the old lady

in the back room has one good and one fucked-up eye. she's all chicken bones in a house dress, frail and helpless. she needs to be led around by the elbow. she doesn't want a cocktail, she wants coffee. she helps herself. the bad eye is watery, poked-out and unseeing, a scary egg-white blob. i wonder if, in an earlier century, she would have been accused of practicing the black arts, run outa town or burned at the stake. she doesn't say much. she's in her own world. at times it's as if she's not there at all. friends and family speak to her or at her. how is she doing? she looks at her loafers. she waits until they finish with their attentions. i imagine her young, pretty, flirting, but it's a stretch. i see her in her kitchen under a harsh fluorescent light, the dishes piled up and befouled, a smell of piss and toast crumbs on the formica. definitely a bad-picture TV with the sound on low, her slippers worn at the heel and the photos of relatives turned over. a sickly cat is curled up in a corner. i hope i get her wrong. i hope she's aware, safe, living in her own house, taking calls and sky-high on pills.

my job:

waiter at Doyles and for more years than i can count. doing anything that long invites disaster, boredom, wet brain, mistakes, getting shit-canned, psychiatry or criminal acts. in my case i'm just plain lucky because i love what i do. i did from the start. i look forward to it every night, even when my art homework is coitus interrupted and a song is half boiled on the stove. there are so many reasons why i dig the gig. for one, it ain't phony. yuppies (when they existed) are never comfortable there. it ain't posh, but it's decent and it's a good time, the food and service friendly and inexpensive. booths and beer sell the joint to the newly arrived. the three rooms, from the original antique bar to the 80's additions, have a family frankness, a we-did-this-ourselves-not-some-interior-designer-with-ascot-and-little- dog crap. tin ceilings, wobbly fans, paintings and photos of politicians, Red Sox teams, high school year book portraits taken back in the mid-20th clutter the space. i like looking around. it appeals to me in an easy way. the worn-through linoleum, beer neon, hanging lamps and the recently added flat screen tvs co-exist with the sway-backed shelves behind the bar. the kitchen is huge and crazy loud with the attack of cooking, dish washing, pizza hurling, foul language, frantic expedition and screaming cel phone calls to kids. the bar is one yards long slab loaded with a soldier's salute of beer taps. the murals make no sense. are we in Boston? Switzerland? Ireland? some are incomplete (the artist couldn't paint hands and hid them behind Pilgrim skirts). the Indians are more yellow than red and were repainted, as well as the ceiling, after the smoking ban. the cigarette era accumulated a nicotine crust on the walls and tin. the new paint job holds, translucent as glass. but none of the above would keep me, or anyone else, working there all these years if there wasn't more to it. more than whizzing about the floor, banging through doors, mopping up kids rice-on-the-table or dealing with idiots. it's who you work with and work for that gets you through the night. i get a bang out of my co-workers, then and now. they are a rag tag lot and we yell, fight, laugh, steal tables, shrug off asshole customers as we beat up on them as soon as we're out of earshot. we squeal/cheer the Sox, Pats, Bruins and Celts. the jokes and anecdotes never let up or get stale. gossip is as thick as gravy, complaints wild and the side-work can be spotty. we shrug off the annoying cliches: 'i'll DO a Hogaarden' - 'do'? are you serious? should i watch? 'i'm still WORKING on my prime rib' - with a screw driver? can ya get me a glass of water 'when you have a chance'...as in HURRY THE FUCK UP! 'i hated it' hardy har har har (when every plate has been licked clean). the naughty desert eyes: 'i'll try the mudd pie' tee hee hee - like they're remembering some exotic sexual position. the presumption of the regular who assumes that because he's been to Doyles a zillion times, he deserves the extra attention. really? probably. but over time, regulars become friends. like teachers, we watch their kids grow up. we hear about an impending divorce, a son's first guitar, a daughter who won a writing award. the wait staff (except for me) are girls. cooks, dishwashers, bartenders are all dudes. the kitchen guys hang tough and are dirty-mouthed and hilarious. when you boom through the swinging door you enter their turf which is louder, raunchier and more real in a lotta ways than the 'how can i help you?' politesse back on the floor. the bartenders open wine bottles by grabbing the belly in one hand and back-assward twisting the bottle not the corkscrew. but hey, we ain't in the South Wnd. we ain't Vogue sleek or knock-out hot. we cover a broad age spectrum, but we're good looking in that straight forward working class what-the-fuck way. we wear t-shirts, shorts and jeans. there is no snotty have-to-wear-black dress code. and we're quick. turn over is our bread and butter. not many customers linger anyhow. big families with lotsa kids running all over the restaurant want in and out with a snap. the back room is the only function space of its kind or size in Jamaica Plain. it can handle birthday parties, political fund raisers, soccer trophy nights, wedding receptions, graduations and lesbian football teams. years ago, Eddie Burke, who bought the joint back in the 60's, made sure that no prejudice be allowed. he made it a rule: if some asshole was racist or homophobic, he was banned for life. who knew that a liberal agenda was gonna take over the hood? dykes love doyles. so do cops, veterinarians, African Americans, indie rockers, Germans, nuns, Haitians, students, socialists and trans-genders. the polyglot is happy here. there's no paid vacation, sick or maternity leave. you show up or you don't and you make the money you make, but you walk outa there with your tips, you can adjust your schedule to suit another occupation and you don't take the job home. i rarely hang after work. i love the interplay and frenzy during my shift, but i don't feel like sticking around later. (i have other friends at another bar.) but ya know what? when things get tough, we count on each other. we pitch in. we pass the hat for someone who's sick or who's lost a friend, having a birthday or getting married. we read with a glance how waitress X is handling the dope at table 30 and we have her back. regulars have nick names: 'the dog lady'. 'the basketball guys'. 'why do you DO that?'. we laugh about them. we have to. it's like that in 'the industry' and especially at Doyles. it ain't corporate and that's why it's fun, that's why it works and that's why so many of us have stayed on. my sister, a waitress for years, said 'you can't be yourself when you wait tables'. i get it and acting does happen at Doyles, but it ain't Shakespeare and you can pretty much be who you are. you can even have a count-your-farts-in-the-hallway contest with Kelly and Sheila, or do the crossword when it's dead slow. that's just part of why the place is awesome, why there are so many returnees ('are you still here?'), why so many of the staff have stuck around and why i'm grateful to have the gig. hey, they even call me 'Ricky'.