Memoirs of an Ex-Prom Queen

by Alix Kates Shulman

  Say hello to everyone for me and remember what they say. Please call up my mother to tell her I’m all right. (Actually, I have one of my terrible sunburns and I’m peeling for the second time, but don’t tell her that.)

  You can write to me care of the kitchen at the above address, and then burn this letter.

  Miss me and love

  Sasha

  I wrote S.W.A.K. across the envelope and pressed the stamp on upside down. But however much I needed Joey, I would not come out and write “I love you.”

  One night when we were all lined up at the meat counter shouting in our orders for roast beef au jus before dashing off to serve the soup, Jan Pulaski leaned over the stainless steel counter and with an obscene grin on his beefy face whispered to me, “I’d like to fuck you, baby!”

  I was beside myself. On the one hand, the remark terrified me: I had never heard that word used as a proper verb before. On the other hand, upon analysis, it was possibly flattering.

  Jan Pulaski was the terror of the kitchen. I found him repulsive, though he was the only youngish chef on the staff. He was mean and enormous like a rhinoceros. Everyone in the kitchen teased the waitresses, but only Jan tormented them. “Say please,” he would say before giving out the meat, and when the “please” came, he would brandish his carving knife and shout, “I thought I told you to say please!  ” I could not decide whether Jan Pulaski’s attentions were a little better than no one’s, or no one’s were a little better than Jan’s.

  I moved quickly on to the vegetable table. Blushing and shaken, I ladled out of the two giant soup containers three small bowls of clear and two of thick. Into each I dropped the appropriate tablespoon of vegetables and barley, of beef bits, rice, or split peas. (Even in a first-class hotel, all soups, when strained, boil down to two: thick and thin. Only the menu is a work of art.) Nervous still, I pushed out the out door to deliver my soup, then back in in with my empty tray, straight to the meat to wait.

  “Number three, pick up, two rare one medium,” shouted Jan Pulaski and slid the plates down along the stainless steel counter. I was not number three; I was number seven. But if the meat chef would like to f—— me, wouldn’t my number be coming up soon?

  All the beefs were roasted very rare, or, as we called it, “blue.” A “rare” order got washed in one spoonful of jus, a “medium” in two, a “well done” in three or four, and an “end cut” got run under the broiler. I looked on as Jan spooned jus, called out the orders, sharpened his knife, and carved again. No number seven.

  As I waited, I watched him with a fascinated horror. His apron hung from under his flabby beer belly (which he sometimes punched proudly, bragging “muscle! muscle!”), and a naked woman danced on his hairy forearm every time he slapped down a slice of meat. He had acquired her in the navy, where, as he told everyone, he had learned to cook and make love. A profusion of tiny black curls crawled down the back of his neck and crept up his chest out of his shirt. He sweated over the roast beef.

  At last, when some of the girls were already on their way back IN to put in their second and third orders, he placed my plate of beef on the stainless steel counter without releasing it and said, “meet me after work tonight.”

  “I can’t,” I said, reaching for the plate.

  “Suit yourself.” He took back my beef and began spooning jus over it.

  “Hey, don’t! I need it rare!” I cried.

  “Oh do you?” he asked, spooning away. “Then you better meet me.” His eyes narrowed craftily.

  I couldn’t believe he would really blackmail me. Trying to sound my sweetest, I said, “I’d really love to, Jan, but I can’t. I have another date.” I batted my eyes the tiniest bit, hoping to assuage his anger.

  “Tomorrow then.” He inched the plate toward me temptingly.

  “I have a date tomorrow too. Look Jan,” I said, annoyed enough to pull my leveling line on him, “I’m afraid I really can’t go out with you.”

  “No tickee no washee.” His eyes turned mean, and he withdrew my plate for good. “Number ten, pick up two well. Goddammit! Where the fuck is number ten?”

  On the nights roast beef was on the menu, almost no one ordered anything else. My customers had all long since finished their soup and were waiting impatiently for their main courses when I cornered Angie.

  “Better say yes,” said Angie when I told her what was going on.

  “But I’m afraid of him,” I said, close to tears.

  “You’ve got to be tough to be a waitress. He’s not as bad as he sounds. I know the girl he picked on last summer. If you don’t go out with him now you might as well quit.”

  “Maybe I should tell Fritz. He wouldn’t let this happen to his first-class dining room.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, honey. If this was really a first-class place we wouldn’t even be working here. In a first-rate hotel they’ve got waiters, not us; the only females they hire are the chambermaids. You won’t get a better job than this one. You better go with him.” And off she went with her salads.

  I returned to the meat counter. “Well?” said Jan smiling over at me.

  “Day after tomorrow. Now give me my beef!” I hated him.

  “Number seven, pick up two rare and a blue,” he said smiling.

  Luckily it was a slow night in the dining room. At my five-table station of three “deuces” and two “squares,” which took fourteen diners at a time on a Saturday night, only five customers had shown up so far for dinner. Fritz, hissing “Hurry up!” through his clenched teeth when he saw my customers’ places empty, had told me to expect a party of four transients later on. At the moment, however, only two deuces and a single were waiting for their roast beef.

  I expected the deuces to be perturbed, but not the single, Mr. Winograd. He was a tiny, barely audible millionaire in his sixties, constantly oppressed by the entourage of doctors and nurses with whom he traveled. The day I arrived he had taken me into his confidence because, on a strict diet excluding fat, salt, and sugar, he needed my collaboration to cheat. I loved him for it. He took all the meals he could alone, out of sight of his nurses, except for Saturday night dinners and Sunday brunches when he would entertain friends from New York City. They were all Jewish refugees from Amsterdam like him; he would maintain our intimacy by talking to me in English and to them in Dutch or German. Though regular customers tipped by the week, Mr. Winograd always left a few extra dollars on the table for me on a Saturday night as well. When he ate alone he frequently ordered extra food for me to hide away under a napkin to eat in secret after the dining room closed. In exchange for a shrimp cocktail, or an eclair he’d order with his fruit compote, I’d help him to a teaspoon of sugar in his Sanka, or a side of hollandaise, or a bowl of vichyssoise.

  “You won’t tell on me now, will you?” he’d ask, twinkling through his accent.

  “I won’t tell on you if you don’t tell on me,” I would twinkle back.

  Angie and I had stealing food down to an art. Since the staff ate only leftovers at The Zoo amid all that culinary opulence, we figured whatever we could steal was coming to us. To keep us supplied I had my angel, Mr. Winograd. Angie instead had daring. At 8:25, just before the kitchen officially accepted its last order, Angie would call in a steak (rare), or pick up a few extra desserts to hide at her station. While the customers were finishing up we’d slip the evening’s stash under the largest empty table in our stations. There it would wait until, after helping each other clear away and set up our stations for the morning meal, we would join the food under the table. Whatever we managed to take we shared fifty-fifty, except for leftover wine, which only Angie liked. (She never tired of admiring Mr. Winograd’s taste.) While the other girls were still cleaning up, Angie and I would wolf down shrimps, steak, and baba au rhum, safely concealed from Fritz’s roving eye by the tablecloth. We spoke to each other only with our eyes and eyebrows, suppressing all our giggles as, above us, Fritz shamed the slower girls by praising us. When we were certain that
everyone had gone home for the night, we’d hide our dirty dishes at our stations and sneak out through the French doors.

  The story around the hotel had it that Mr. Winograd’s wife and children had been slaughtered before his eyes by the Nazis, after which he had fled to America with his diamonds, Old Masters, and cash. Now he wallowed in misery among his riches in some Westchester mansion, except in winter when he went to Florida and in summer when he came to the mountains. Hounded by fortune hunters and medics, he sought respite at my station.

  That the story was seriously flawed seemed to me obvious; nevertheless I accepted it at mealtime. For me, sorrow enhanced Mr. Winograd, and I fancied I reminded him of some dead beloved daughter. Out of mischief and love I played the accomplice, sneaking him out of the dining room after breakfast so that he might make it out to the golf links undetected, or swearing to his nurse that two eggs Benedict had really been one four-minute-boiled. Though his was invariably my best tip, I loved him for himself.

  “Sorry the roast beef took so long tonight, Mr. Winograd. I had a little trouble with one of the chefs,” I apologized.

  “It’s okay,” he said frowning. He tucked his napkin back under his collar and added, “but please I hope you don’t let this happen again.”

  It was the first time he had shown displeasure, and I took it badly. I had come to the mountains to test my powers, thinking I could name the game and pick my partner, and maybe even set the stakes. But if Mr. Winograd or Fritz or the kitchen staff didn’t want me here, I wouldn’t even get to play. It was all very fine for Emerson to insist that “nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of principles”; but I could clearly see that if I wanted to keep my job I would really have to go out with Jan Pulaski.

  Two nights later right on schedule I was sitting nervously beside Jan in his two-tone blue hard-top convertible careering down a mountain toward Mirror Lake. How would I ever get out of this?

  The instant Jan had appeared behind The Zoo with his muscular neck confined in finery, a silk handkerchief protruding from his jacket pocket, and his untamable curls slicked down, I saw the whole scenario. Though the wolf had donned sheep’s clothing, he didn’t fool me for an instant. He simply intended to have me as a last course instead of as a first.

  “Cigarette?” said Jan. He pushed in the car lighter and snapped open a cigarette case.

  “Thank you,” I accepted. “Where are we going?”

  “Oh, a little spot I know.”

  I could tell by the pride in his voice that the “little spot” was either going to be very expensive or very romantic or perhaps a place where Jan knew the head waiter. I saw the whole evening stretching before me like one of Fritz’s five-course dinners, with me the pièce de résistance. First the little spot where I would be expected to drink and be impressed; then somewhere for a bite to eat; then a feeler to see if I was ready yet, and if not (and I wouldn’t be!), then a nightcap at another little spot; and finally, no matter what I’d say, off to park the car at some natural wonder to admire the view and devour me. There wasn’t a thing I could do to prevent it, for, having got himself up in this necktie and pomade, Jan was far too uncomfortable and ridiculous to risk not having his way. He would be spending too much and trying too hard to be willing to go away hungry.

  “Where you from, Alice? How did you wind up at the Belle-view Palace?” He was trying to match his conversation to his getup, pretending our exchange in the kitchen had never taken place.

  “I’m from Cleveland. Richard Ross told me about the job. He was the tennis instructor here last year.”

  “Richard Ross. Yeah, college boy,” said Jan nodding contemplatively. He ran a finger around the inside of his awkward collar and stepped on the gas.

  I read his meaning. Already I was being wronged. Just because I would be going to college the following year while Jan would never, he was going to think me a snob for turning him down. As one had thought me cold, and another had thought me stuck-up, and another had thought me chicken. It was so unfair. It was as impossible to refuse as it was to submit without being maligned; damned if you do and damned if you don’t. “If there’s one kind of girl I really can’t stand,” Cookie had thrown at me after making such sweet love to my lips, “it’s a C.T. Cock Teaser!” and devastated, I had lain back and opened my legs for him. Maybe, I thought, I ought to open them for Jan too, to prove my devotion to democracy. But when I looked over and saw the smug grin on his beefy face, all my hate came rushing back. What did I care what he thought of me? Snob or no, I’d refuse. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you.

  “How old are you Alice?”

  “Eighteen.”

  He looked at me carefully. “Eighteen. You’re a sweet kid.” It was the same phrase Cookie had used to disarm me.

  The sweet kid leaned back captive and regarded the mountain.

  SCENE 1: The Blue Room of the Grand Adirondack.

  “Well! Jan Pulaski! Whatta ya say?”

  “How’s it goin’, Mike? You’re looking great. Got something up front near the floor for us?”

  “It’s pretty tight tonight, but for you Jan I’ve always got something. There’ll just be a little wait. Why dontcha order at the bar while I set you up? The show doesn’t start for another twenty minutes. (He looks at me.) You’re looking great, Jan, really great.”

  Jan steers me by the elbow to the darkened bar where the musicians are tanking up for the next show. He orders our drinks and then squeezes my elbow and smiles down at me. With someone else I’d drink rye and ginger, but with Jan I ask for a Mary Jane. It’s a hard choice; hating the taste of rye I can nurse one a long time, while Mary Janes tend to slip down easily; but in absolute terms, Mary Janes are less potent. Hoping I will never again have to screw out of charity or prudence, I choose to exercise self-control with Mary Janes. With Cookie, rye had been my undoing.

  The floor show starts. Ethnic comedians make ethnic jokes. A sad lady, bleached and buxom, sings badly songs of love and joy. Jan sits back in his chair expansively, proud to have got us our table. He is attentive to the show except when he fingers the card that states the cover charge or when he lights a cigar. Bored but polite, I trace patterns on the table in melted ice with a swizzle stick. When the show is over Jan reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I smile a minimal smile.

  “Let’s dance.”

  We dance.

  “I’m afraid we don’t dance this way in Cleveland,” I say, overcome by embarrassment. “Let’s sit down, okay?”

  We go. Jan tips the waiter ostentatiously, lights a cigar for the road, and on the way out slaps the captain on the back. “Thanks, buddy,” he says in a low growl, and then to me, “Jesus I’m hungry! How about something to eat?”

  SCENE 2: The Snack Shop of the View Haven Swiss Chalet.

  I gobble a jumbo shrimp cocktail. When I finish the shrimps I start on the lettuce, dipping it into the cocktail sauce. Jan, sitting across from me in the booth, eats an open-face steak sandwich and french fries, the whole drenched in catsup. He tears huge bites of steak and bread with his knife and fork, then pitches them into his mouth left-handed, using his palate as a backboard. I watch in amazement.

  “Want another shrimp cocktail?” Whenever he addresses me his eyes narrow and his thick face grins a little; I wonder if it is a tic.

  “No thanks.” I sip at my coffee. “How’s the steak?”

  “Okay. A little tough. This hotel ain’t what it used to be.” He makes a set shot and masticates. “How’d you like the Adirondack floor show?” he says with a mouthful.

  “Nice.”

  Now comes THE FEELER:

  “I think it’s too bad to spend a night watching a show inside when there’s such a great show going on outside. I mean like Ausable Chasm or Mirror Lake or even just the Milky Way. Natural beauty like that is better than any entertainers up from New York City, don’t you think? Ever seen the face on Whiteface Mountain?”

  “Mmmmm hmmmmm.” I hum it so cynicall
y that Jan, taken aback, decides to retain scene 3 and deftly sets the stage, saying:

  “I know a place on the road to Whiteface Mountain where you can look out and practically see up the old man’s nostrils. C’mon, I’ll show you. You’ve been a good girl so I’ll take you up there for a nightcap. Let’s get out of this joint.” He pays the check, takes a toothpick, and starts picking and sucking at his teeth.

  “I’ve had so much to eat and drink already, Jan, I’d rather just go home now if you don’t mind. I’ve got a headache too.”

  “C’mon. A drink’ll do you good. It’ll clear your head. Brandy and soda for a headache. You listen to your old Uncle Jan.” As his eyes narrow ever so slightly I see behind them the faint flicker of carving knives.

  • • •

  SCENE 3: The White Face Tavern.

  “There now. Isn’t that better?”

  “I’m afraid it’s worse. I really want to go home now Jan. Please.”

  SCENE 4: The top of Whiteface Mountain (4,870 feet), renowned for its view.

  Since it is night time, it’s almost impossible to admire the view; instead we start admiring stars. I wish quickly on the first one, but I know it won’t work. The headache hasn’t worked. Sulking hasn’t worked. Not even a miracle is going to get me home free from a twenty-dollar date, even (especially) one I never wanted. If a man can’t collect on his investments he must admit to being a fool. The only question is: How cheaply can I buy out? What will I have to pay him to let me go?

  I identify the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, the Five Sisters, Cassiopeia, and the North Star, hoping my erudition about the night sky will preclude getting romantic.

  “You mean that one, there?  ” says Jan, pointing at the North Star from around my far shoulder. Once over, he keeps his arm around me. I move close to my door, but the arm moves after me and then the man. I try to remember some other constellations, but they have all deserted me.