Wonderful Tonight

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• June 22, 2015

A phone call from a lawyer whom I’ve never met stirred memories which have been left by the wayside in my brain.  I received a small amount of money in a settlement against the Venetian Yacht Club, because they didn’t fairly compensate their employees (where I worked as a caterer for two years).  While I was happy to give them my signature towards the lawsuit, in hopes of getting money, not paying us fairly was the least fucked up thing to take place there.

I was hired just before my seventeenth birthday.  My sister had just been hired, and she helped me get the job.  At seventeen, I looked about twelve.  I was extremely small (and still growing), and I think I weighed about 90 pounds.  The uniform was a tuxedo, bow tie and all.  In this tuxedo, I looked even younger, like a tiny girl dressed in her father’s tux, confused about her gender role.

Catering is all about timing.  Your shift started two hours before the party started to set up.  Then, you pass hor d’oeuvre’s during cocktail hour.  For the reception, you took dinner orders and got drinks.  First course, main course, cake, coffee, and clean up.  It’s not a complicated operation.  There was a system, and you pick it up quick, unless you’re a fucking idiot.

While guests were given the illusion of high end professionalism, behind the scenes we were fucking degenerates.  The Maitre D’s (our direct bosses) were coked out their faces, the entire staff was drunk, people were fucking each other wherever there weren’t camera’s, the Mexican’s verbally sexually harassed you, the Maitre D’s physically sexually harassed you, we smoked weed on the roof, stole booze from the walk in, spit in your food if you’re an asshole (seriously, never be an asshole to people who handle your food), drank a lot of espresso to get through long shifts, and ate the delicious food.

I quickly learned I was a shitty waitress.  I did my job.  But my social anxiety and complete lack of interest in the job itself made it difficult for me to be friendly to my tables.  I was often told to smile, and to repeat what I said because I mumble (my mumbling has only gotten worse).  It was easy to drink on the job.  You’d order drinks for your table, and order an extra drink for yourself.  Had to be liquor.  Vodka sodas were best.  You’d down the the drink quick, somewhere where there weren’t camera’s, then return the empty glass to the kitchen, as if you were just busing your table.  I kind of felt like James Bond, who’s only mission was to drink.  I guess the wearing the tuxedo added to the 007 fantasy.  Sneaking the booze was half the fun.  And getting secretly drunk, then meeting your friend in the walk-in, going, “holy shit, I’m drunk,” and laughing for four minutes because they were too, was the whole appeal of working there.

It was impossible to do that job sober.  I was a better waitress with a buzz.  I smiled.  I was friendlier.  I was seventeen, and still the Maitre D’ (a man in his late 30’s) would subtly encouraged me to drink on the job.  Everyone who worked there were not only insane, but they were severely broken people, who soothed the harshness of their self caused misfortune with substance.

I was one of the youngest employees, probably the most innocent, and certainly the most sane.

I enjoyed working there for about three months.  We had a good summer crew.  Our objective was always the same: work the party, turn over the room quick, get drunk during, and get even more drunk after.  Our shifts didn’t end till after midnight, but we had after parties almost every weekend and got hammered off the booze we stole.  I revoked any curfew my parents gave me.  If I could work till three in the morning, I could party till three in the morning.  I liked partying with them.  They were out of their heads, but they were funny.  They had more life experience than my high school crew.  Of course, a lot of their life experience involved illegal doings, and raunchy sex stories.  Confounded by it all, a younger Lori took it all in.

But when the summer was over, many of the college kids I became friends with returned to school, and the drinking during shifts went from fun to sad but necessary.  I spent more and more time standing in the room for the reception, people watching.  I listened to their conversations.  I knew when the in laws hated the bride or groom to be.  I saw married men hit on other women, and visa-versa.  I watched men and women flirt with each other, not out of love or even lust, but out of pure desperation.  It was all a sham.  The more I watched, the more I learned that people pretended to be in love.  No, that wasn’t it.  They convinced themselves.  Just like the catering hall, on the surface, they were beautiful and elated to the untrained eye, but the behind the scenes was absolutely fucked.

I considered myself an expert in psychology (I wasn’t).  But I did have a knack for reading people, and this was really because I payed attention to body language, and I can tell genuine happiness by the look in someone’s eyes.  So, I’d just observe, as the invisible entity of a caterer, picking up all the non-verbal ques and deducing about people’s relationships and lives.  I prided myself on this skill (I still do!).

There were a lot of characters there.  Most the caterers were college students.  The Maitre D’s were in their late 30’s or so, and they were drug addicts who had royally fucked up their lives to end up where they were.  The chef was a genius.  He made some of the best food I’ve had to this day, but he was mad.  It seems to me that all chef’s are batshit insane, with rage issues.  I have no idea why that is.  The kitchen was filled with Mexican immigrants, and the little English they spoke usually was some form of sexual harassment.  The GM was this over-sized Indian man who called me “boss.”  There was a polish girl who was fucking the Maitre D’ in order to advance her position in a catering hall (which makes her possibly the most pathetic person I’ve ever met).  The Spanish guys were funny, and always talking about pussy.  There were a lot of polish people, which I loved, because Polish people are attractive, hard working, and a hard drinking people.  There were slutty girls.  There were people with intolerable egos.  Everyone was drinking, doing drugs, and hooking up.  Although, I wasn’t hooking up with anyone.  Sure, I had a crush on a couple of the Polish guys, and the bartender, Jose, but I developed a crippling fear of STD’s in my teen years.  Between high school, and the mad house I worked in, I was always doing the math in my head, and it seemed impossible not to contract STD’s.  So, between my hypochondriac delusions, and my under developed body, I wasn’t pursuing sexual interests, nor were they pursuing me (save for those creepy older mother fuckers who would say inappropriate things, and occasionally leave their hand lingering on my side, making me want to scream.)

I had one mental breakdown when I worked there, which resulted in my crying my eyes out in the back by the dumpster while a fellow co-worker consoled me.  After anyone lost their shit, the answer was always to have a drink to calm down.  I saw the Maitre ‘D’s lose it, almost all the caterers, the cooks, the chef… yeah, we all had our moments.  The only ones who didn’t seem to go mad were the bartenders.  The bartenders were so cool.  They only had to be in an hour before the party, and they were done cleaning up long before the servers.  Also, they made way more money.  I recall one of my peers, an NYU student, a real bright girl, with kind of repressing parents.  She was in the kitchen in the upstairs room, throwing salt and pepper shakers on the floor, shattering them, salt and pepper scattering like pixie dust.
“What are you doing?”  I exclaimed.
She looked at me, with red eyes, and said, “try it,” holding out a salt shaker.
I took the shaker and smashed it on the floor.  It felt good.  I smashed another.  The two of us smashed a couple more, then we cleaned it up.  If someone walked in, we would say we knocked over the tray.  We were never afraid of getting caught for anything.  The worst that could happen was they fired us.  Really, I don’t think any of us would have cared.

My boss and the Maitre D’s loved me. While I was a mediocre waitress, I was an animal when it came to turning over a room.  I was quick to take off my tuxedo jacket and shirt, and roll tables around the room, and carts of chairs that probably weighed as much as I did, in my wife beater and tuxedo pants.  I ran that shit.  It wasn’t because I wanted to be a good worker, I just wanted to go home.  After the party ended, I would bark orders, and tell my older co-workers to move their lazy asses.  Sure, I was the runt, but I had leadership skills when I had proper motivation (booze, and a strong desire to go home).

The Venetian Yacht Club is expensive.  Yeah, I’ve seen some elaborate weddings.  But worse than that, I worked Bar Mitzvah’s and Sweet 16’s that cost well over $50,000.  Honestly, it makes me sick.  I’m all about a good party, but watching these filthy rich people throw these extravaganza’s and waste money would make anyone with half a conscious disgusted by our culture.  Plus, back then, I was all about saving the world from starvation (in recent years, I’ve given up on saving the world).  Because of bullshit laws, regarding some asshole who sued after getting sick from left overs, we had to throw out garbage pails full of good food (filet Mignon, calamari, salmon, etc) every single night.

The restaurant business is a touchy business.  And I genuinely believe that a large amount of my discomfort when people make the slightest contact with me stems from my two years working at this place.  People who worked there, for some reason, thought it was okay to massage you.  I guess this was because we often worked double shifts, 14 hour days, on your feet, physical labor.  The dudes were horny and always trying to get some, so the girls seldom resisted a back rub.  It wasn’t just the staff (and bosses) who were touchy-feely.  The customers were too.  People had no problem speaking to you while rubbing your arm, or holding you a little too tightly around the waist.  This troubled me so much, I had no idea what they were saying.  All I could ever think about was getting their hand off my body without punching them in the face.

I’m not sure what was worse: the seemingly endless unraveling of the workers lives, or the disingenuous bullshit of the guests.  I felt like I was on the Titanic.  I was 3rd class.  A low life, trying to save money to buy a car and go to college, but I had front row seats to the first class as well.  And you know what?  We’re all fucked.  We’re all sinking together.

I swore I would never be one of those people.  I swore I would never be one of those people who pretends their life is perfect.  I swore I would never be in a relationship just to not be alone.  I swore I would never be like some of the people who worked there, whose lives completely lacked direction, hope, and discipline.  I swore I would find a job that was my passion, not just a paycheck where I would need a substance to stand it.  I swore that if I ever did get married, I would generously tip the staff.

I stayed clear away from pills and coke at that time in my life.  Even though I liked partying with my co-workers, I thought pretty lowly of most of them.  I was a bit pompous, and believed myself to be much better than the older kids I worked with.  I was sure I had a future in something, if for no other reason than the mere fact that I hadn’t given up on myself yet.  But the truth is, I was terrified I would love heavier drugs.  I actually had a good head on my shoulders then.  I had that kind of blind delusional confidence a lot of kids have, and it wouldn’t be till a few years later when I worked in the nursing home where I would completely go mad, and never return to the same person I was then.

My drug of choice in high school was always booze.  Booze was magical, because it allowed a nervous nerd like myself to loosen up.  It made something which was a tireless bore, fun.  But it really isn’t okay for a man in his late 30’s to not only turn his cheek to a minor drinking at work, but encourage it.  It really was not okay when he, or other workers would pinch my side or creepily stroke my limbs.  It really was not okay to be verbally sexually harassed and accept it as the norm.  It really was not okay to pocket money that was supposed to be divided among the staff.

But the truth is… I liked it.  I liked the seediness, the sketchy characters, the drinking, the creating a grand illusion.  I bid a farewell to my innocence with no remorse, whatsoever.  I hated my innocence.  I stole.  I drank.  I lied.  I was a piece of shit.  I didn’t want to be one of them, but I wanted a taste.  I didn’t consider myself a low-life, but I could relate.  This was a dangerous road for someone young and impressionable, who believed she was neither young nor impressionable.  Because I associated fuck-ups with being interesting.  I think I still do, and I don’t believe that’s healthy.  In that awful place, with the most perfect view of the Great South Bay, I stood, invisible, in my tuxedo, looking out to sea, while the band played “Wonderful Tonight.”   I looked out to the water as I often did, imagining myself, tearing that stupid tuxedo off my body, stripping down to my bra and underwear, jumping into the bay, and swimming off to where… I don’t know.  But it didn’t matter, I guess.  I just wanted to escape it all.  The catering hall, being a teenager, and a virgin, being without direction, I just wanted to swim away.  I sipped by drink, yearning for way to feel wonderful tonight, without the help of anything else I seemed to hanker for at that time in my life.