The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz

by Ron Jeremy

  “We want to treat you ladies to breakfast,” I announced.

  “Really?” they said. “That’s so sweet.”

  “We’re just going to run downstairs to get a table,” I said with a wink. “This hotel has a great restaurant.”

  I could feel Ken staring at me. I shot him a look, and he knew in an instant what I was plotting.

  “Oh, yeah, right,” he said, picking up my lead. “It’s right on the ground floor. Really good food. And I think there’s a convention in town.”

  “That’s right,” I said, somehow managing to hold a straight face.

  “A doctor’s convention or something.”

  Ken’s face was tightening, and I knew he was about to break. I jabbed him in the ribs.

  “Okay, see you there?” Ken said, fighting back the tears of laughter.

  We ran downstairs as fast as we could, dived behind the desk in Ken’s office, and waited for the fireworks.

  Ken glanced at his watch and frowned. “We’re running out of time,” he said. “Breakfast is almost over, and the children will be heading back to class.”

  I put a finger on his lips and pointed toward the stairs. “Here they come,” I whispered.

  Our two Borscht Bunnies, still wearing the same clothes from the night before, were making their grand entrance. Their makeup was smeared, they looked a little haggard from a long night of partying and fucking, but otherwise, they were none the worse for wear. We ducked behind the desk and listened as they called out our names, their high heels clicking as they wandered around the lobby. And then we heard them slowly walk toward the dining room.

  They probably expected to find a buffet waiting for them, or at least a friendly crowd of doctors, sipping mimosas while making idle chitchat.

  Instead, they were about to meet our students.

  I know it’s not politically correct, but I think mentally challenged children are adorable. They’re just so innocent and sweet, and so eager to please. They have such a curiosity about life, and it takes so little to make them happy. Every day is a new discovery for them. From the moment I started teaching at Crystal Run, I fell in love with each and every one of them.

  Of course, it probably isn’t nearly as cute if you’re a hungover and middle-aged woman, and you’re staying in what you think is a high-class hotel in the Catskills.

  When we heard the screams, we immediately jumped up from behind the desk and came running. Our dates were standing in the middle of the dining room, surrounded by a growing throng of mentally challenged kids. The moment they walked in, the children had leapt out of their seats and descended on them. They meant no harm, but they recognized that these ladies were new and they wanted more information.

  “Hi,” they said, tugging at the women’s sleeves. “Who are you?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Are you our new teacher?”

  “You’re very pretty. Can I touch your hair?”

  The Borscht Bunnies were frozen in their tracks like deer in headlights. Their faces had gone pale, and, judging from the glossy look in their eyes, they were in shock. The children had them cornered and were advancing on them like zombies from Night of the Living Dead. They were pulling on their clothes, tugging at their hair, trying to hold their hands. The women had absolutely no idea what was happening, but they were fairly sure they didn’t like it.

  We watched them for a few minutes, just relishing in the beautiful awkwardness of it all. And then we swept in and pulled them away, explaining to the kids that these women were our friends and that they had to leave for an important appointment.

  We tried to walk them to their cars, but the Bunnies wanted nothing more to do with us. We had to chase them down the street, pleading with them to let us explain.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” one of the women screamed at me, nearly spitting she was so angry.

  “What?” I smiled, feigning ignorance. “It was a convention, just like we said.”

  “You said it was a convention of doctors!”

  “Well…there were some doctors there.”

  It took a while, but they eventually smiled and got the joke.

  I first started coming up to the Catskills when I was still in high school. I’d spend the summers working as a waiter at any of the high-class hotels, like the Concord and Grossinger’s and Green Acres. As I got older and more experienced, I eventually moved up in rank and seniority. I loved the work, but more important, I loved the money. For a young Jewish kid with a limitless supply of energy, the Catskills was like a gold mine.

  But I wasn’t just a miser looking to line his pockets with cash. Some of that money was actually necessary. When I enrolled in Queens College, I needed something besides good looks to pay my tuition. My parents, though not poor by any means, did not have a lot of disposable income, especially after my mom was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease and needed expensive surgeries. I didn’t want to be a burden on them, so I found a way to be financially self-sufficient.

  You could make a small fortune at Grossinger’s if you learned how to work the guests. It wasn’t enough just to be polite and bring out their meals as quickly as possible. You had to play into their expectations. I learned that from watching the Christian waiters. They’d wear yarmulkes and pretend they were med students, and they’d always get the biggest tips. I, like a fucking idiot, who actually was a Jew, didn’t wear a yarmulke. I was a reformed Jew, so it never seemed appropriate. And I was too honest with my customers. They asked me what I wanted to do with my life, and I told them that I was pursuing an acting career. Big mistake.

  “Oh dear,” they’d moan in their thick Jewish accents. “That doesn’t seem like a very wise choice. What are you going to do for a living?”

  When I figured out that honesty wasn’t getting me any tips, I gave myself a full Jewish makeover. I wore yarmulkes. Hell, if I could’ve gotten away with it, I would’ve worn a full prayer shawl and shtreimel. And when a customer asked me about my career choices, I would always—always—claim to be studying medicine.

  “I want to be a dokter,” I’d say, breaking out the Yiddish. “I want to save people’s lives someday.”

  “What a sweet boy,” they’d say, fawning over me like I was their own flesh and blood. “Good for you, son.”

  Though I was younger than any of the other waiters, I was always the hardest worker. When the Woodstock Music Festival was announced, all of the waiters wanted to attend, and I volunteered to cover their tables for the day. I made $400 in a single weekend, which was a fortune for a kid of sixteen. I wasn’t a big rock fan at the time, but I was at least curious enough about Woodstock to check it out during my break. I jumped on my dirt bike and rode down the mountain into White Lake, Bethel, where Max Yasgur’s farm was. I was there for only maybe a half hour. I saw Grace Slick come out onstage and shout, “Good morning, people!” And then she and Jefferson Airplane started playing “Volunteers.” I listened for a few minutes and then went back to work. Not exactly the quintessential Woodstock experience—there was no LSD or messing around with hippie girls for me—but at least I didn’t skip it entirely.*

  Just because I was such a stubborn workhorse didn’t mean that I avoided fun altogether. Grossinger’s had some incredible discotheques and nightclubs, and I always visited them after my shifts, shaking my butt on the dance floor and flirting with the female guests. It was a dangerous game, because, at least in theory, the hotel’s clubs were off-limits to employees. Remember the movie Dirty Dancing? It was exactly like that, although not as highly choreographed. The staff wasn’t allowed to socialize with the guests, and doing so was grounds for dismissal.

  But unlike Patrick Swayze’s character, I was a little more cunning.

  I had very long hair at the time, which was prohibited in the restaurants because of the possibility that a loose strand of hair might fall into the food. But rather than cut it, I bought a nylon skullcap and short-hair wig, which I wore whenever I was waiting tab
les. After a while, the staff forgot that I actually had long hair under that wig. When I clocked out at night, I’d just have to take off the wig and, presto, I was a completely different person. Nobody recognized me. For all they knew, I was just another rich Jewish kid, out for a good time on his parents’ dime.

  I thought it was the perfect scam, but one day I was caught. And not by my boss or one of my fellow waiters. No, that would’ve been too easy. I was caught by none other than Mark Etess, the son of the owner and the heir to the Etess-Grossinger family fortune.

  I was out on the dance floor, making pretty good time with a young girl who was staying at the hotel, when I saw Etess standing nearby, studying me like he could’ve sworn he knew me from somewhere but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Thinking fast, I pulled my date toward me and kissed her, hoping it would obscure my face just long enough to distract Etess.

  It was too late. Etess recognized me. The jig was up.

  “Oh my fucking God!” he screamed. “You’re Ron Hyatt!”

  “Excuse me?” I said, deepening my voice and assuming a regal pose that I hoped might make me seem like one of the Grossinger’s regular clientele. “I think you have me mistaken with somebody else.”

  “Fuck you, Ronnie. I know it’s you!”

  I could feel sweat beginning to trickle down my forehead. I was busted! All that remained was for Etess to fire me and send me packing. But he didn’t. Instead, he just laughed and hugged me like we were old friends.

  “Unbelievable,” he said. “That’s pure genius, Ronnie! I can’t believe you had the balls to pull it off.”*

  We partied together for most of the night, flirting with girls and dancing until our legs felt like rubber. I was a bit more careful after that, visiting the hotel’s clubs only when I was sure that none of the higher-ups might be there. But when the owner’s son himself lets you get away with bending the company rules, it’s hard not to feel like you’re untouchable.**

  The restaurant managers weren’t quite so generous with me. They had no sympathy when I’d arrive late for my shift, especially when my puffy eyes and bleary expression made it painfully obvious that I’d spent another all-nighter at the discos.

  “You’re fucking late!” they’d scream at me. “I know you had a fucking date last night! Any other guy, I’d let it go. But not you, Hyatt!”

  I probably deserved the abuse. Even for a kid with little use for sleep, I was burning the candle at both ends, working all day and chasing the girls all night. All around me were vacationing women, walking around in their skimpy bikinis, looking for a fling with the first teenage boy with a big penis to walk up and buy them a drink.

  Not all of the flirtation between the staff and guests was frowned upon in some of the smaller hotels. When it came to the Borscht Bunnies, sometimes we were expected to “date.” Though we couldn’t socialize in their nightclubs or discos, there was an unspoken understanding that we were allowed to “take care of the women” if they needed company.

  Sometimes it was taken further. Sometimes it wasn’t an unspoken arrangement. Once our manager sat us down and said, “You’re dating this girl.”

  That was exactly what happened with Connie. Poor, innocent, homely Connie. The hotel was the Paramount, in Parksville.

  When we arrived in the morning for our daily chore assignments, we all noticed that a new job had been added to the list. As the manager explained it to us, one of the more affluent guests was visiting the Paramount for the summer. He was staying at the most exclusive, deluxe, superexpensive condo, and he wanted to get his money’s worth. He had a daughter named Connie whom he wanted to, as he put it, “have a good time.” And who better to show her a good time than a nice Jewish waiter who would be closely supervised?

  Her name was listed on the bulletin board under chores like vacuuming the carpet and burnishing the silverware. “Date Connie.” We couldn’t believe what we were reading. This was a chore? What was wrong with this girl, anyway?

  As it turned out, quite a lot.

  Connie was not easy on the eyes. I’m not saying I’m God’s gift to women. I’m not saying I’m in great shape right now. I hate to say bad things about anybody, but she was everything unattractive you could imagine in a girl. She had braces and buckteeth and pimples and acne and a high-pitched nasally voice that sounded like fingernails being scratched down a blackboard.

  My brother (also a waiter) said, “Great. This hotel has our mind, heart, and soul, and now it wants our balls.”

  In some ways, dating Connie was worse than polishing the silverware or cleaning the bread trays. But when the time came, we accepted our chore assignment gracefully and took Connie out on the town. My friend Randy, however, was not quite so willing to be a date for hire. He called it “taking out the garbage.”

  “Aw fuck, guys,” he moaned. “I don’t want to do this. She’s a fucking cow. Goddamnit, it’s too fucking nasty to think about. I’ll trade you vacuuming the dining room.”

  The next morning, Connie walked into the dining room for breakfast, and I asked about her date with Randy.

  She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Oh my God,” she said in her most nasally voice. “He was an animal.”

  “What?”

  From every corner of the restaurant, waitstaff and busboys came running. We gathered around the table, pleading with her for more details.

  “He kept trying to force his lips into my lap,” she said, delighted with the attention. “And then he pulled out his schmeckel and asked me to touch it.”

  “Did you do it?” we asked, a bit too eagerly.

  “Oh God no,” she shrieked. “It was disgusting.”

  We couldn’t take it anymore. We rolled on the ground in laughter. Here was the only guy on the entire staff who complained about dating Connie, and he was the only one who actually made a move on her.

  Needless to say, we teased Randy mercilessly. And he denied it all, of course. He howled about the injustice for weeks, but it was hard to miss the excitement in his eyes when he checked the chore assignments every morning, scanning for Connie’s name.

  The list of summer chores got a little shorter that day. We still had to empty the trash and vacuum the carpets. But when it came to Connie duty, we knew just the guy who would always be happy to trade.

  Will you stop laughing?”

  “I’m not laughing!”

  “Move your leg over a little bit. You’re squishing your balls together.”

  “Like this?”

  “That’s great. Now hold that position.”

  “Wait, wait, give me a minute to suck in my gut.”

  “You don’t have a gut.”

  “Are you sure? They say the camera adds twenty pounds.”

  “Relax. You look amazing. Now shut up and smile for me.”

  The year was 1977, and Alison and I were enjoying a private weekend together to celebrate the end of the summer. Alison was my girlfriend at the time, my first serious relationship since Mandy. She was a Taino, a Spanish Indian from Puerto Rico, and a vision of beauty. We met while working together at the Catskills, and I dated her for almost four years, which was some kind of record for me.

  Eventually she would leave me, as all my girlfriends do, claiming that I was incapable of committing to a monogamous relationship. “You’re a lost cause,” she would tell me. But at least for that summer, we were very much in love, and unable to imagine life without each other.

  We were staying at the Paramount Hotel, which was a rare treat. When business was slow, the owners would allow their staff to live in the empty rooms. Because of our seniority, Alison and I had the pick of the freebies. We always stayed at the Deluxe Building, Room 214. It was our favorite suite because it was usually reserved for honeymooners. It had a king-size bed, a hot tub, anything that a couple of young lovers could possibly want or need. We bought a bottle of champagne and decided to make a romantic weekend of it.

  Somewhere along the way, a camera got thrown into the mix.
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  It started out as a joke. For months, Alison had been teasing me to pose for some naked pictures. She wanted something to look at when she couldn’t have the real thing, or at least that was her rationale. I agreed to do it, mostly in jest, never thinking anything would come of it. When she showed up for our weekend rendezvous with a camera, I thought, What the hell? It’ll be good for a laugh.

  I undressed and lay on the bed, and she began snapping pictures. It was awkward at first. I’m not, by nature, an exhibitionist, and it was a little discomfiting to be so exposed. Alison had seen me naked plenty of times, but never like this. It’s impossible not to feel self-conscious when you know that you’re making a permanent record of your body, available for anybody to see.

  “Is it too hard?” I asked her, motioning to my penis. “I think it’s too hard.”

  “It’s not too hard, Ronnie.”

  “I’ve never seen erections in any of these magazines. Maybe we should wait until it goes limp.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  Our impromptu photo shoot had evolved from a silly little game into something more significant. She mentioned, completely off-the-cuff, that we could probably sell the pictures to Playgirl magazine and make a small fortune. We both laughed and I said, “Sure, why not? God knows I haven’t had much luck finding as much acting work as I wanted.”

  It had been a tough year for me. I’d given up teaching to become a full-time actor, but thus far I had only a few off- and off-off-Broadway productions to show for my efforts. I was just another out-of-work actor, living with his father and watching his savings rapidly dwindle away. But maybe getting into a magazine would be just the trick to jump-start some kind of career. The exposure would be invaluable. Granted, my cock would be getting most of the exposure, but it was better than nothing. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  I told Alison my plan, and she agreed that it was brilliant. Motivated by our new sense of purpose, we stayed up until the wee hours, shooting lots of film. The next morning, we went through every last Polaroid and narrowed it down to a select few. We bundled them into a manila envelope and walked down the block to the post office.