Summer Accommodations: A Novel (3 page)

“Uh-huh,” I said, being as neutral as I could. “Which one is Abe?” Abe was another professional waiter in his fifties that my brothers had told me about. A man with a law degree who eschewed the practice of law to wait on tables. In describing him to me my brother Steve had said of Abe, “He's a man who loves humanity; it's people that he hates.” When I took the job at Braverman's I thought Abe would be the puzzle I might attempt to solve, but suddenly there was Harlan Hawthorne to be considered and everything about him, from his appearance and manner to his attendance at Harvard, made him immediately more interesting.

“Abe doesn't eat with the staff. The Braverman's have him eat at their house. I think he's a relative of theirs but nobody knows for sure.”

“Is he really a lawyer?”

“That's what they say. It drives Sammy crazy that Abe has a college degree and a law degree and is still waiting tables just like him. Sammy thinks that if you have degrees you should have it made. Listen to the two of them go at each other, well, I should really say listen to Sammy go at Abe. He carries a dictionary in his pocket and studies it whenever he can. He uses the ten dollar words like some people use stilettos. You'll see.” He broke off abruptly and suddenly sat there stiffly.

“Hi! I hear you're my new roommate, hi Ronald.” Harlan Hawthorne was standing over us wearing a congenial smile. I started to stand up to shake his hand, but pressing his hand down on my shoulder he said, “Hey, you don't have to get up for me Mel, I'm just another one of the shleppers like you.” God he was something. Soft spoken, handsome, possessing what my mother called “presence,” his was a poised and relaxed confidence contained in a lithe, athletic physique. He had the look of someone who had never been introduced to failure, the look that implied acceptance wherever he found himself, the look of princely dominion.

“Is there room for me here?” he said to Ron who shifted to his right on the bench allowing Harlan to sit down between us. “So Mel, I hear you're going to be Sammy's busboy. That's a great deal for you, Mel. You should make some good money doing that.” It crossed my mind to say, “So, I hear you're fucking Heidi Braverman. That's a great deal for you,” but I was too unfamiliar and too impressed with Harlan to play that Bronx schoolyard game with him. I smiled and nodded.

“Do you play tennis Mel? We could play a couple of sets tomorrow if you like.”

I'd never played tennis. I'd played paddle ball with wooden racquets and pink, Spalding rubber balls on cement courts in the city playground but not tennis. I was becoming aware that Harlan addressed me by name in almost every sentence he spoke to me. My salesman father once had explained that he did that whenever he met someone new to engrave the person's name on his memory. Those were my father's exact words, “engrave his name on my memory,” and it was such an unusual and literary turn of phrase for him to use I never forgot it.

“I didn't bring … I forgot to bring my racquet, Harlan, but maybe we could shoot some baskets if you like.” I was a pretty good outside shooter, two-handed set shot, one-handed push shot, an occasional jump shot from the key.

“I don't know Mel, you're taller than I am and basketball was never my best sport. We'll see.”

“Anytime you're looking for a game of horse let me know,” Ron interjected. Suddenly my time was in demand and the feeling of acceptance that brought to me made me happy for the first time since my arrival at Braverman's.

3.

When it was time to serve dinner Sammy took me by the elbow and moved me from the kitchen to the side stand at our station.

“The first thing I want you to understand Melvin is that this is my station. I have been working at Braverman's for more than twenty years. Usually most of the people sitting at these tables have requested to be at my tables. That means they will expect me to give them my attention. You will be doing more work than the other busboys, but you'll be better paid than any of them for that work. You'll set up, you'll break down, you'll bring out my trays and bring in your bus boxes. I do all the serving, you get to pour the water and the coffee. Even the soup I do. Keep the bread baskets full, keep the butter dishes full, keep the water glasses full, be nice, smile, have a good time, make lots of money.”

Sammy had been firm, but friendly. These were his basic ground rules. What he was telling me was that I would be doing most of the physical labor for the two of us. All the other waiters would be carrying their own trays for the various courses, appetizers, soup, salads, entrees, and dessert, while Sammy would merely schmooze the tables. Then he'd lay out their plates and schmooze some more. I knew to expect this and was not surprised. I would do whatever it took to make the money.

“So, do you have any questions?” Eager to demonstrate my eagerness I had already prepared questions before coming to the dining room.

“Is the split still five and three?” This meant is the tipping practice still five dollars per person per week for the waiter, three dollars per person per week for the busboy.

“Yeah, that's how it is usually. Of course my regulars do better than that, and I hope they'll do the same for you. Sammy winked. “But this weekend no one knows what to expect. Harold Braverman has rented out the hotel to a Lions Convention from Utica. The whole place.” Sammy seemed to be sinking under the weight of this information even as he conveyed it to me. “He looks at your generation of Jews and sees no business for the mountains so he's decided to attract some other kinds of vacationers. Goyim.” Indeed, Harold had been prescient. Recognizing in the sometimes surly, sometimes contemptuous attitudes of the dining room staff the likely loss of a whole generation of Jewish vacationers, cleverly he had begun to market the resort to the upstate gentiles. If he were to succeed with this venture he could secure his fortunes for another twenty years. Then he could sell out and the hell with the rest. Sammy narrowed his eyes and shook his head from side to side, agitating it minimally, his nose moving no more than one inch from center in either direction. “Goyim in the Catskills. Go know. Yeah, the Irish have a resort north of here, and they say there are even schvartzes in some part of the woods, but goyim? From Utica? It's the end for me if that happens. I squeezed his shoulder, gave him a pat on the back, and mentally discarded my other questions.

While I filled my water pitchers for dinner my brother Jerry's old busboy, Bob Gelman, came up behind me and gave me an affectionate goose which caused me to lurch and splash myself with the water.

“Hey!” I shouted.

“Hi ya Mel, how're all the famous White brothers.” Bob was an annoying wise guy but I was glad to see a familiar face, and gladder still that he had missed my acrobatics over the turkey neck.

“Hey, wait ‘til you see this crowd of Lions. You've never seen anything like it. Terminal pastels, man, terminal.”

“Hi Bob, how come you're still working here? I thought you were in law school.”

“Just waiting tables some weekends to help out and to grab some cash. Come July I have a job with a law firm for the summer. Hey, if you need a day off over the summer, you know a weekend day or something, I'll come up and help you out. Two meals, fifty bucks.” Some bargain. Stuart Stein, the maitre d'hotel came into the kitchen fussily.

“Come, come, come. Let's get out there and set up. The dining room opens in less than five minutes. I want everyone looking crisp and smart. Hal B wants to make a good impression on these folks so if you want to be here again tomorrow you'd better look smart tonight. And no funny business.” Stuart was a science teacher in South Fallsburg who could not leave his teacherly ways in the classroom. Steve used to say he always expected to see a pocket protector in Stuart's short-sleeved white shirt, or chalk dust on his hands and in his hair. He was the kind of teacher who probably had to pull thumbtacks out of his ass ten times a term.

When the guests began filing in for dinner it was immediately obvious we were dealing with a different population, almost a different species of animal. An assortment of pale faces poised above pale pastel colored clothing entered tentatively, cocktails in hand, and advanced cautiously down the center aisle of the dining room. Bob and I exchanged smiles across several tables, the kind of smile that can be like a fuse on a bomb of hysterical laughter, and sensing the precariousness implicit in this smile I turned away and busied myself with the remaining napkins, folded like Bishop's miters, to be placed in each guest's empty water goblet. Bob coughed and cleared his throat loudly. I knew he wanted me to look up but I wouldn't permit myself that indulgence because I could feel the laughter gathering in my stomach, roiling there, waiting for the opportunity to burst out of me in explosive, convulsive waves. My first night and I was determined to make my debut unmemorable, better still, invisible. I would not look at Bob.

“Ahem, good evening ladies and gentlemen, nice to see you all this evening. Welcome.” From the corner of my eye I saw Bob remove his side-towel from under his belt, wave it ostentatiously through the air, and then make a low, foppish bow, the towel extended at arm's length from the tips of his left thumb and index finger. The members of the Lions Club, Utica Chapter, fidgeted nervously, the ice in their drinks tinkling musically, while they searched one another's faces for some ruling of protocol. It was as though they suddenly had come upon an aboriginal who, if treated improperly, might slice them into steak tartare and devour them, pastels and all. “Gelman!” shouted Stuart Stein, fuming at the lectern he used for writing the table assignments. He glowered in Bob's direction, but Gelman wouldn't meet his gaze. “Gelman!”

“Gelman!” echoed Bob, bowing low to the parade of guests now tip-toeing past him, as if fearful that a loud noise might provoke pandemonium from the madman with the lunatic grin bent over in their path.

“Gelman to you too,” ventured a brave guest who then scanned the room for an approving face. When his eyes met mine I winked and gave a short, brisk nod as if to say, “right!” With that he hurried back along the line of Lions and their wives, whispering and gesticulating, an ardent interpreter of the new ritual he had just discovered. And as the line began to move again each person passing in front of Bob greeted him with a spritely, “Gelman!” and made way for the next visitor. Stuart Stein, scowling at his post, had a wise guy on his staff and that was not to be tolerated, but that night at least, there was nothing to be done. For the remainder of the meal the members of the Lions Club, Utica Chapter, exchanged “Gelmans” with the dining room staff as if they were “shaloms,” and after the clean up Bob Gelman was told to be gone. Working my first meal had been easier than I'd expected. The guests were polite and agreeable and I dutifully, if pointlessly, assured them that I was hoping to be a doctor when they inquired about my career plans. Sammy tried to make jokes with his new patrons but was distinctly uncomfortable with this non-Jewish crowd and eventually gave up his ambition to charm them. The other waiters and busboys had been friendly and the ridicule I anticipated for my nose dive following Rudy's performance hadn't occurred. I had finished bussing the dishes and glasses, in that order, and was drying the silverware and sorting the pieces into their compartments in the drawer of the serving stand when Sammy began to hold forth.

“The dignity of hard physical labor does not extend to waiters and busboys, Melvin, so let this job be a lesson to you. Stay in school, get your degree, and become a doctor. If you become a lawyer, you may never get out of the mountains.” He was starting. I knew this was for Abe Melman's benefit, not mine. “Did you know that Abe over here has a law degree? A lawyer and still he waits tables. Go figure. Why would an educated man, a man with a graduate degree from New York University want to wait tables, can you tell me? Please Melvin, I'd appreciate any help you can give.” Though groomed to answer questions, to be the bright boy, I had no idea and couldn't even begin to improvise convincingly on the issue, nor did I have any desire to try.

“You can't can you? Well, neither can I.” Turning in the other direction he said, “Ivan, wouldn't you say that Abe is a parsimonious, penurious, pusillanimous putz?” Abe, setting his tables for breakfast, abided Sammy's abuse with indifference, the way a Masai herdsman abides flies.

“Whatever you say Sammy,” Ivan said, sorting through his cutlery. I sat quietly at the serving stand counting my spoons. I didn't like this kind of meanness but knew there was nothing that I could do. While each hotel dining room might have its own subculture, certain rules were transcultural. If you are new you must keep a low profile until you've had your place in the ordinacy defined. Were I to come in too quickly on Sammy's side, despite his intense disdain for Abe he would suddenly recognize in him a friend worthy of my respect and admiration, and he'd call me an ass-kisser for trying to suck up to him at Abe's expense. For the rest of the summer I'd be known as “Ass-Kisser” and summoned by that name in the kitchen, the dining room, the waiter's quarters, and in the company of any girl I might try to link up with or impress. But come to Abe's defense and the ignorance of that position would inflame Sammy, and then my name would become “Shit-head” in the aforementioned venues.

“I have to take a leak,” I said, trying to exit the scene. “You should wash your hands first,” Sammy called out. “What?” Disbelieving, I stopped walking. “What did you say?”

“You should wash your hands before you go to take a leak,” Sammy said approaching me. “People always get that backwards. Consider this. You took a shower before you came to the dining room tonight, am I right?” I nodded. “Then you handled food, plates, your dirty side-towel, the broom that's been knocked over on the floor, all kinds of dirty things, but your washed and rinsed schmekele has stayed in your pants all night, right?” I nodded again. “So why would you wash your hands after you touch the one clean piece of your anatomy? Do you pee on your hands when you go to take a leak? Of course not! So go wash your hands first. Simple logic.”