Then a pretty college senior named Regan walked into my psychiatric clinic to perform her summer internship. I fell head over heels for her. The sun rose and set with this girl. When Regan completed her internship and went back to school three states away, I racked up major mileage to see her on the weekends. When I wasn’t with her, I paced inside my small apartment waiting for her to phone. To me, her voice was a form of sustenance. I was crazy about her.
We had a lot of fun, but, as Regan began nearing graduation, the mood between us began to sour and we started fighting more often. When she got accepted into a top-flight school for social work, I think she realized that I was a twenty-eight-year-old man in a dead-end job who still didn’t know what he wanted to be when he grew up. I think that scared her. Not because she was looking for some rich guy to provide for her, but because she wanted a strong, confident guy to share her life with. That was not me.
So the relationship began falling apart. As it entered its death throes my good friend Kevin, a member of my weekly hospital frat-boy poker group, was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. At the same time the psychiatric outfit I was working for was in negotiations to be bought out by a health care concern headquartered in another part of the country. By March, the irresolvable issues between Regan and me came to a head, and I decided to end it. It was a definitive moment in my life. I learned that love is only one ingredient among many in a relationship.
I picked March 27 as breakup day. Regan was coming home for Easter, so I told her I’d meet her that night at a local T.G.I. Friday’s for beers (I know, I was such a class act). At lunchtime that day, however, I got a phone call. Kevin, who was home under hospice care, had just died. Numb, I told my boss what happened and got into my car and left. I’ll never forget the drive to Kevin’s house. It was a beautiful spring day. Shawn Colvin’s song “Sunny Came Home” was a big hit and playing over every radio station. Today, of all days, the lyrics were particularly haunting:
I close my eyes and fly out of my mind…
The world is burning down
I must’ve heard that song play three times during the drive to Kevin’s house. When I pulled up to the curb, the undertakers were carrying my friend’s plastic-shrouded body toward a waiting hearse. When the black-suited men pushing the gurney saw me approach, they stopped. I reached out and placed my hand on the blue plastic covering Kevin’s corpse. I couldn’t tell if I was touching his arm or his chest. The cancer had whittled him away to nothing. I couldn’t believe he was dead. Not my friend. Not the guy I played poker with. Not the fun-loving guy who tried to hook me up at parties. It couldn’t be. But what I felt under the shroud didn’t move. Frightened, I pulled my hand away. The funeral guys continued on their way and slid what was once Kevin into the hearse. Inside the house I could hear Kevin’s wife wailing. It was one day after their first wedding anniversary. As I watched the hearse drive away I remembered that Kevin had requested to be cremated. Those somber men were going to put my friend into a fire.
I went inside the house and gave my condolences to the widow in a haze. Her screams are something I’ll never forget. A few hours later, against the advice of all my friends, I drove to the restaurant to break up with Regan. In retrospect, that was a truly stupid thing to do. I must’ve been in some sort of state of emotional shock. To make things worse, my ham-fisted attempts at breaking up caused Regan to run into the bathroom and throw up her beer. By the time it was all over, I drove home and got stinking drunk. I had lost my buddy and my girlfriend on the same day.
Kevin’s memorial service was the following Monday. On Tuesday I showed up at work early, eager to bury the pain I was feeling under the mountain of paperwork stacked on my desk. As I walked through the hallways I noticed everyone was looking at me funny. I didn’t think anything of it at first. It was a small office, and news traveled fast. I figured they all knew I was having a rough time and were keeping a respectful distance. The real reason for the awkward stares soon became apparent, though. Before I could even get a cup of coffee my boss walked into my office and broke the news that our clinic had been bought out by that other company. My position had become redundant. I was being laid off.
Professional gunmen have a little maneuver they call the “Mozambique Drill.” That’s when they put two rounds into some poor slob’s chest and then, just to make sure he’s dead, shoot him in the head. Well, my boss had just delivered the third shot. I could handle losing my girlfriend. I could handle losing Kevin. I could handle losing my job. But I couldn’t handle losing all three things at the same time. I was down for the count. I walked out of the office feeling abandoned and lost. I felt like that song was coming to life. “I close my eyes and fly out of my mind / The world is burning down.”
And I almost did fly out of my mind. I had a mini–nervous breakdown, saw a shrink, and started popping Zoloft like M&M’s. I also spent six fruitless months looking for a new job. Just before my unemployment benefits were due to run out I was offered the position of marketing director for a geriatric outpatient clinic opening up in an inner-city hospital. I didn’t know squat about being a marketing rep or opening a clinic, but the job paid well, so I jumped all over it. It was hard work, but within a few months the clinical director and I had the place up and running. The staff we hired was top notch, and the senior citizens we treated got excellent care. The only problem? There were never enough patients.
The hospital that housed our clinic was in a bad neighborhood. Latin King gang members stabbed a kid to death outside our ER in broad daylight. A low-rent go-go bar was visible from my office. Trying to convince nervous grandmas to come to the ghetto for treatment was a tough sell. Several other hospitals in the area had similar programs, so competition for the shrinking Medicare pie was cutthroat and fraud was rampant. Unscrupulous marketing reps trolled nursing homes in order to stuff their programs with Alzheimer’s patients and bill bingo games as group therapy. I didn’t want to play that game. Neither did my therapists. We were honest.
The reward for our righteousness was a low patient census. When you’re a health care marketer, you live and die by the census. Some days we’d have twenty patients, and other days we’d have two. I spent hours languishing in waiting rooms trying to persuade doctors to choose my clinic over others and suffered through countless sales lunches with power-mad nursing home administrators who wanted only to gobble up expense-account-subsidized food. Eventually the low census drove my corporate overlords crazy. By the middle of my second year the powers that be were calling for my head.
The outfit I worked for operated a swath of psychiatric clinics throughout the region. Like every American company in 1999 with more than five employees, they were dreaming about going public. Drunk on New Economy Kool-Aid, the higher-ups droned catchphrases such as “best practices” and “due diligence” like cultic mantras and were so busy dreaming about stock options and yacht clubs that they forgot to attend to small details like ethics. The last straw came when one of the regional VPs started insisting we admit mentally retarded people into our program, technically a violation of Medicare law. Just like at the seminary and in my previous job, I once again found myself surrounded by well-educated people who looked good, said the right things, and behaved dishonestly. The therapists and I refused to cave in to their demands. The company decided to get rid of me.
Because the company was scared of lawsuits, they didn’t fire me right away. Instead, they took their sweet time, drafting warning letters for my personnel file and waging a rather cynical campaign to prove that I was incompetent. At that point I probably was incompetent. I had tried being a good corporate soldier, but the office politics wore down my enthusiasm. Like my old seminary overlords I think everyone was hoping I’d have the good grace to leave on my own.
That meant I had plenty of time to jump ship and look for another job. But instead of hitting the bricks, I hid out in a small park for two months, smoking cigars, reading books, feeding the ducks, and trying to figure out w
hat do to with my life. I was like a Wall Street guy who’d been downsized but was afraid to tell his wife he’s been fired. The only difference was I wasted time smoking in a park instead of pantomiming a daily commute. I knew I was going to be canned, so I figured I might as well get paid for goofing off right up until the last minute. Bleed the suckers dry. That was my motto.
But I had bills to pay, and I didn’t want to languish in unemployment hell again while looking for another job. Some part of me understood that if I didn’t get a job and keep moving, I’d get depressed again. But what could I do? I couldn’t get a health care job. Everyone in my close-knit industry knew I was a screwup.
My brother was working at a busy restaurant while going to school part time. When I told him how bad things were at my job, he said he could get me a brief gig at his place until I got back on my feet. When he initially proposed the idea, I laughed at him. Me? A waiter? I always thought that was a gig for bad actors, cokeheads, and teenagers.
But I had to face a hard, cold reality. I was a college-educated thirty-year-old with no real marketable skills. I’d never had a job lasting longer than two years. I knew nothing about working in a restaurant. But it was better than nothing, and what did I have to lose? So I called my brother and asked him if the job offer was still good. It was.
And that, my friends, is how the whole waiter thing started.
Chapter 3
Fascists and Freshwater Ostrich
Since Sammy screwed me over by calling me in for an un-scheduled brunch shift, I’ve got to haul myself in early and prep Amici’s dining room for the Sunday morning crowd. Brunch is, without a doubt, the worst shift a waiter can work. The after-church crowds are the worst tippers. Sometimes they like giving the servers religious tracts in lieu of a tip. Often the pamphlets are full of descriptions of eternal hellfire. Trust me, on Sunday morning, most waiters are hungover and wiped out from doing the things that are supposed to get you into hell in the first place. Giving a waiter a religious tract is like giving Mephistopheles a parking ticket. We just rip it up and throw it in the street.
On very little sleep, I start dragging the large Pellegrino shade umbrellas out of the storage room and onto the outdoor patio. As I’m struggling to unfurl one of the rusty umbrellas, I notice a tired-looking man smoking a cigarette by the front door. He doesn’t look like he wants to come in and eat.
“Can I help you, sir?” I ask.
“I’m looking for job,” the man replies. He has a thick Russian accent.
I look at the man. He looks like a laborer. His hands are calloused, and his shoes are caked with grime. He smells like fish.
“The owner will be here soon,” I reply. “You can ask him if he’s hiring.”
“Thanks.”
The man cups his cigarette inside his palm to protect it from the wind. I’ve seen my Eastern European relatives do the same thing a thousand times.
“You want some coffee?” I ask.
The Russian man looks surprised. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”
“Come inside. I’ll get you a cup.”
The Russian guy takes a seat near the entrance. I bring him a cup of coffee, sugar, and cream. I even put a piece of biscotti on the plate.
“Thanks,” the man says.
“No problem,” I say. “Caesar’ll be here in a minute.”
The Russian man settles into his seat and sips his coffee. A sad smile plays out on his face. I feel bad for the man. I can tell he’s hurting for money.
I go back to setting up my station. Caesar walks in, nattily dressed as always, holding an Italian newspaper under his arm.
“Who’s that?” he asks me, pointing to the Russian man.
“Some guy looking for a job.”
Caesar puts down his paper and walks up to the man.
“Are you a Jew?” Caesar asks.
“Huh?” the Russian replies.
“Are you a Jew?”
The Russian man puts down his coffee. He looks confused. “I looking for job,” he says.
“I knew it,” Caesar says. “I can hear it in your voice. You’re a Jew. A filthy fucking Russian Jew.”
I stand rooted to the floor in shock.
“Get out of my restaurant!” Caesar yells. “Get out before I call the cops and tell them you’re stealing.”
The Russian man makes a quick exit. Caesar watches him go, then walks up to me.
“Who gave that guy a cup of coffee?” he demands.
“I did,” I reply.
“Why’d you let him in here?”
“He was looking for a job, Caesar.”
“I DECIDE WHO WORKS HERE!” Caesar screams. “NOT YOU! YOU FUCKING LOSER!”
“R-relax, Caesar,” I stammer. “You’re gonna give yourself a coronary.”
“YOU THINK YOU’RE FUNNY?” Caesar shouts. “I’LL FIRE YOU AND YOUR BROTHER.”
It’s then I realize the gleam in his eyes isn’t the remnants of youthful vigor—it’s hatred. My brother’s in school and needs this job. He can’t afford my telling Caesar to shove it. Come to think of it, I can’t afford it either.
“Sorry, Caesar,” I mumble.
“Fucking Jews,” Caesar growls, storming off.
I stare at the floor. Why am I taking shit from a guy like Caesar? Because I need money, that’s why. I wonder how many people are like me, trapped in jobs they don’t like, afraid to risk their paycheck by confronting a depraved boss.
When Rizzo comes in, I tell him about the entire exchange.
“Good old Caesar,” Rizzo sighs. “He won’t be B’nai B’rith’s Man of the Year anytime soon.”
“How can he run a restaurant and be like that?”
“Oh, Caesar’s all smiles taking your money. Jew, black, gay, he doesn’t care, just as long as your money’s green.”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“Haven’t you noticed there’re no black or gay waiters here?” Rizzo says. “And if you’re Jewish, don’t advertise.”
“Why is he like that?”
“Caesar was born in Italy, but he grew up in Paraguay after the war,” Rizzo says. “I think his dad was probably some kind of Mussolini dude.”
“No way.”
“Didn’t you see The Boys from Brazil?” Rizzo snorts. “A lot of those fascist shits moved down there.”
“If you’re right,” I say, “that’d explain a lot.”
“Welcome to the restaurant business.”
Somehow I survive working that crazy sleep-deprived day. As the week progresses another waiter refusing to be shook down by Sammy quits in disgust. I catch a lucky break. The pool of available labor has tightened up. Sammy has no choice but to put me back on the primo dinner shifts. Since I have a good work ethic and show up on time, Sammy has to depend on me now. That keeps his predatory instincts at bay—for a while.
My first weeks as a waiter go by slowly. Physically and mentally I manage to tough it out. It’s amazing how the threat of poverty helps you acclimate to anything. My feet stop hurting, and I graduate out of the special-ed section Rizzo had me training in. By my sixth Saturday night I beat Rizzo in tips.
I’m proud of myself. I’m already working Saturday night shifts, and, to my amazement, I’m making more money than I earned at the hospital. Not having medical or vacation is incidental; I dove into a new job and made it work for me. That makes me feel good. As the weeks turn into months my anxiety level dissipates.
I credit Rizzo for keeping me sane as I learned the waiter ropes. He’s a very strange man who’s led a very interesting life, and I quickly learn he’s never set foot in Vietnam. “The ’Nam?” he confessed to me. “Dude, I smoked so much pot that I don’t remember Nixon’s first term. I was never in the army. I just say that shit to scare the kiddies.”
While Rizzo avoided battling the Vietcong, he couldn’t avoid the long arm of the Internal Revenue Service. Back in the 1970s Rizzo owned a high-end restaurant in Manhattan. “The place was so popular,” he told me, “
that high-class models—Vogue types, you know?—they would eat lunch there every day. The waiters’d be sniffing the seats when they left.” With unfettered access to drugs, discothèques, and women, Rizzo claimed he bedded more conquests than Wilt Chamberlain. “I had so many girlfriends that I redecorated my apartment more times then Neiman Marcus!” was a favorite saying of his. (No, I don’t know what that means either.)
Rizzo, however, was not fond of paying taxes. I don’t know the whole story, but at some point he sold his Manhattan eatery and skipped town owing the IRS a huge tax bill. Spiritually desolated, he fled to a remote corner of Montana, bought a .357 Magnum, and began a Ted Kaczynski existence living inside an abandoned railroad car. Growing his own food and hunting his own game, he became interested in Buddhism. After attending a few retreats at a nearby Buddhist monastery Rizzo became a semi-vegetarian, got a dog, and started learning everything he could about karma. He kept the Magnum, though. After a while his mother fell ill, and Rizzo, now sick of his eremitical existence, decided to move back east to care for her. On his day off he would travel into Manhattan and do his mom’s shopping, prepare all her meals for the week, and keep her company. While many people taking care of aging parents might consider that level of effort a burden, Rizzo did it with gladness in his heart. Some of the Buddha must have rubbed off on him.
Because he knew I had studied to be a priest, Rizzo and I had some interesting discussions about religion. For my part, I didn’t know much about karma. I always thought it was about the bad things you did in life coming back to bite you on the ass. The more I talked to Rizzo, however, the more I learned that karma’s not about retribution, it simply deals with what is. To grossly simplify the concept, the effects of all our deeds impact all our past, present, and future experiences. We are, in the end, responsible for all our actions and the pain and joy it brings to others. The older I get, the more sense that belief system makes to me.
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