Serving Celebrities: The Complete Collection (13 page)

Walter Cronkite, That’s the Way It Was

I
lived in New York City for ten years, and if you live in New York City for ten years I suggest that you find somewhere else to go for a short time; whether on vacation or just to get away before you fry up and start stalking punks on the subway. I went to Martha’s Vineyard.

When I was a child, my family used to go to the island for two weeks in the summer. I had a favorite uncle and aunt who lived in Oaks Bluff. After I lived in NYC for nine years I felt like I had to do something so I spent two summers on the Vineyard. My second summer, I got a job as a bartender at the Harborview Hotel in Edgartown. I had worked at the hotel for a few months the summer before and they asked me back, but this summer would be different. Over the winter the hotel had been sold and bought up by a large hotel chain, then completely renovated from basement to attic (actually, they also added the basement over the winter).

I was very excited taking the ferry over that May. I liked the hotel a lot and had seen some early plans for renovations. The Dining Room Manager, who was a friend from the previous summer, said that they were going to open soon and that they were fully booked already, so there was the promise of big money to be made.

When I arrived on the island, I found out that the construction was a bit behind, by two months, actually, and that we wouldn’t be opening at the beginning of June but hopefully over the Fourth of July weekend. Most of our staff for the dining room and the kitchen was recruited from Irish, English and Scottish university hotel & restaurant management programs and they had already arrived, or were arriving soon, to work in America.

With most of our staff there and nothing to do, the Food & Beverage Manager decided this would be a good time to teach four-star service. He was Irish and had this fantasy that he was going to knock all these British and American college students into a sharp and efficient waiting force or something like that. For the next eight weeks, or at least till the hotel opened, we drilled our waiters, bartenders, hosts and hostesses, into five-star servers. Of course, there were some hiccups such as, “You can’t ask Americans if they want sweets. Sweets make them fat -- dessert is nice after dinner -- no sweets.” And all the Brits continued to call them “sweets” no matter what we said. Or that we served “Dinner” not “Tea.” That we washed the silver, not throw it in the garbage (as we caught one waitress doing).

Finally the hotel was about to open. One of our first big events before we even had any guests was a book signing for Peter Simon, bother of musician, Carly Simon. The crème-della-crème of the island was to be there, Carly Simon, James Taylor, Mike Wallace… and even Walter Cronkite showed up.

Uncle Walt lived on the Vineyard year-round after he retired from the
CBS Evening News
. Everyone who spent any time on the island was eventually informed of which house was his on Edgartown Harbor and you would sometime see his boat sailing out of the harbor and headed for Vineyard Sound. He was an island celebrity and was very active in the community. As we were trying to get the bar together on that first day, suddenly he was standing right in front of me, tanned and a bit older, but looking well. “Can I have a whiskey sour?” He asked in his best Walter Cronkite voice.

“Sure,” I said and immediately started to look for the ingredients. Behind me, at the service station, where the bartenders make the drinks for the servers, the other bartender that I was working with, Ian was talking to a waiter. I started Walter’s drink, pouring whiskey and sour mix over ice in a glass, while behind me I could hear Ian and the waiter talking. “I just saw Carly Simon,” the waiter reported. “And Mike Wallace from Sixty-Minutes,” he added. Ian went on with, “Bill’s waiting on Walter Cronkite, now!” I shivered. If I could hear him I’m pretty sure that old Walt could hear it also… since he was standing two feet in front of me.

All that five-star training, our first celebrity and we’re gawking. I could only hope that Walter’s hearing in his advanced age wasn’t what it once was. I finished his drink and handed it to him. “Thanks… Bill.” He said in that monotone. I smiled at him, hoping that I had remembered to wear my nametag but I had a feeling that in the rush to open the bar for the book signing, I didn’t.

Walt nodded his thanks and took his drink out of the bar. I looked down slowly at my shirt where my nametag should have been… Hey, but on the other hand, he said my name just like it was on the
CBS Evening News
.

Timothy Hutton and Laura

I
always thought that Tim Hutton was a great actor, from the moment I saw him in
Ordinary People
, to
Taps
and
The Falcon and the Snowman
. The first time that I met him at the Sunset Marquis was a big deal. He was staying in one of the villas that I was the butler for. It was the night of the first election of Bill Clinton as president. It also helped that he was as elated about Clinton winning and the end of the Reagan/Bush years, as I was. I watched most of Clinton’s acceptance speech with him. Tim was in town doing a film called,
The Temp
with Laura Flynn Boyle. He stayed with us for a few weeks and I got to serve him often.

One of the problems with the Sunset Marquis was that they were always on a sort of skeleton crew. We never seemed to have enough people to cover all the work in the hotel, so it was important if you could do many things.

On this night, I got a call from the front desk telling me that restaurant waiter had not shown up for his shift and that there was guests in the dining room. I had to come down from the villas and become the waiter for the only table in the restaurant (most people ate in the patio cafe). It was a table of six guys, all whom seemed to be Greek and spoke very little English. I took their orders and got their drinks, at the same time, still checking in on the villas, which were about a quarter of mile up the hill.

While getting their drinks from the bar, I ran into Tim, who told me that he was waiting for a friend. I went back to my table with their drinks and prepared them for dinner. The whole time I was at the table they spoke in what I suspect was Greek (at least it sounded Greek to me). At some point in the evening I started to suspect them.

When you tend bar or wait tables, you do accumulate a good knowledge of knuckleheads. The easy rule is that if the first thing a customer says to you starts with the word “Yo!” in any place; this guy is going to be trouble. Or if it takes a party twenty minutes to decide which table to sit at, prepare for a long night. These guys were glancing over at me, too much.

Between taking care of their table and orders from my guests in the villas, I was more out of the dining room than in. I wouldn’t say that they were getting bad service; I just wasn’t milling around the table that much. I figured they weren’t going to try anything until after dessert.

After I served the dessert, I slipped into the dark bar. Tim and his recently arrived guest were sitting in the perfect dark corner. I went over and said “hi” to Tim, all the time keeping an eye on the six guys finishing their desserts in the dining room. Tim introduced to his guest.

Between the music in the bar and my concentration on my only table, that now was outwardly looking around; I thought I heard, “This is Laura.” I reached over and shook Laura’s hand, in my mind a made a mental note; Laura looks like Winona Ryder -- then my table stood up to leave…

I hadn’t dropped a check or even asked them if they wanted anything else. Looking around suspiciously, they gathered their jackets and started walking for the front lobby. I turned quickly to Tim and Laura and said, “Excuse me.” Fast-walking, I intercepted the fleeing Greeks at the front door.

“Excuse me,” I shouted as they realized that I had nabbed them. They stopped and turned to me. “Is there a problem?” I asked. “Forget something in your car?” I probed. They looked at each other, hoping someone could come up with something fast. Finally, one said, “Did we forget to pay you?”

Everyone at the table played the big, “Oh, the check!” routine, until I handed them the book with the check in it. I perp-walked them back to their table and they sat down with their bill. I went back into the bar and sat with Tim and Laura, as Tim continued his story of teaching Laura how to drive.

My Grecian knuckleheads finally paid me (with a generous ten-percent tip) and left. While I was cleaning up the table, Tim and Laura stopped by and said good-night. As they were leaving, I again, couldn’t help to notice how much Laura looked like Winona Ryder.

The next night I was back up in the villas. At some point in the night, I was down in the front lobby when I spotted Tim and Laura sitting on one of the couches. I went over and said “hi” to Tim. After shaking hands, Tim indicated Laura and said, “You met last night…” I reached out to shake Laura’s hand and said confidently, “Hi, Laura.” Laura kind of tensed up and gave me weird look. I looked over at Tim, to see if he knew what I had done wrong. Tim slowly mouthed the name “Win-no-na.” As embarrassed as I was, it was comforting to know that I did recognize her. I corrected myself and shook her hand. Hopefully, everyone would forget about it.

A few days later I served Tim dinner in his villa. On my way up, I had hoped that he had forgotten about my little flub. Here’s a guy who is starring in a feature film, he’s not going remember something like that. I knocked on his door and Tim opened it, letting me enter. I carried the tray in and set it down. Tim seemed to have forgotten all about it. I set up his dinner and was about leave when he said, “Laura?” Okay, maybe he didn’t forget it.

The 2
nd
Mary Tyler Moore

W
hen I worked at Nanny Rose on Columbus Avenue, in NYC, most of the staff got off work at about the same time at night. Some people went home and some went out for a drink or two. But we all watched the re-runs of
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
and
The Bob Newhart Show.

One of the television stations in New York in those days played an hour of Mary Tyler Moore and an hour of Bob Newhart, starting at one in the morning. They broadcasted two episodes each; first Mary, followed by Bob.

Most of the waiters and bartenders I worked with then realized that we all tuned into these shows while we tried to relax before going to bed, after a busy night. It became a measure of time that we would use define the night. “I went home early and I caught the first Mary.” -- “I got home so late that I only saw the end of the last Bob.” It became sort of way speaking in this restaurant.

Mary Tyler Moore lived around the corner on Central Park West. One Sunday brunch, she and her husband showed up for lunch. We were all abuzz, as she walked through the dining room to their table. She felt like an old friend to us, even if this was the first time we saw her in the flesh. It was pretty slow so we had some time to get together and oogle her.

In a short time a plan was hatched; we worked with a guy who unlike everyone else at the restaurant, was going to college to become a doctor. His name was Richard
Grant.
Our plan was to give Richard the table so that he could introduce himself as their waiter, Richard Grant. Richard would encourage Mary to refer to him as
Mr. Grant.
If she refuses, we would then work as a team to get to her to say “Oh, Mr. Grant” to Richard.

Richard approached the table with everyone else watching. He introduced himself and read them the brunch specials. Mary and her husband listened intently but unfortunately Mary never picked up on the name. The next move was to have Suzanne, the assistant manager, approach Richard while he’s at Mary’s table and tell him that he had a new table and finish by referring to Richard as Mr. Grant…. another failure.

Plan C was to have one of the waitresses, Eileen, call over to Richard, pretending to need him, hoping Mary will use her tag line to alert Richard. This also didn’t work, leaving Eileen to helplessly signal Richard, who was pretending not to see her, while Mary and her husband got into some intense topic and pretty much ignored Eileen.

It wasn’t going to well at all; Mary and Mr. Tyler Moore were deep in conversation and into their entrées. We were failing badly and now running out of time. We huddled up at the salad station, we needed a real plan.

I stepped in with a wild idea; we make up a story about how Richard one time met Ed Asner and told Mr. Asner of how his last name was the same as the character on the show. Ed being a good guy then smiled at Richard and said, “Oh, Mr. Grant,” Richard would then elaborate how funny it was to hear Mr. Grant say “Oh, Mr. Grant.” I was kind of a stretch but we were desperate. If we didn’t act soon, Mary and her husband would leave and even more important, we were sadly bored shitless, we needed something like this to get us through the day, or until business picked up.

Richard agreed to do it and stepped up to their table as they were finishing their coffee. We all waited with baited-breath, Richard was going on…. It seemed like it was taking forever. It wasn’t looking good. Wait, wait, Mary’s laughing, Mary’s husband’s laughing (we’ll assume it was her husband, it’s Mary -- America’s sweet-heart, who else could it be?) and even Richard was laughing. Our hopes were raised, this could be it. All of us stood, scattered throughout the restaurant. Everyone reading Mary’s lips -- could this be the moment?

Mary stopped laughing, her husband paid the bill and Richard returned to salad station without an “Oh, Mr. Grant.” We had failed. Mary and her husband stood up to leave and made their way to the door, when the busboy, Raoul, stopped her and said, “I love your TV show -- can you say, “Oh, Mr. Grant,” for me?” Mary looked at her husband and smiled, and then she said to Raoul, “Oh, Mr. Grant” and everyone in the restaurant applauded. Mary took a bow, as she and her husband made their way out the door and up Columbus Avenue. It was great -- Mary didn’t let us down.

And that’s the way it happened… ahhh, not really. What really happened was that Richard chickened out and no one else would do it without Richard helping and then we got busy and everyone forgot about our plan. Mary and her husband had nice lunch and left. I went out after work to Rupperts, with some friends, and didn’t get home until the end of the first Bob.

Going to See James Taylor

J
ust opening my eyes hurt. “Wake up,” she said. I turned and looked at her -- it was Fiona. Fiona was twenty years old, very pretty, in a fresh Irish way, because she was Irish, from Sligo. Fiona and I were friends, we were such good friends it didn’t bother me that I was naked and she was sitting on my bed. “Uncle Bill, I want to go see James Taylor,” she informed me. I agreed, “I do, too.” Boy, was I hung over -- I remember a party; Jagermeister Jell-O-shots, more Jell-O-shots. “Then, let’s go,” she said. I sat up and all the pain went to my head. “Go where?” I asked.

Fiona was all dressed, I couldn’t remember if she slept over -- actually, I wasn’t all that sure I was in my house. Fiona and I lived in employee housing on Martha’s Vineyard. I worked for the Harborview Hotel and she worked in the Kelley House. We lived with sixty other Irish, English, Scottish and Americans in eight condos, in four buildings, on Fisher Road, in Edgartown. The youngest was eighteen and I was the oldest on the street at thirty (That’s why I was called “Uncle Bill”). Fiona lived with her “flat”-mates in the house across from mine. “I want to go up island and see him.” I looked at her, still dazed from Jell-O-shooting. “What’s up Island?” I asked her. She exhaled, frustrated, “I told you last night about that guy, Ben, that I met at the Agitator (the restaurant was actually called “The Navigator,” we used to referred to it as the Agitator). He said he was going to a barbecue up-island and James Taylor was going be there and he was going to bring his guitar. I want to go.” I dropped motionlessly onto the bed, “Have a good time. Close the door when you leave.”

Fiona grabbed me by my feet and dragged me off the bed -- the filthy shag carpet felt cool on my face. “I want you to go with me.” “Sorry,” I said, “I have to go to work.” She sat me up. “No, you don’t,” her green eyes flashing at me. “You said last night that you were off today.” She started to dig through my dresser drawers, looking for clothes. “I was drunk last night,” I pronounced. Fiona found some briefs and handed them to me, “Here’s your massive Y fronts.” I started slide them on (all the Irish and Scots called American men’s briefs “massive Y fronts”). Fiona tried to help me, “It really shrivels up when you’re asleep.” I don’t call that helping.

Fiona got me up and out, we first headed to a restaurant in downtown Edgartown called, “In the Weeds” (it was actually called “Amongst the Flowers” but that’s what we called it). After a breakfast of coffee, toast and an omelet, I felt slightly better, enough that, I believed I could make it back to my bed, but Fiona was determined to go to this cook-out and she was bringing me with her, whether I wanted to go or not. We tried to borrow our friend Amanda’s car but unfortunately Amanda went off island to a wedding the day before and took the car with her, so now we were stuck looking for a ride. We could take a taxi but it would be costly or we could wait for a bus but not many ran that far out of town. We decided to use the next best method, we would hitch-hike.

The Vineyard was the only place I would hitch-hike. I had made the trip from Edgartown to Vineyard Haven, but I had never tackled the journey up Island to Menemsha, Gay Head and Chilmark. It was pretty safe to hitch-hike on Martha’s Vineyard, as people used to say whenever they were caught leaving their keys in the car or their front door unlocked, “All right, where are they going to go after they steal my car -- you don’t get off this island that fast.” Same with hitch-hiking, “Okay, where are they going to go after they kill me? I hope the cops check the waiting line of the next boat off the island, first.”

Fiona and I took our place on the side of the Edgartown Road and stuck our thumbs out. Though the street was pretty deserted, the second car to pass us pulled off the road and waited. This was great, we would be there easily in time to find a good place to hear Sweet Baby James and maybe even get to meet him. Fiona and I ran to the late model station-wagon (or what is commonly known as an “Island car” -- because you wouldn’t want to be caught dead in this vehicle off the island). We jogged to the car and Fiona jumped into the front seat. I slid into the back. To our surprise we were astonished to find that the character Ignatius J. Reilly, from the novel
A Confederacy of Dunces
was real and living on Martha’s Vineyard. The car was obviously owned by Ignatius, since I was sitting in the back seat surrounded by at least two years of old Boston Globe and The Edgartown Gazette newspapers and a dozen bags of empty plastic bottles. I was hoping we caught him on a trip to the recycler but I knew he was going the opposite way and none of his “stuff” looked to be recycled soon. “We’re going to Chilmark,” I informed Ignatius.

Some people have a heavy foot, Ignatius had a jerky foot. He pulled onto the road and sped up to thirty-five miles an hour and then slowed to about twenty, then punched it and we were back to thirty-five, again de-accelerated to fifteen. This went on through the whole short trip. Fiona looked back at me with a smile, I could tell she thought we were on an adventure -- on the other hand, my stomach thought we were on a roller-coaster... and the Jagermeister Jell-O-shots were not happy about it at all. Ignatius continued his herky-jerky driving and turned to Fiona, “Mind if I smoke?” “It’s your automobile,” answered Fiona. Ignatius Reilly took out a cigarette and lit it, using two hands, the car drifting into the oncoming lane. “Would you like one, my dear?” asked Ignatius. Fiona replied, “I don’t like those fags.” “Me, too,” agreed Ignatius, “But would you like a cigarette, they’re clove.” Fiona pretended not hear him this time. “Clove cigarettes,” I thought, “Uh, oh.” Ignatius pulled us back into our correct lane moments before a head-on collision with an approaching truck.

The smoke from Ignatius’ cigarette drifted through the car -- smelling like someone was burning Boethius’ loin cloth. Between the herky-jerky motion of the car and the pungent smell of the clove cigarettes, something clicked in my head and suddenly there was a whole mutiny in my stomach. Fiona looked back at me and said, “I think you shouldn’t have had those eggs.” Good point. Finally I couldn’t hold back anymore, I tried to roll down the window but it wouldn’t move. Ignatius shouted back to me, “That don’t open.” I yelled, “Stop the car -- stop the car. I’m gonna puke.” “Don’t get sick back there,” warned Ignatius, “I need those papers.” I opened the door, the pavement still herky-jerking by. Ignatius pulled over and stopped the car. “Is he getting sick?” I could hear him ask. I rolled forward and dropped out the island station-wagon and crawled on my hands and knees, ready for the return of the Jell-O-shots.

It came up like it was never going to stop. Between the Jell-O-shots, that were in orange, red, green and blue flavors and the eggs, peppers, tomatoes and bacon from the omelet my vomit covered the color spectrum. Fiona stood over me, “Uncle Bill, it has so many pretty colors -- it looks like a rainbow.” “Is he all right?” I could hear Ignatius ask. Then a car door squeaking shut and the piece of shit car herky-jerky pulling away... hopefully taking the wreak of the clove fags with him. When I finished throwing up on the side of the road, I looked up at Fiona and said, “Sorry about that.” Fiona softly rubbed my shoulders and said, “It’s all right. That guy was creepy.” Thank you, Myrna Minkoff, you minx.

We continued to try to flag down cars but the traffic was infrequent and when someone went by us it’s almost like they knew that a short time ago I was blowing chunks into the road’s shoulder (it could’ve been my barf-dribbled t-shirt that gave it away). About an hour later a car stopped. Fiona and I started running to catch up with it, when I was overcome by nausea again. Having to stop and heave up what was left in my stomach, the driver of the car realized he would rather have someone else get in the car with him (or would rather have Fiona get in the car alone with him). Fiona was kind enough to stay with me as I pulled myself together.

We had stopped walking and was stuck waiting under a large tree for the shade, it was about three in the afternoon -- the barbecue was probably going strong now. We were still stuck on State Road. We had talked about work, about the people we lived with, the party night before. Fiona filled me in on the blanks in my memory. I showed up around midnight, after I shut the bar down at the Harborview and finished my shift. By the time I got to Fisher Road, the party was in full swing. Fiona and some of the girls had made a refrigerator full of Jell-O-shots. They started out with Jagermeister but ran out and used Jack Daniels, gin, vodka, peppermint schnapps, Feckin Irish Whiskey (because it’s Feckin good) and whatever else they could find in a bottle. Yeah, mixing all that liquor should leave me feeling like this.

She also confirmed that at some point in the night, some of the Irish guys and myself had stripped a Scottish guy who had passed out and dressed him in the underwear of one his female house-mates (she had left her laundry on the couch before the party started). I thought it was just that weird dream again. At one point we ducked into the woods to go to the bathroom. I could hear Fiona rustling around in some bushes a few feet away from me, then she asked nonchalantly, “Do you have any t.p. with you?” What would I be doing with toilet paper? I informed her that I didn’t. “Just asking,” was her answer.

We kept sticking our thumbs out whenever a car came by, even when a pick-up truck blew by us... and then slowed. We ran to catch up with him, Fiona looking back at me to see if I wasn’t going to up-chuck again. We made it to the truck and I opened the passenger door. A large cloud of smoke barreled out of the cab, it wasn’t clove but I was sure even the pot smoke wasn’t going to help my still aching stomach. Inside was a young guy, maybe eighteen, dressed like a painter, a red bandana wrapped around a his blond ponytail, beside him, his trusted chocolate Lab, smiling happily (if a Lab could smile). “We’re going as far as Beetle Bung Corner,” I told him. The stoner said he’d drop us there. I told him that we would jump in the back. “Suit yourself,” he replied.

I helped Fiona into the back of the truck and climbed in with her. We nestled down in the pile of ladders, brushes and spotted drop cloths. The stoner hit the gas and we were out of there. I told Fiona, maybe we could still make in time to see J.T. The stoner knocked on the window behind me and held up an already burning joint, offering us a hit. I waved him off, thanking him but no thanks. Then I noticed the chocolate Lab staring out the back window, looking at me. The poor guy looked so cooked -- I swear, he said to me through his hazed-eyes,
“Man, I’m so fucked up -- you got any cookies with you?”
I shook my head, no we didn’t have any cookies.

The stoner was flying through the country that makes up up-island, Martha’s Vineyard, when suddenly we went by Beetle Bung Corner and headed towards Gay Head. I began beating on the window to get the stoner’s attention. Finally, the wasted Lab, now with a jay hanging out the side of his mouth, nudged his driver and the stoner glanced over at me with a, “Oh yeah -- you’re still back there,” look. He jammed on the breaks so hard that the Lab slid off the front seat and dropped his joint, letting out a loud, “
Shiiit, you crazy white boy -- call your stops. I spit my spliff.”
As soon as the car came to something close to a stop, Fiona and I jumped out the back. The stoner tore out of there again and waved an arm out of smoke-escaping window. We waved our thanks.