The oily, musky scent that 500 LB men percieve to smell as they watch me bus, hustle, and serve at the Scrod Hut, that makes their mouths water because they want to eat me, has reappeared at the raw bar, but rather in the noses of psychotic stalkers. A week or two ago I told a man, waiting for his pickup order, that he had nice frames for his glasses. They’re German, he said, bought from a German frame dealer in Watertown. That’s nice, I told him. Enjoy your takeout.
I was just being polite, but evidently the man, who we will call Ramon, got charged by the whole exchange. So charged that the carryout containers blew up in his plastic bag on the way home. Ramon complained over the phone to the manager, who informed us all during a preshift meeting of the incident, and told us to be careful closing the lids completely on the carryout containers. I know who that was, the man with the frames, I exclaimed during said meeting. Sunday night Ramon came back into the Grill, I thought to get a complimentary takeout order. He was leaning against the wall next to the door, in front of the raw bar. Waiting for his food, I bet, and called over hi to him, then looked back down at the oysters I was shucking.
When I looked back up I suddenly realized he had been talking for the last two minutes or so, to me. Having not understood a word of this I yelled, “What?” and shrugged and somewhat ignored him and got back to what I was prepping. The bar was busy and loud. Slowly, over the course of ten minutes, it dawned on me that Ramon was waiting for a seat at the raw bar. I was skeptical of this behavior. Ramon eventually grew tired and sat down near the raw bar. John served him. He talked nonstop about food and this and that, alluding to the fact that he wanted to take me out to an Italian restaurant. I was flattered but seriously. I work 70 hours a week, I told him, and have a serious person in my life that I care about.
Persistently he gave me his name and phone number on a napkin. When he left he repeated that he hoped I’d call him and that he’d come back in next Sunday. He also pronounced his name “Raymond”. Thank you I appreciate your offer, I told the man twice my age. Goodbye Ramon (pronounced like the instant noodle). Fantastique, I have raw bar regulars stalking me on two nights of the week. Let me jot that down onto my calendars. Sunday and Monday nights… plan on feeling uncomfortable.
Lets see… I washed a paycheck in the pocket of my pants and busted it today. I have been turned on to a woman that writes for Six Feet Under, Jill Soloway and she wanted to send out a copy of her book and for me and Emily to cover her booksigning on Thursday, September 15… in the Student Underground. She thinks me and Em are “editors” or something, when in fact we are artsy street attorneys. Its being held at the Center for New Words and will feature her sister (who’s coming out inspired the chapter “Lesbo Island” in her new memoir, Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants,) as well as Rachel Dratch and some musical units. It would be groovy if she sent a book… I think I’ll have to get my yellow legal pad and spectacles and cover the event for the “paper”…
She helped produced a play in L.A. called Hollywood Hell House, about the fundamentalist haunted houses created by Pat Robertson-type soldiers of compassion. Bill Maher plays the devil. Andy Richter is Jesus. It sounds que fantastique, no?
The conclusion of the scene Exterior-Meathouse-Night from Rocky VI:
Rocky (touches his stomach): Basement- in here- I still got stuff I gotta get out.
Paulie: What stuff?
Rocky: I dunno- personal things.
Paulie: My basement’s empty.
Rocky: Maybe ya lucky-
Paulie: I know- Rocko, you ain’t gettin’ a license- never happen.
Rocky: What if I do- you with me again?
Paulie: I gotta job here.
Rocky: Yeah, but always said ya hated it.
Paulie: So? It’s better than nothin’.
Rocky: So that’s it- you’re stayin’?
Paulie (sips from a flask): Yeah, among the beef.
Rocky turns away.
Paulie: Hey. Nobody believes in ya- welcome to my friggin’ life.