will.
And so, I entered in a nonexistent menu item:
“Pheasant Under Glass w/FRIES…. $25.99”
For all my ensuing days there, I never heard word-one about that entry. And only once, while taking an order, I saw that a customer in my station had that menu.
(I felt a little anxious before he ordered.)
Fortunately, he went for the Cheddar cheeseburger.
(Perhaps he was on a budget.)
… I’m glad I never got into any trouble for my moment of flippancy. It would have sucked to have been fired from that place.
Sure, maybe I was a little bored at times, but I wasn’t ready to open the next chapter on my “career path.”
I mean, where would I have gone?
I didn’t have much of a plan, you see. I knew one thing and one thing only: I would never become a giant shoelace.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Monday Reruns: The Frog In His Salad
(original post-date: February 17, 2010)
Life puts us where we’re supposed to be, and when I decided – after four years in the Ivy League – to get a job as a waitress, life put me at a burger-slinging place in the Fashion District of Manhattan.
The burger-slinging place, in turn, handed me a “trainer:” Don.
One of the funniest, warmest individuals I had met and will meet, Don remains a friend today. (He also still happens to wait on tables in New York.)
We worked together at that burger-slinging place for probably less than a year. Then, we moved on. To different restaurants.
About two years (and more than a few restaurants) later, I was working at a glorified coffee shop on the Upper East Side. It was classic. Most of my fellow waitresses were older women who brought to mind the characters from the movie, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. These waitresses didn’t wear hairnets, but they might have. They had painted-on eyebrows and tri-state accents. They were the real deal.
As were our costumes: our black polyester v-neck jumpers were knee-length. We wore them over cotton shirts in various pastel hues. White neckties completed the ensemble.
Besides age, the primary difference between the other waitri and me was our choice in leg- and footwear. My older colleagues wore support hose and equally supportive shoes. I flaunted bare legs (which were always tanned, thanks to my weekend excursions to Jones Beach), and the black Minnie Mouse shoes that I found at the Eastern import shop were, if I recall, a Chinese size 45.
I was definitely the babe in the mix, but in that place, my status bore no benefits.
It was grueling work, delivering the goods to the tables. And it was particularly grueling on weekends, when customers would order fresh-squeezed orange juice. Sure, it was cool that they could order it, but the squeezing process took a great deal of time, and the waitresses most often had to do that work. If one table ordered four large OJs, I’d be on a ten-minute delay from that point forward. I knew I could kiss all tips good-bye.
There was also the issue of the owner, a man named Irving. He was undoubtedly very wealthy, and he spent barely a moment in his restaurant, but when he did, oh my God, those older waitri would get quite nervous. And they would parlay that nervousness into snippy remarks.
“Irving’s here checking out his precious orange juice machine,” Ingrid said one day, her painted eyebrows rising above the top frame of her glasses as she did the math on a guest check, a half-cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
Ingrid was the most Diane Ladd of the older waitress group, and on the day of Irving’s visit, she had been assigned a somewhat extended shift so as to catch some of the post-lunch spillover. The rest of the gals had left. Only she and I were “on the floor.”
Those who have worked in restaurants and have done the shifts-in-between know that it can get pretty dicey. You’ve got an entire restaurant that will probably remain fairly empty. On the other hand, it could fill up, and it could do so all at once. You don’t want that to happen.
It was relatively quiet when Don walked in. My dear friend. The witty man who had “trained” me as a waitress…
He took one of the deuces close to the soda fountain and we chatted for a bit. Then, he ordered his iced tea and chef’s salad and I proceeded to fill his order. I gave the check with my chef’s salad scribblings to Bill, who was accessible through the half window between the restaurant and the kitchen area. Then, I made the iced tea, delivered it to Don, and approached a couple who had just taken a table in the other section of the restaurant.
At the time, Ingrid was wrapping up her remaining tables. Anyone who entered the restaurant from this point on would be my responsibility. And – as fate would have it – more people showed up. Of course they did! Of course they showed up on the one afternoon when I actually had a friend there. When I would have gladly spent that time shooting the breeze with Don.
Within five minutes, I was running around like a crazy woman. Taking orders. Delivering beverages. Delivering Don’s chef’s salad. Delivering more beverages. More food orders.
Nonstop.
Moving as quickly as possible in my Minnie Mouse shoes, I was surprised by Don’s insistent “come here” finger gesture. He kept trying to wave me over to his table, and I kept delaying my response to him as I attended to all the other customers. Don’s persistence surprised and confused me. Surely he saw (and could relate to) what I was going through! I had a restaurant full of customers, and I was the only waitress!
Finally, there was a moment to breathe. So I approached Don and his chef’s salad.
He let me exhale, and then he looked up at me with a mock scolding expression on his face.
“Miss!” he said, in a tone that reminded me of Charles Nelson Reilly. He pointed into the glass bowl I had delivered five or ten minutes ago. “There’s a frog in my salad.”
When I saw the frog – the plastic, one-inch-by-two-inch frog that Don had brought with him and placed in his salad – I doubled over laughing. And, because I was relatively caught up in that moment, I needed to share the comic relief.
“Oh my!” I said, scooping up the bowl. “This is unacceptable!”
As I headed back to the window where Bill, the afternoon cook, was keeping up as best he could, I passed Ingrid. She saw the frog in passing (and from a slight distance), and she blurted out (rather loudly), “Oh my God!”
I proceeded to the window, where I placed the bowl on the pass-through shelf.
“Bill,” I said, in a tone that was obviously facetious. “Look at what showed up in this man’s salad! You gotta pay better attention!”
Bill, who needed to double over laughing as desperately as I had, proceeded to do just that.
So it was all fun and games so far, but when I turned around, still holding the large glass bowl with the frog in it, I confronted something not so funny.
It was Irving. (Still there. Still monitoring his precious fresh orange juice squeezer.)
It was Irving, upset.
He had heard Ingrid’s outburst, and he was challenging her.
“Who said ‘Oh my God!’” he asked, in a low, but very firm, tone of voice. “Did you say “Oh my God!’?”
“I didn’t say ‘Oh my God!’.” Ingrid lied, speaking quietly.
En route to Don’s table, I had no choice but to pass closely to the Irving/Ingrid confrontation, so I quickly hid the frog-infested salad behind my polyester jumper.
Irving continued obsessively. “I heard someone say ‘Oh my God!’,” he repeated, using a stage whisper. “I heard it! And that’s not right. Our customers should not hear that! Our customers should not hear anyone saying “Oh my God!’”
“I didn’t say anything,” Ingrid lied again.
…I couldn’t take the futile battle anymore.
“But look at this man’s salad!” I squealed, moving the bowl from its hiding place and extending it in Irving’s direction.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Irving responded (loud enough for everyone to hear).
Life puts us where we’re supposed to be, and when I decided – after four years in the Ivy League – to get a job as a waitress, life put me at a burger-slinging place in the Fashion District of Manhattan.
The burger-slinging place, in turn, handed me a “trainer:” Don.
One of the funniest, warmest individuals I had met and will meet, Don remains a friend today. (He also still happens to wait on tables in New York.)
We worked together at that burger-slinging place for probably less than a year. Then, we moved on. To different restaurants.
About two years (and more than a few restaurants) later, I was working at a glorified coffee shop on the Upper East Side. It was classic. Most of my fellow waitresses were older women who brought to mind the characters from the movie, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. These waitresses didn’t wear hairnets, but they might have. They had painted-on eyebrows and tri-state accents. They were the real deal.
As were our costumes: our black polyester v-neck jumpers were knee-length. We wore them over cotton shirts in various pastel hues. White neckties completed the ensemble.
Besides age, the primary difference between the other waitri and me was our choice in leg- and footwear. My older colleagues wore support hose and equally supportive shoes. I flaunted bare legs (which were always tanned, thanks to my weekend excursions to Jones Beach), and the black Minnie Mouse shoes that I found at the Eastern import shop were, if I recall, a Chinese size 45.
I was definitely the babe in the mix, but in that place, my status bore no benefits.
It was grueling work, delivering the goods to the tables. And it was particularly grueling on weekends, when customers would order fresh-squeezed orange juice. Sure, it was cool that they could order it, but the squeezing process took a great deal of time, and the waitresses most often had to do that work. If one table ordered four large OJs, I’d be on a ten-minute delay from that point forward. I knew I could kiss all tips good-bye.
There was also the issue of the owner, a man named Irving. He was undoubtedly very wealthy, and he spent barely a moment in his restaurant, but when he did, oh my God, those older waitri would get quite nervous. And they would parlay that nervousness into snippy remarks.
“Irving’s here checking out his precious orange juice machine,” Ingrid said one day, her painted eyebrows rising above the top frame of her glasses as she did the math on a guest check, a half-cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
Ingrid was the most Diane Ladd of the older waitress group, and on the day of Irving’s visit, she had been assigned a somewhat extended shift so as to catch some of the post-lunch spillover. The rest of the gals had left. Only she and I were “on the floor.”
Those who have worked in restaurants and have done the shifts-in-between know that it can get pretty dicey. You’ve got an entire restaurant that will probably remain fairly empty. On the other hand, it could fill up, and it could do so all at once. You don’t want that to happen.
It was relatively quiet when Don walked in. My dear friend. The witty man who had “trained” me as a waitress…
He took one of the deuces close to the soda fountain and we chatted for a bit. Then, he ordered his iced tea and chef’s salad and I proceeded to fill his order. I gave the check with my chef’s salad scribblings to Bill, who was accessible through the half window between the restaurant and the kitchen area. Then, I made the iced tea, delivered it to Don, and approached a couple who had just taken a table in the other section of the restaurant.
At the time, Ingrid was wrapping up her remaining tables. Anyone who entered the restaurant from this point on would be my responsibility. And – as fate would have it – more people showed up. Of course they did! Of course they showed up on the one afternoon when I actually had a friend there. When I would have gladly spent that time shooting the breeze with Don.
Within five minutes, I was running around like a crazy woman. Taking orders. Delivering beverages. Delivering Don’s chef’s salad. Delivering more beverages. More food orders.
Nonstop.
Moving as quickly as possible in my Minnie Mouse shoes, I was surprised by Don’s insistent “come here” finger gesture. He kept trying to wave me over to his table, and I kept delaying my response to him as I attended to all the other customers. Don’s persistence surprised and confused me. Surely he saw (and could relate to) what I was going through! I had a restaurant full of customers, and I was the only waitress!
Finally, there was a moment to breathe. So I approached Don and his chef’s salad.
He let me exhale, and then he looked up at me with a mock scolding expression on his face.
“Miss!” he said, in a tone that reminded me of Charles Nelson Reilly. He pointed into the glass bowl I had delivered five or ten minutes ago. “There’s a frog in my salad.”
When I saw the frog – the plastic, one-inch-by-two-inch frog that Don had brought with him and placed in his salad – I doubled over laughing. And, because I was relatively caught up in that moment, I needed to share the comic relief.
“Oh my!” I said, scooping up the bowl. “This is unacceptable!”
As I headed back to the window where Bill, the afternoon cook, was keeping up as best he could, I passed Ingrid. She saw the frog in passing (and from a slight distance), and she blurted out (rather loudly), “Oh my God!”
I proceeded to the window, where I placed the bowl on the pass-through shelf.
“Bill,” I said, in a tone that was obviously facetious. “Look at what showed up in this man’s salad! You gotta pay better attention!”
Bill, who needed to double over laughing as desperately as I had, proceeded to do just that.
So it was all fun and games so far, but when I turned around, still holding the large glass bowl with the frog in it, I confronted something not so funny.
It was Irving. (Still there. Still monitoring his precious fresh orange juice squeezer.)
It was Irving, upset.
He had heard Ingrid’s outburst, and he was challenging her.
“Who said ‘Oh my God!’” he asked, in a low, but very firm, tone of voice. “Did you say “Oh my God!’?”
“I didn’t say ‘Oh my God!’.” Ingrid lied, speaking quietly.
En route to Don’s table, I had no choice but to pass closely to the Irving/Ingrid confrontation, so I quickly hid the frog-infested salad behind my polyester jumper.
Irving continued obsessively. “I heard someone say ‘Oh my God!’,” he repeated, using a stage whisper. “I heard it! And that’s not right. Our customers should not hear that! Our customers should not hear anyone saying “Oh my God!’”
“I didn’t say anything,” Ingrid lied again.
…I couldn’t take the futile battle anymore.
“But look at this man’s salad!” I squealed, moving the bowl from its hiding place and extending it in Irving’s direction.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Irving responded (loud enough for everyone to hear).
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
My Paul Newman Story
Last week, when I visited my mom’s-age-friend, Sue, she mentioned that she had recently “read” (which is the verb she uses for listening to an audio-book) a Paul Newman biography.
“Oh?” I said. “Did it mention that I had waited on him?”
“Of course!” she replied. “There was a whole chapter devoted to that!”
We love bullshitting like this, Sue and I. It’s part of what makes us such dynamic conversationalists.
Sue then mentioned how she had never found Paul Newman particularly handsome…
Which gave me the opportunity to hold my hands about five feet apart – the distance I once had from that face of his.
“Oh no,” I said, my homework having been done, “he was… handsome.”
Here’s the story that didn’t make his biography…
I was waitressing at an eatery on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Not a fancy place, but a place that wanted to be fancier than it was.
(It was really nothing more than a glorified coffee shop.)
I’d been there a while and I was ready to move on, but I also was intrigued with the clientele. I remember working a morning shift when one of the more European waiters on staff tended to a couple who seemed to be just waking up. He was nonplussed as he served coffee to Warren Beatty and Diane Keaton…
I admired my fellow waitperson’s cool as he fulfilled their breakfast orders.
There were other celebs who came into the place, too (I can’t even remember who), and I remember thinking – during my gotta-get-outta-here antsy phase – that maybe I’d stick around a bit longer. Long enough, anyway, to serve a celebrity.
And while I waited for that pivotal moment, I came up with a “line” – a really cool line that I thought I’d be able to deliver when the time came. My plan was to use the line at the end of the celebrity-serving meal, in the moment when I put the check down.
… And just a few weeks later, Paul showed up.
The manager put him in Ingrid’s station, and she seemed to handle the event quite well. The rest of us, of course, took as many opportunities as we could to pass by the booth where he and his guest were sitting. We couldn’t help but want to absorb his glow.
The very next day, he showed up again, and after he was seated, the manager passed through an area near the kitchen. Neither breaking stride nor inflecting, he said, “You got him today, Katie.”
With as much composure as I could assume in that moment of great surprise, I walked toward the booth that contained Paul Newman and his guest.
I must have been shaking both visibly and audibly as I proceeded to take their order. And I’m sure there was a certain amount of dreamy shock in my countenance as I looked into those eyes.
Paul Newman’s eyes…
The color of Equal packets…
“I’ll start with the borscht,” he said, with a dimpled grin.
And then, he and his guest (whom I only remember as not being Robert Redford) added to their order…
Two minutes later, I had returned to their booth with the bowl of borscht, only to discover that Paul had not seen it on the menu and had ordered it as a joke. I offered to take it back, but he said it was okay. I insisted, and I pulled the bowl away (remarkably not sloshing any of the purple liquid onto his slacks).
“Good,” he said, relieved of the inadvertently ordered appetizer. “I hate borscht.”
We got through the meal, but I never felt comfortable. I never acquired the cool that I once thought I’d be able to bring to a celebrity table. In fact, I was rather spastic throughout the process -- or at least, that's how I felt.
Still, though, I had that “line,” and I was determined to use it. So… when I put the check down in front of Paul, I said this:
“I bet you can’t wait to go home and tell all your friends that Katie Gates waited on you!”
To which he said: “Huh?”
In Paul’s defense, I must confess that the aforementioned lack of composure on my part had a major impact on my delivery of said line. I’m guessing that what he heard, at a chipmunk’s register, was something like this:
“I-bay-yu-ca-way-gu-ho-tay-fray-Kah-Gah-wa-wa-ooo!”
And even when I repeated it (which I did, after his “Huh?”), I’m sure it didn’t become any more coherent.
So I don’t blame him for not understanding me. Hell, even if I had been able to form the words more clearly, there probably still would have been some confusion. I mean, could he really have connected such a confident line to the young woman before him who appeared to be so dramatically off her meds?
Fortunately, the attempt at dialogue ended when he stood up and ambled to the cashier.
He then left the restaurant, untied his horse, and rode into the sunset, where he would continue to live out his biography...
(Okay, I made up the part about the horse.)
“Oh?” I said. “Did it mention that I had waited on him?”
“Of course!” she replied. “There was a whole chapter devoted to that!”
We love bullshitting like this, Sue and I. It’s part of what makes us such dynamic conversationalists.
Sue then mentioned how she had never found Paul Newman particularly handsome…
Which gave me the opportunity to hold my hands about five feet apart – the distance I once had from that face of his.
“Oh no,” I said, my homework having been done, “he was… handsome.”
Here’s the story that didn’t make his biography…
I was waitressing at an eatery on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Not a fancy place, but a place that wanted to be fancier than it was.
(It was really nothing more than a glorified coffee shop.)
I’d been there a while and I was ready to move on, but I also was intrigued with the clientele. I remember working a morning shift when one of the more European waiters on staff tended to a couple who seemed to be just waking up. He was nonplussed as he served coffee to Warren Beatty and Diane Keaton…
I admired my fellow waitperson’s cool as he fulfilled their breakfast orders.
There were other celebs who came into the place, too (I can’t even remember who), and I remember thinking – during my gotta-get-outta-here antsy phase – that maybe I’d stick around a bit longer. Long enough, anyway, to serve a celebrity.
And while I waited for that pivotal moment, I came up with a “line” – a really cool line that I thought I’d be able to deliver when the time came. My plan was to use the line at the end of the celebrity-serving meal, in the moment when I put the check down.
… And just a few weeks later, Paul showed up.
The manager put him in Ingrid’s station, and she seemed to handle the event quite well. The rest of us, of course, took as many opportunities as we could to pass by the booth where he and his guest were sitting. We couldn’t help but want to absorb his glow.
The very next day, he showed up again, and after he was seated, the manager passed through an area near the kitchen. Neither breaking stride nor inflecting, he said, “You got him today, Katie.”
With as much composure as I could assume in that moment of great surprise, I walked toward the booth that contained Paul Newman and his guest.
I must have been shaking both visibly and audibly as I proceeded to take their order. And I’m sure there was a certain amount of dreamy shock in my countenance as I looked into those eyes.
Paul Newman’s eyes…
The color of Equal packets…
“I’ll start with the borscht,” he said, with a dimpled grin.
And then, he and his guest (whom I only remember as not being Robert Redford) added to their order…
Two minutes later, I had returned to their booth with the bowl of borscht, only to discover that Paul had not seen it on the menu and had ordered it as a joke. I offered to take it back, but he said it was okay. I insisted, and I pulled the bowl away (remarkably not sloshing any of the purple liquid onto his slacks).
“Good,” he said, relieved of the inadvertently ordered appetizer. “I hate borscht.”
We got through the meal, but I never felt comfortable. I never acquired the cool that I once thought I’d be able to bring to a celebrity table. In fact, I was rather spastic throughout the process -- or at least, that's how I felt.
Still, though, I had that “line,” and I was determined to use it. So… when I put the check down in front of Paul, I said this:
“I bet you can’t wait to go home and tell all your friends that Katie Gates waited on you!”
To which he said: “Huh?”
In Paul’s defense, I must confess that the aforementioned lack of composure on my part had a major impact on my delivery of said line. I’m guessing that what he heard, at a chipmunk’s register, was something like this:
“I-bay-yu-ca-way-gu-ho-tay-fray-Kah-Gah-wa-wa-ooo!”
And even when I repeated it (which I did, after his “Huh?”), I’m sure it didn’t become any more coherent.
So I don’t blame him for not understanding me. Hell, even if I had been able to form the words more clearly, there probably still would have been some confusion. I mean, could he really have connected such a confident line to the young woman before him who appeared to be so dramatically off her meds?
Fortunately, the attempt at dialogue ended when he stood up and ambled to the cashier.
He then left the restaurant, untied his horse, and rode into the sunset, where he would continue to live out his biography...
(Okay, I made up the part about the horse.)
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Don’t Pity My Wardrobe
Yesterday, one half of my “good” pair of flip-flops broke in an irreparable way, and this incident came on the heels of a broken sandal occurrence as I was rushing to my car on Sunday (late for lunch). I realize that for many women, the opportunity to replace a few pairs of shoes is exciting. In fact, many women would probably take this opportunity and parlay it into a spree in which they come home with more than a few new pairs of footwear.
Not me.
I consider it an inconvenience. I really don’t want to have to buy any new shoes. But: I need the basic starter set, and so I’ll have to make a trip to the cheap shoe warehouse in the next couple of days. Oh well. At least the discount warehouse is in my ‘hood…
No denying it: I am the antithesis of Imelda Marcos.
But it doesn’t stop there. I’m not really much of a clothes horse, either. I can “fix up nice” when doing so is required, but comfort is my preference. I also don’t set aside funds for clothes. It just never occurs to me.
Besides, you don’t have to pay top dollar if you’re willing to go with pre-owned.
Four or five years ago, after a dental appointment, I approached the receptionist’s desk to get the financial verdict. Kim, who was ringing up my sale (as it were) immediately complimented the shirt I was wearing. She clearly liked the design, and she noted particularly that it was somewhat unusual – or at least hard to come by.
“You don’t see that a lot,” she said. “… the short sleeves with the v-neck and the collar.”
I smiled in response to her comment. “Yeah,” I said, enthusiastically. “Isn’t this a nice shirt? I think I got it on the dollar rack at the thrift store.”
Pause…
Oh dear…
The look on Kim’s face…
Not at all what I was expecting.
There was sadness in that look.
Pity.
I mean, I think in that moment, she felt really sorry for me.
Poor girl, her look said, poor girl having to buy her clothes at the thrift store.
And here's my take on that whole transaction: Poor Kim.
Because what she didn't get was this: when I shared where I got my shirt? I wasn't looking to elicit pity. I was bragging!
Seriously. I think it’s great that I can pay a dollar for a shirt that elicits compliments.
…Reminds me of an evening in New York, many moons ago. I was walking to the workshop of the theatre group I had joined, and I was wearing an extremely faux fake leopard-skin jacket. (That’s right, I typed “faux fake.” I would have typed “fake fake” but Microsoft doesn’t like it when I do things like that.) Anyway, I loved this jacket. It made absolutely no attempt to look like the real thing. It just looked very hip, particularly in Manhattan in the 80s.
I had bought it for seven dollars at a thrift shop in Virginia, and it was actually two jackets in one, the reverse side being sheepskin (and every bit as fake as the leopard side). But although it was ostensibly reversible, there was no experiencing the sheepskin look. No way, with that thick fabric. Reversing the sleeves would have taken a team of Olympic medalists from the tug-o-war games. Doesn’t matter, though -- the leopard-skin side was the one to wear.
The jacket had a nice cut, too. It was relatively long, with a straight line. And the shoulders appeared padded (though that was probably just a result of the thick fabric). The sleeves were long enough to be cuffed, thereby featuring about five inches of fake sheepskin at the end of each leopard-skinned arm. I always felt like Veronica Lodge when I wore that jacket. (She’s the one in the Archie comics, in case I just went over your head.)
So back to that night I’m remembering. I’m on West 50-something, near Eighth or Ninth Avenue, and this was when the area was called Hell’s Kitchen. (I don’t know what its name is now, but I’m guessing all the kitchens are well-appointed and probably worth six figures.) Anyway, I’m walking on the sidewalk, and I pass a young man who’s standing closer to the parked cars.
He looks me over. He nods. “Twenty dollars,” he says, attempting a seductive tone.
Dude! I wanna say, the jacket was only seven!
But I’m glad I didn’t respond as such.
Like the gal at my dentist’s office, he might have felt sorry for me.
And when I’m feeling like Veronica Lodge, well… I just don’t need anyone’s pity!
Not me.
I consider it an inconvenience. I really don’t want to have to buy any new shoes. But: I need the basic starter set, and so I’ll have to make a trip to the cheap shoe warehouse in the next couple of days. Oh well. At least the discount warehouse is in my ‘hood…
No denying it: I am the antithesis of Imelda Marcos.
But it doesn’t stop there. I’m not really much of a clothes horse, either. I can “fix up nice” when doing so is required, but comfort is my preference. I also don’t set aside funds for clothes. It just never occurs to me.
Besides, you don’t have to pay top dollar if you’re willing to go with pre-owned.
Four or five years ago, after a dental appointment, I approached the receptionist’s desk to get the financial verdict. Kim, who was ringing up my sale (as it were) immediately complimented the shirt I was wearing. She clearly liked the design, and she noted particularly that it was somewhat unusual – or at least hard to come by.
“You don’t see that a lot,” she said. “… the short sleeves with the v-neck and the collar.”
I smiled in response to her comment. “Yeah,” I said, enthusiastically. “Isn’t this a nice shirt? I think I got it on the dollar rack at the thrift store.”
Pause…
Oh dear…
The look on Kim’s face…
Not at all what I was expecting.
There was sadness in that look.
Pity.
I mean, I think in that moment, she felt really sorry for me.
Poor girl, her look said, poor girl having to buy her clothes at the thrift store.
And here's my take on that whole transaction: Poor Kim.
Because what she didn't get was this: when I shared where I got my shirt? I wasn't looking to elicit pity. I was bragging!
Seriously. I think it’s great that I can pay a dollar for a shirt that elicits compliments.
…Reminds me of an evening in New York, many moons ago. I was walking to the workshop of the theatre group I had joined, and I was wearing an extremely faux fake leopard-skin jacket. (That’s right, I typed “faux fake.” I would have typed “fake fake” but Microsoft doesn’t like it when I do things like that.) Anyway, I loved this jacket. It made absolutely no attempt to look like the real thing. It just looked very hip, particularly in Manhattan in the 80s.
I had bought it for seven dollars at a thrift shop in Virginia, and it was actually two jackets in one, the reverse side being sheepskin (and every bit as fake as the leopard side). But although it was ostensibly reversible, there was no experiencing the sheepskin look. No way, with that thick fabric. Reversing the sleeves would have taken a team of Olympic medalists from the tug-o-war games. Doesn’t matter, though -- the leopard-skin side was the one to wear.
The jacket had a nice cut, too. It was relatively long, with a straight line. And the shoulders appeared padded (though that was probably just a result of the thick fabric). The sleeves were long enough to be cuffed, thereby featuring about five inches of fake sheepskin at the end of each leopard-skinned arm. I always felt like Veronica Lodge when I wore that jacket. (She’s the one in the Archie comics, in case I just went over your head.)
So back to that night I’m remembering. I’m on West 50-something, near Eighth or Ninth Avenue, and this was when the area was called Hell’s Kitchen. (I don’t know what its name is now, but I’m guessing all the kitchens are well-appointed and probably worth six figures.) Anyway, I’m walking on the sidewalk, and I pass a young man who’s standing closer to the parked cars.
He looks me over. He nods. “Twenty dollars,” he says, attempting a seductive tone.
Dude! I wanna say, the jacket was only seven!
But I’m glad I didn’t respond as such.
Like the gal at my dentist’s office, he might have felt sorry for me.
And when I’m feeling like Veronica Lodge, well… I just don’t need anyone’s pity!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Help Not Wanted: Comment Editor
Several months ago, I was having lunch with a gaggle of gals. The conversation turned to a magazine interview that had recently got some attention. A popular musician had made some comments about himself and others, and many of those comments were either prurient, potentially offensive, or both. I won’t mention the musician now because it’s old news and it’s not important to this essay. What I will mention, however, is one of my friends’ statements. Referring to the musician, she said, “He just doesn’t have an editing mechanism when he speaks.”
I did not contribute to the dialogue, but I listened intently. I also felt self-conscious. Why? Because I don’t have that mechanism either.
And you know what? Thank God I don’t! If I had that editor, I would not be able to write fictional dialogue. It would not flow from me. I’d undoubtedly stifle it.
Now, I’ll admit that this deficiency comes at a price. Sometimes, I say things that are utterly inappropriate. I could give you several examples, but I’d rather not embarrass myself. And trust me, the examples I’m thinking of are embarrassing. I recall them with a certain amount of shame. I should, though, also share that – in my adulthood, at least – I don’t think I’ve ever hurt anyone with my off-the-cuff remarks. A desire to hurt people is simply not part of my make-up, so if anything “bad” comes from my lack of editing, it’s generally just bad for me.
But despite those moments when I’m not altogether pleased by hearing what I’ve said at the same time that you hear it, there also have been numerous instances when my spontaneous, unedited remarks result in a hearty laugh. So, in my opinion, it’s a pretty cool deficiency to possess.
Admittedly, a hearty laugh is not always elicited without the participation of a foil. I am therefore grateful that I grew up with a few folks who enjoy this type of humor. There was an occasion when one of them (oh, what the hell, let’s call a Dad a Dad) seemed to not mind his foil status at all. Here’s the story:
I was in my mid-twenties, and I had traveled from Manhattan to Cape Mey, New Jersey, where my parents were gathering with a close circle of friends for their traditional Fourth of July weekend of bridge, tennis, partying, and fireworks. It was good to join the group, as these couples (nine, in all, I think) had been in my life since I was a kid. At one time, the original Bridge Group (a number divisible by four) all lived in the same small community in Virginia. And although their proximity to one another began to change in the late 60’s, when families moved by choice or due to the husband’s employment, the group remained close. (They are to this day.) The Fourth of July weekend was therefore always filled with love and laughter.
The particular weekend I am recalling, I enjoyed hanging with the group as a “fellow adult.” I felt comfortable and relaxed, knowing I’d grown out of that phase of my life when I was destined for the Kiddie Table. Sure, I wasn’t really their peer (let’s face it, they had been driving for probably 20 years when I was walkng to school as a first-grader), but with the collective easy-going attitude that always permeated this group, it was easy to sit back and join the circle.
And we were, in fact, in a circle when the moment occurred. It was a circle of chairs. In the backyard of one of the rental houses. It was the before-dinner hour(s), and everyone had their beverage of choice. To my right and left were many of the wives. I don’t recall where most of the husbands were, but I do know where my father was. Standing. In the middle of the circle. Holding court, as he loved to do. His audience, primarily female.
At one point, he reached for a handful of peanuts from a bowl on one of the small tables. In doing so, he bent his lower torso to such a degree that the inseam of his shorts split from bow to stern. He acknowledged the incident with a grin and a subtle shrug, proceeded to stand tall, and then he casually scarfed down his handful of peanuts.
Which is when one of the wives said, “Oh, Robbins, you show great aplomb.”
Which is when I blurted out, “That’s not a plum!”
Immediately, several women who had known me since I was “yea-high” doubled over laughing.
And Dad – his true reaction hidden behind those WWII Ray Bans – just smiled and kept eating peanuts…
I did not contribute to the dialogue, but I listened intently. I also felt self-conscious. Why? Because I don’t have that mechanism either.
And you know what? Thank God I don’t! If I had that editor, I would not be able to write fictional dialogue. It would not flow from me. I’d undoubtedly stifle it.
Now, I’ll admit that this deficiency comes at a price. Sometimes, I say things that are utterly inappropriate. I could give you several examples, but I’d rather not embarrass myself. And trust me, the examples I’m thinking of are embarrassing. I recall them with a certain amount of shame. I should, though, also share that – in my adulthood, at least – I don’t think I’ve ever hurt anyone with my off-the-cuff remarks. A desire to hurt people is simply not part of my make-up, so if anything “bad” comes from my lack of editing, it’s generally just bad for me.
But despite those moments when I’m not altogether pleased by hearing what I’ve said at the same time that you hear it, there also have been numerous instances when my spontaneous, unedited remarks result in a hearty laugh. So, in my opinion, it’s a pretty cool deficiency to possess.
Admittedly, a hearty laugh is not always elicited without the participation of a foil. I am therefore grateful that I grew up with a few folks who enjoy this type of humor. There was an occasion when one of them (oh, what the hell, let’s call a Dad a Dad) seemed to not mind his foil status at all. Here’s the story:
I was in my mid-twenties, and I had traveled from Manhattan to Cape Mey, New Jersey, where my parents were gathering with a close circle of friends for their traditional Fourth of July weekend of bridge, tennis, partying, and fireworks. It was good to join the group, as these couples (nine, in all, I think) had been in my life since I was a kid. At one time, the original Bridge Group (a number divisible by four) all lived in the same small community in Virginia. And although their proximity to one another began to change in the late 60’s, when families moved by choice or due to the husband’s employment, the group remained close. (They are to this day.) The Fourth of July weekend was therefore always filled with love and laughter.
The particular weekend I am recalling, I enjoyed hanging with the group as a “fellow adult.” I felt comfortable and relaxed, knowing I’d grown out of that phase of my life when I was destined for the Kiddie Table. Sure, I wasn’t really their peer (let’s face it, they had been driving for probably 20 years when I was walkng to school as a first-grader), but with the collective easy-going attitude that always permeated this group, it was easy to sit back and join the circle.
And we were, in fact, in a circle when the moment occurred. It was a circle of chairs. In the backyard of one of the rental houses. It was the before-dinner hour(s), and everyone had their beverage of choice. To my right and left were many of the wives. I don’t recall where most of the husbands were, but I do know where my father was. Standing. In the middle of the circle. Holding court, as he loved to do. His audience, primarily female.
At one point, he reached for a handful of peanuts from a bowl on one of the small tables. In doing so, he bent his lower torso to such a degree that the inseam of his shorts split from bow to stern. He acknowledged the incident with a grin and a subtle shrug, proceeded to stand tall, and then he casually scarfed down his handful of peanuts.
Which is when one of the wives said, “Oh, Robbins, you show great aplomb.”
Which is when I blurted out, “That’s not a plum!”
Immediately, several women who had known me since I was “yea-high” doubled over laughing.
And Dad – his true reaction hidden behind those WWII Ray Bans – just smiled and kept eating peanuts…
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
At Your Service
Several years ago, I was having dinner with a friend at the Louise’s here in Los Feliz. The waiter approached our table, and as servers now do, de rigueur, he introduced himself.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Jan [pronounced YON], and I will be your server tonight.”
My first thought was to share with him, Oh-my-god, that’s the name of the workstation I just bought at Ikea! But I held back. Instead, I smiled and politely said, “And I’m Katie. And I’ll be your customer!”
And so we went on from there. A lovely night, complete with fresh ground pepper and shaved parmesan until we said “when.”
… Such a different world from my waitressing years in Manhattan. Back in the 80’s, nobody knew your name. I spent seven years waitressing in NYC, and in those years, I worked at 24 restaurants. The last five of those years I spent at ONE restaurant. Do the math.
Yeah. So there were some years of hopping around, looking for the place where I could hang my apron for a while.
At one point during the drifting phase, I was working a lunch shift in the Wall Street area, and my friend and neighbor, who had a non-stop station at a family-owned Hungarian restaurant in our Upper West Side neighborhood, had persuaded that establishment’s owner and owneress to allow me to fill in for her on Wednesday nights. (I would later take over her full shift, after she was fired, but I’m getting ahead of myself.)
Okay, so I’m working Wall Street lunches, Monday through Friday, and on Wednesday nights, I’m at the Hungarian place in my own ‘hood. Money’s good enough, but I’m always looking for a new venue. For this reason, I’ve consistently combed the environs, dropping off -- to restaurant owners and managers all along the west side of Manhattan -- my home-made, so-very-low-tech, 3x5 index cards. The cards indicate my availability as a waitress. They also provide contact information.
By about the fourth or fifth Wednesday at the Hungarian place, I’m getting a sense of the drill. My station comprises nine “deuces” (that’s restaurant lingo for a table for two) and three “rounds” (which can seat up to eight per table). And if that sounds like a lot of station, your sense of empathy is commendable. Add to that sheer person capacity an acute absence of trays. The acrobatics I learned at that restaurant are a subject for another essay, and so we’ll come back to that at another time.
Regardless, on the Wednesday evening in question, I’m running around like usual. I’m wearing one of my mix ‘n match waitress outfits (“Restaurant Garanimals,” as it were). In this case, the combo started with a straight-lined beige skirt that falls just below knee-length but has sassy side pleats. Topping it off, above my tie-in-the-back, two-pocketed, standard issue waitress apron is a raw linen, short-sleeved, tailored plaid top whose primary color is red.
With harried energy, I approach a young couple sitting in one of the deuces. I smile as I ask if they’re ready. They are. And after they place their order, I move on. Within two or three minutes, I return to deliver their drinks. Thereafter, in sequence, I deliver their appetizers, their main courses, their desserts, and their coffees.
Just as I do for the other 20 or so couples I wait on during a four-hour shift that night.
Just as I do for the parties of six or more that take up the larger tables in my constantly turning-over station.
By the following Saturday, I’m ready for a weekend off, but I also know that my index cards are out there. Anything can happen.
Sure enough, late Saturday evening, I get a call from a local restaurant owner named Augie. His Sunday brunch waitress has phoned in sick. He’s wondering if I can fill in. I accept the offer.
I awake that Sunday morning just before eight. Shower and put on my beige skirt and red plaid top. Head down to the local eatery. (Augie’s is just west and south of my apartment; about the same walking distance as the Hungarian restaurant, which is east and north.)
When I get to Augie’s in time for the nine o’clock set-up (no one is expected before ten – this is New York, after all), I wrap the apron around my waist and introduce myself to the bartender.
The bartender is relaxed and kind. He shows me where I can find everything for set-up (creamer pitchers, all the sidestand stuff, coffee makings). He reviews the menu with me. He introduces me to the kitchen staff. He makes it clear that I can call on him if I get in a jam. (Oh, and yeah, he shows me the jam…)
Customers filter in, and while it gets a little busy at times, it never feels out of control. (After the Hungarian place, I can handle anything.) The bartender even comments on my cool at one point. He is clearly impressed by my capacities as a “guest-waitress.”
I am in the rhythm of Augie’s when I approach a couple in the corner.
“Ready to order?” I ask, smiling, my pad held in front of me, my pen primed to record their needs.
There’s a pause. The man in the pair stares up at me and adapts a dumb-founded look.
“Hey!” he says, “Didn’t you wait on us at the Hungarian place on Wednesday?”
Sure enough.
That same couple.
And me, in the same outfit.
Were it fifteen years later, my approach might have gone something like this:
“Hello, my name is Katie, and I will be your server for the rest of your life!”
* * *
Dear Readers, Follower, and Passers-By: I’m happy to direct you to “Always with a Book,” where book blogger Kristin has just posted our Q&A. (You’ll also find on that site her July 23rd review of my novel, The Somebody Who, excerpts from which I have been posting on Saturdays.)
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Jan [pronounced YON], and I will be your server tonight.”
My first thought was to share with him, Oh-my-god, that’s the name of the workstation I just bought at Ikea! But I held back. Instead, I smiled and politely said, “And I’m Katie. And I’ll be your customer!”
And so we went on from there. A lovely night, complete with fresh ground pepper and shaved parmesan until we said “when.”
… Such a different world from my waitressing years in Manhattan. Back in the 80’s, nobody knew your name. I spent seven years waitressing in NYC, and in those years, I worked at 24 restaurants. The last five of those years I spent at ONE restaurant. Do the math.
Yeah. So there were some years of hopping around, looking for the place where I could hang my apron for a while.
At one point during the drifting phase, I was working a lunch shift in the Wall Street area, and my friend and neighbor, who had a non-stop station at a family-owned Hungarian restaurant in our Upper West Side neighborhood, had persuaded that establishment’s owner and owneress to allow me to fill in for her on Wednesday nights. (I would later take over her full shift, after she was fired, but I’m getting ahead of myself.)
Okay, so I’m working Wall Street lunches, Monday through Friday, and on Wednesday nights, I’m at the Hungarian place in my own ‘hood. Money’s good enough, but I’m always looking for a new venue. For this reason, I’ve consistently combed the environs, dropping off -- to restaurant owners and managers all along the west side of Manhattan -- my home-made, so-very-low-tech, 3x5 index cards. The cards indicate my availability as a waitress. They also provide contact information.
By about the fourth or fifth Wednesday at the Hungarian place, I’m getting a sense of the drill. My station comprises nine “deuces” (that’s restaurant lingo for a table for two) and three “rounds” (which can seat up to eight per table). And if that sounds like a lot of station, your sense of empathy is commendable. Add to that sheer person capacity an acute absence of trays. The acrobatics I learned at that restaurant are a subject for another essay, and so we’ll come back to that at another time.
Regardless, on the Wednesday evening in question, I’m running around like usual. I’m wearing one of my mix ‘n match waitress outfits (“Restaurant Garanimals,” as it were). In this case, the combo started with a straight-lined beige skirt that falls just below knee-length but has sassy side pleats. Topping it off, above my tie-in-the-back, two-pocketed, standard issue waitress apron is a raw linen, short-sleeved, tailored plaid top whose primary color is red.
With harried energy, I approach a young couple sitting in one of the deuces. I smile as I ask if they’re ready. They are. And after they place their order, I move on. Within two or three minutes, I return to deliver their drinks. Thereafter, in sequence, I deliver their appetizers, their main courses, their desserts, and their coffees.
Just as I do for the other 20 or so couples I wait on during a four-hour shift that night.
Just as I do for the parties of six or more that take up the larger tables in my constantly turning-over station.
By the following Saturday, I’m ready for a weekend off, but I also know that my index cards are out there. Anything can happen.
Sure enough, late Saturday evening, I get a call from a local restaurant owner named Augie. His Sunday brunch waitress has phoned in sick. He’s wondering if I can fill in. I accept the offer.
I awake that Sunday morning just before eight. Shower and put on my beige skirt and red plaid top. Head down to the local eatery. (Augie’s is just west and south of my apartment; about the same walking distance as the Hungarian restaurant, which is east and north.)
When I get to Augie’s in time for the nine o’clock set-up (no one is expected before ten – this is New York, after all), I wrap the apron around my waist and introduce myself to the bartender.
The bartender is relaxed and kind. He shows me where I can find everything for set-up (creamer pitchers, all the sidestand stuff, coffee makings). He reviews the menu with me. He introduces me to the kitchen staff. He makes it clear that I can call on him if I get in a jam. (Oh, and yeah, he shows me the jam…)
Customers filter in, and while it gets a little busy at times, it never feels out of control. (After the Hungarian place, I can handle anything.) The bartender even comments on my cool at one point. He is clearly impressed by my capacities as a “guest-waitress.”
I am in the rhythm of Augie’s when I approach a couple in the corner.
“Ready to order?” I ask, smiling, my pad held in front of me, my pen primed to record their needs.
There’s a pause. The man in the pair stares up at me and adapts a dumb-founded look.
“Hey!” he says, “Didn’t you wait on us at the Hungarian place on Wednesday?”
Sure enough.
That same couple.
And me, in the same outfit.
Were it fifteen years later, my approach might have gone something like this:
“Hello, my name is Katie, and I will be your server for the rest of your life!”
* * *
Dear Readers, Follower, and Passers-By: I’m happy to direct you to “Always with a Book,” where book blogger Kristin has just posted our Q&A. (You’ll also find on that site her July 23rd review of my novel, The Somebody Who, excerpts from which I have been posting on Saturdays.)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
20 Years Later
This month marks my 20th year living in Los Angeles, and Los Angeles also is the place where I have lived the longest.
Although I was born in Connecticut, most of my first 17 years were in Virginia, under the care of my parents (granted, that care was rather remote during my three years in boarding school).
From Virginia, I went to New York, where I would experience my four years of college life within the confines of university housing. Thereafter, there were about seven years of apartment-sharing with roommates.
Then, I met a man with a lease, and I fell in love (not with his lease, mind you).
For a while, the man and I shared his lease in a dismally unpopular area of upper Manhattan. After we married, we moved to a better neighborhood in Brooklyn. Nearly three years into our marriage, we loaded our worldly possessions into a 15-foot rental truck, doused the cats with the prescribed dosage of Dr. Goodpet’s Homeopathic Stress Drops, and drove across the country.
I don’t want to talk about the first L.A. apartments my ex and I shared. We ran a bit of a gamut until we figured it was the marriage, not us, that needed to be “moved.” Suffice it to say, where I live now is the place I moved to when I ended that marriage. Where I live now is the place I’ve lived longer than any other place in my life.
So, here I am, in a place that I have got to call home.
What makes it so?
Something that struck me early after moving to L.A. is that this city is so many things. Unlike New York, which is in your face the minute you walk out into it, L.A. is – potentially – whatever you want it to be.
Are you a surfer-dude? Live in Venice. You’ll find your ilk.
Like shopping? An apartment near the Americana in Glendale will probably work well for you.
Need quiet? Tuck yourself away in some corner of the Valley or find a place in a remote area of Brentwood.
I’ll admit that for the first four years of my living here (i.e., before I ended my marriage and landed in Los Feliz), I was giving serious thoughts to moving back east. It just didn’t feel right to me. But now, I’m in the ‘hood I need to be in. It’s urban. It’s diverse. It’s not altogether safe. It’s alive.
I love my Los Angeles.
It’s funny. In New York, with the hustle and bustle of so many people cramped together on so small an island, you don’t have to define yourself beyond simply being a New Yorker. And if you can just get through your day, make it home, and remember to pick up the dry cleaning, you are an activist.
Los Angeles, an equally populated city, is utterly different from that.
I recall a line from Kramer vs. Kramer in which the Meryl Streep character, during the courtroom scene, referred to moving to California “to find myself.” Within the context of that movie (and perhaps because I first heard it from a Manhattan movie theatre seat), the concept of finding oneself in California sounded very touchy-feely. Like the character had probably gone to some commune in the Big Sur area. Perhaps engaged in some activities meant to release energies otherwise trapped in an inhospitable chakra.
But there is some truth to the concept of “finding oneself” in California. And it doesn’t all relate to East Coast prejudices about this wacky state that’s likely to fall off the continent following the next big tremor…
When I arrived in Los Angeles, I knew only one thing about myself: I was a New Yorker.
And, guess what? Los Angeles didn’t give a shit!
And so… I had “to find myself.”
The good news is that I did.
And I’m guessing that if I weren’t okay with the self I found, I wouldn’t still be here.
Although I was born in Connecticut, most of my first 17 years were in Virginia, under the care of my parents (granted, that care was rather remote during my three years in boarding school).
From Virginia, I went to New York, where I would experience my four years of college life within the confines of university housing. Thereafter, there were about seven years of apartment-sharing with roommates.
Then, I met a man with a lease, and I fell in love (not with his lease, mind you).
For a while, the man and I shared his lease in a dismally unpopular area of upper Manhattan. After we married, we moved to a better neighborhood in Brooklyn. Nearly three years into our marriage, we loaded our worldly possessions into a 15-foot rental truck, doused the cats with the prescribed dosage of Dr. Goodpet’s Homeopathic Stress Drops, and drove across the country.
I don’t want to talk about the first L.A. apartments my ex and I shared. We ran a bit of a gamut until we figured it was the marriage, not us, that needed to be “moved.” Suffice it to say, where I live now is the place I moved to when I ended that marriage. Where I live now is the place I’ve lived longer than any other place in my life.
So, here I am, in a place that I have got to call home.
What makes it so?
Something that struck me early after moving to L.A. is that this city is so many things. Unlike New York, which is in your face the minute you walk out into it, L.A. is – potentially – whatever you want it to be.
Are you a surfer-dude? Live in Venice. You’ll find your ilk.
Like shopping? An apartment near the Americana in Glendale will probably work well for you.
Need quiet? Tuck yourself away in some corner of the Valley or find a place in a remote area of Brentwood.
I’ll admit that for the first four years of my living here (i.e., before I ended my marriage and landed in Los Feliz), I was giving serious thoughts to moving back east. It just didn’t feel right to me. But now, I’m in the ‘hood I need to be in. It’s urban. It’s diverse. It’s not altogether safe. It’s alive.
I love my Los Angeles.
It’s funny. In New York, with the hustle and bustle of so many people cramped together on so small an island, you don’t have to define yourself beyond simply being a New Yorker. And if you can just get through your day, make it home, and remember to pick up the dry cleaning, you are an activist.
Los Angeles, an equally populated city, is utterly different from that.
I recall a line from Kramer vs. Kramer in which the Meryl Streep character, during the courtroom scene, referred to moving to California “to find myself.” Within the context of that movie (and perhaps because I first heard it from a Manhattan movie theatre seat), the concept of finding oneself in California sounded very touchy-feely. Like the character had probably gone to some commune in the Big Sur area. Perhaps engaged in some activities meant to release energies otherwise trapped in an inhospitable chakra.
But there is some truth to the concept of “finding oneself” in California. And it doesn’t all relate to East Coast prejudices about this wacky state that’s likely to fall off the continent following the next big tremor…
When I arrived in Los Angeles, I knew only one thing about myself: I was a New Yorker.
And, guess what? Los Angeles didn’t give a shit!
And so… I had “to find myself.”
The good news is that I did.
And I’m guessing that if I weren’t okay with the self I found, I wouldn’t still be here.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The Frog In His Salad
Life puts us where we’re supposed to be, and when I decided – after four years in the Ivy League – to get a job as a waitress, life put me at a burger-slinging place in the Fashion District of Manhattan.
The burger-slinging place, in turn, handed me a “trainer:” Don.
One of the funniest, warmest individuals I had met and will meet, Don remains a friend today. (He also still happens to wait on tables in New York.)
We worked together at that burger-slinging place for probably less than a year. Then, we moved on. To different restaurants.
About two years (and more than a few restaurants) later, I was working at a glorified coffee shop on the Upper East Side. It was classic. Most of my fellow waitresses were older women who brought to mind the characters from the movie, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. These waitresses didn’t wear hairnets, but they might have. They had painted-on eyebrows and tri-state accents. They were the real deal.
As were our costumes: our black polyester v-neck jumpers were knee-length. We wore them over cotton shirts in various pastel hues. White neckties completed the ensemble.
Besides age, the primary difference between the other waitri and me was our choice in leg- and footwear. My older colleagues wore support hose and equally supportive shoes. I flaunted bare legs (which were always tanned, thanks to my weekend excursions to Jones Beach), and the black Minnie Mouse shoes that I found at the Eastern import shop were, if I recall, a Chinese size 45.
I was definitely the babe in the mix, but in that place, my status bore no benefits.
It was grueling work, delivering the goods to the tables. And it was particularly grueling on weekends, when customers would order fresh-squeezed orange juice. Sure, it was cool that they could order it, but the squeezing process took a great deal of time, and the waitresses most often had to do that work. If one table ordered four large OJs, I’d be on a ten-minute delay from that point forward. I knew I could kiss all tips good-bye.
There was also the issue of the owner, a man named Irving. He was undoubtedly very wealthy, and he spent barely a moment in his restaurant, but when he did, oh my God, those older waitri would get quite nervous. And they would parlay that nervousness into snippy remarks.
“Irving’s here checking out his precious orange juice machine,” Ingrid said one day, her painted eyebrows rising above the top frame of her glasses as she did the math on a guest check, a half-cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
Ingrid was the most Diane Ladd of the older waitress group, and on the day of Irving’s visit, she had been assigned a somewhat extended shift so as to catch some of the post-lunch spillover. The rest of the gals had left. Only she and I were “on the floor.”
Those who have worked in restaurants and have done the shifts-in-between know that it can get pretty dicey. You’ve got an entire restaurant that will probably remain fairly empty. On the other hand, it could fill up, and it could do so all at once. You don’t want that to happen.
It was relatively quiet when Don walked in. My dear friend. The witty man who had “trained” me as a waitress…
He took one of the deuces close to the soda fountain and we chatted for a bit. Then, he ordered his iced tea and chef’s salad and I proceeded to fill his order. I gave the check with my chef’s salad scribblings to Bill, who was accessible through the half window between the restaurant and the kitchen area. Then, I made the iced tea, delivered it to Don, and approached a couple who had just taken a table in the other section of the restaurant.
At the time, Ingrid was wrapping up her remaining tables. Anyone who entered the restaurant from this point on would be my responsibility. And – as fate would have it – more people showed up. Of course they did! Of course they showed up on the one afternoon when I actually had a friend there. When I would have gladly spent that time shooting the breeze with Don.
Within five minutes, I was running around like a crazy woman. Taking orders. Delivering beverages. Delivering Don’s chef’s salad. Delivering more beverages. More food orders.
Nonstop.
Moving as quickly as possible in my Minnie Mouse shoes, I was surprised by Don’s insistent “come here” finger gesture. He kept trying to wave me over to his table, and I kept delaying my response to him as I attended to all the other customers. Don’s persistence surprised and confused me. Surely he saw (and could relate to) what I was going through! I had a restaurant full of customers, and I was the only waitress!
Finally, there was a moment to breathe. So I approached Don and his chef’s salad.
He let me exhale, and then he looked up at me with a mock scolding expression on his face.
“Miss!” he said, in a tone that reminded me of Charles Nelson Reilly. He pointed into the glass bowl I had delivered five or ten minutes ago. “There’s a frog in my salad.”
When I saw the frog – the plastic, one-inch-by-two-inch frog that Don had brought with him and placed in his salad – I doubled over laughing. And, because I was relatively caught up in that moment, I needed to share the comic relief.
“Oh my!” I said, scooping up the bowl. “This is unacceptable!”
As I headed back to the window where Bill, the afternoon cook, was keeping up as best he could, I passed Ingrid. She saw the frog in passing (and from a slight distance), and she blurted out (rather loudly), “Oh my God!”
I proceeded to the window, where I placed the bowl on the pass-through shelf.
“Bill,” I said, in a tone that was obviously facetious. “Look at what showed up in this man’s salad! You gotta pay better attention!”
Bill, who needed to double over laughing as desperately as I had, proceeded to do just that.
So it was all fun and games so far, but when I turned around, still holding the large glass bowl with the frog in it, I confronted something not so funny.
It was Irving. (Still there. Still monitoring his precious fresh orange juice squeezer.)
It was Irving, upset.
He had heard Ingrid’s outburst, and he was challenging her.
“Who said ‘Oh my God!’” he asked, in a low, but very firm, tone of voice. “Did you say “Oh my God!’?”
“I didn’t say ‘Oh my God!’.” Ingrid lied, speaking quietly.
En route to Don’s table, I had no choice but to pass closely to the Irving/Ingrid confrontation, so I quickly hid the frog-infested salad behind my polyester jumper.
Irving continued obsessively. “I heard someone say ‘Oh my God!’,” he repeated, using a stage whisper. “I heard it! And that’s not right. Our customers should not hear that! Our customers should not hear anyone saying “Oh my God!’”
“I didn’t say anything,” Ingrid lied again.
…I couldn’t take the futile battle anymore.
“But look at this man’s salad!” I squealed, moving the bowl from its hiding place and extending it in Irving’s direction.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Irving responded (loud enough for everyone to hear).
The burger-slinging place, in turn, handed me a “trainer:” Don.
One of the funniest, warmest individuals I had met and will meet, Don remains a friend today. (He also still happens to wait on tables in New York.)
We worked together at that burger-slinging place for probably less than a year. Then, we moved on. To different restaurants.
About two years (and more than a few restaurants) later, I was working at a glorified coffee shop on the Upper East Side. It was classic. Most of my fellow waitresses were older women who brought to mind the characters from the movie, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. These waitresses didn’t wear hairnets, but they might have. They had painted-on eyebrows and tri-state accents. They were the real deal.
As were our costumes: our black polyester v-neck jumpers were knee-length. We wore them over cotton shirts in various pastel hues. White neckties completed the ensemble.
Besides age, the primary difference between the other waitri and me was our choice in leg- and footwear. My older colleagues wore support hose and equally supportive shoes. I flaunted bare legs (which were always tanned, thanks to my weekend excursions to Jones Beach), and the black Minnie Mouse shoes that I found at the Eastern import shop were, if I recall, a Chinese size 45.
I was definitely the babe in the mix, but in that place, my status bore no benefits.
It was grueling work, delivering the goods to the tables. And it was particularly grueling on weekends, when customers would order fresh-squeezed orange juice. Sure, it was cool that they could order it, but the squeezing process took a great deal of time, and the waitresses most often had to do that work. If one table ordered four large OJs, I’d be on a ten-minute delay from that point forward. I knew I could kiss all tips good-bye.
There was also the issue of the owner, a man named Irving. He was undoubtedly very wealthy, and he spent barely a moment in his restaurant, but when he did, oh my God, those older waitri would get quite nervous. And they would parlay that nervousness into snippy remarks.
“Irving’s here checking out his precious orange juice machine,” Ingrid said one day, her painted eyebrows rising above the top frame of her glasses as she did the math on a guest check, a half-cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
Ingrid was the most Diane Ladd of the older waitress group, and on the day of Irving’s visit, she had been assigned a somewhat extended shift so as to catch some of the post-lunch spillover. The rest of the gals had left. Only she and I were “on the floor.”
Those who have worked in restaurants and have done the shifts-in-between know that it can get pretty dicey. You’ve got an entire restaurant that will probably remain fairly empty. On the other hand, it could fill up, and it could do so all at once. You don’t want that to happen.
It was relatively quiet when Don walked in. My dear friend. The witty man who had “trained” me as a waitress…
He took one of the deuces close to the soda fountain and we chatted for a bit. Then, he ordered his iced tea and chef’s salad and I proceeded to fill his order. I gave the check with my chef’s salad scribblings to Bill, who was accessible through the half window between the restaurant and the kitchen area. Then, I made the iced tea, delivered it to Don, and approached a couple who had just taken a table in the other section of the restaurant.
At the time, Ingrid was wrapping up her remaining tables. Anyone who entered the restaurant from this point on would be my responsibility. And – as fate would have it – more people showed up. Of course they did! Of course they showed up on the one afternoon when I actually had a friend there. When I would have gladly spent that time shooting the breeze with Don.
Within five minutes, I was running around like a crazy woman. Taking orders. Delivering beverages. Delivering Don’s chef’s salad. Delivering more beverages. More food orders.
Nonstop.
Moving as quickly as possible in my Minnie Mouse shoes, I was surprised by Don’s insistent “come here” finger gesture. He kept trying to wave me over to his table, and I kept delaying my response to him as I attended to all the other customers. Don’s persistence surprised and confused me. Surely he saw (and could relate to) what I was going through! I had a restaurant full of customers, and I was the only waitress!
Finally, there was a moment to breathe. So I approached Don and his chef’s salad.
He let me exhale, and then he looked up at me with a mock scolding expression on his face.
“Miss!” he said, in a tone that reminded me of Charles Nelson Reilly. He pointed into the glass bowl I had delivered five or ten minutes ago. “There’s a frog in my salad.”
When I saw the frog – the plastic, one-inch-by-two-inch frog that Don had brought with him and placed in his salad – I doubled over laughing. And, because I was relatively caught up in that moment, I needed to share the comic relief.
“Oh my!” I said, scooping up the bowl. “This is unacceptable!”
As I headed back to the window where Bill, the afternoon cook, was keeping up as best he could, I passed Ingrid. She saw the frog in passing (and from a slight distance), and she blurted out (rather loudly), “Oh my God!”
I proceeded to the window, where I placed the bowl on the pass-through shelf.
“Bill,” I said, in a tone that was obviously facetious. “Look at what showed up in this man’s salad! You gotta pay better attention!”
Bill, who needed to double over laughing as desperately as I had, proceeded to do just that.
So it was all fun and games so far, but when I turned around, still holding the large glass bowl with the frog in it, I confronted something not so funny.
It was Irving. (Still there. Still monitoring his precious fresh orange juice squeezer.)
It was Irving, upset.
He had heard Ingrid’s outburst, and he was challenging her.
“Who said ‘Oh my God!’” he asked, in a low, but very firm, tone of voice. “Did you say “Oh my God!’?”
“I didn’t say ‘Oh my God!’.” Ingrid lied, speaking quietly.
En route to Don’s table, I had no choice but to pass closely to the Irving/Ingrid confrontation, so I quickly hid the frog-infested salad behind my polyester jumper.
Irving continued obsessively. “I heard someone say ‘Oh my God!’,” he repeated, using a stage whisper. “I heard it! And that’s not right. Our customers should not hear that! Our customers should not hear anyone saying “Oh my God!’”
“I didn’t say anything,” Ingrid lied again.
…I couldn’t take the futile battle anymore.
“But look at this man’s salad!” I squealed, moving the bowl from its hiding place and extending it in Irving’s direction.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Irving responded (loud enough for everyone to hear).
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