JENNIFER CONVERTIBLES

Two blocks north on Broadway was another Jennifer Convertibles store. They seemed to be everywhere that year. A guy who worked there had come into the bar a couple of times. My rule was after the second time they were almost a regular. He sported a seventies porn mustache and striped, short-sleeved dress shirt. He introduced himself as Francois but he sounded like he was from Queens.

The third time he came into the Durango I noticed him smiling at me. It made me a little twitchy. He slid his business card across the bar, said I’d make a great furniture salesman. I should call him if I wanted to talk about it. I laughed (to myself). Selling furniture?

“I’ve got an eye for talent. I know you can sell.”

He also wanted to showcase his talent for finding talent to this new boss. They were staffing up because of high demand. And why not? These were not just any sofa, but sofas that converted to beds; the lifeblood of Manhattan apartment living.

My old man had been a salesman (insurance); footsteps in which I readily declined to follow. Manipulating people into buying something they didn’t need was how I saw it. Francois said maybe he’d stop in with his manager sometime. We could talk, get to know each other. I didn’t think much of it. At a bar, people say stuff that never happens all the time. So, I indulged him with a smile and a nod. I liked him. And he tipped well. But here’s the curious part: it stuck with me. I’d been wondering if I needed to grow up. Playwriting wasn’t paying the bills.

I didn’t really like bartending. Its virtue was that it paid well and required a nominal skill set. Actually, I hated bartending, especially the people part of it. I didn’t like having to smile, or worse, act interested when I wasn’t. I didn’t like listening to the guests’ tedious problems and banalities. (Recall that the industry had stopped calling them “customers” when the Danny Myer empire conquered Manhattan and fine dining became an “experience.”)

And, I didn’t like the hours. Riding the west side IRT home to Brooklyn at two in the morning with a sock full of cash was risky. And, who was I kidding? Any mugger worth his robbery chops would check the socks, right?

Most of all, I hated the bar manager, Torcello, a hulking, profane, ex-NYC cop who thought everybody was stealing from the till or on drugs. Or both. He wasn’t completely wrong. I wasn’t his most hated employee, but I was far from being in his favor. He liked the schmoozers. I was not a schmoozer. When the Mystery Shopper reports came in I was assessed as “efficient and knowledgeable but moody and sometimes surly with guests.”

I wasn’t alone in my ambivalence. Almost everyone else among the servers and bartenders needed to make money because we were trying to be something else, a bond we shared beyond our cheap squabbles in the chaos of dinner service. Represented among our collective aspirations were actors, dancers, musicians, writers, film makers and the occasional student. The near extinct species, career bartender, embodied by Maldonado from Canarsie. Thirty-eight years old, in possession of a screw so loose that it threatened to uncouple his rational—or what passed for rational—mind from his prodigious impulses. He drove a Pontiac Trans Am, wore driving gloves and bragged about his gun collection. He would have looked at home in one of those dioramas at the Natural History Museum. Cro-Magnon Man with cocktail shaker.

But I wasn’t a free-rider either. I took pride in my skills; my drink-making ability. I had a well-deserved reputation among some loyal regulars for my Margarita’s. (The recognition was seductive.) And, none of that frozen junk either. I’m talking about tequila, lime juice and Grand Marnier in perfect proportions. A fat salty ring around the rim of the glass adhered with citrus juice. I never used the premade sweetened lemon juice crap, or SLJ, that we’d been taught to use by the venerable Gotham Bartender’s Academy (the Harvard of bartender training). For me, only fresh limes squeezed to order. Did it take longer? Of course. But my loyals rewarded me for my artisanal precision.

Now, you may be thinking anybody can make a Margarita. But my relationship to distilled Agave was complicated. I can’t smell—to this day—let alone drink the stuff without retching. At twenty years old, a twelve hour bender with a couple of people from my summer stock days put me off the hallucinatory liquor for a long time. I made great Margaritas while holding my breath.

I also kept a spotless work-in-progress bar. And because my close-outs were among the best, the discrepancies between booze-out and cash-in within an acceptable range, unlike, for example, Maldonado, I was marginally more bulletproof from Torcello’s inquisitions.

Finally, the kitchen staff loved me. I slipped them drinks. I rarely ate a staff meal when Mark, the Sous Chef, was on shift. Mark was Irish. From Cork. It’s a cliché, but he liked his drink. The quid pro quo was typically an entrée, possibly even a nightly special, delivered surreptitiously to the bar by Pedro from the dish room. Shenanigans of this kind embodied Torcello’s White Whale.

A couple of weeks after Francois’ proposition, I was having a singularly bad night, even by my standards. Right before service one of the servers wet-handedly launched a wineglass over the bar and onto my sink’s stainless steel drainboard. Shards of glass burst outward, lost to the naked eye like a far off dying star. I was really pissed off. Since I had a semi-secret crush on the guilty server, Jill, long curly blonde hair, a little over five feet tall, a drummer in a striving female punk band called Punching Mommy, I made a big deal out of it not being a big deal. But broken glass is a big deal when it’s near the ice bin. I had to empty the bin and garnish tray, search for fragments of glass (of course there were none) and then schlep the gray bus tub to the back and refill the ice bin. Twice. Then, I had to cut and prepare new garnishes and refill the tray. But the real ass-kicker was the other bartender scheduled to work the shift—Maldonado—had called in sick. Torcello refused to intervene. His rule was, “if you’re going to miss a shift it’s up to you to get someone to cover for you.” And since Maldonado had not done so, nor would he ever be inclined to do so, I was SOL, as we liked to say. (Further illumination: Maldonado had not been sick. Twisted Sister was playing the Felt Forum. Enough said.)

Anyway, it was a late spring evening. The big glass doors onto Broadway were open, a warm breeze teasing the nascent summer season. The bar and lounge area was crowded with thirsty people matriculating to hunger. A couple of my regulars, two plump, middle-aged gay guys in pastel polos were in their usual seats cheering me on; getting pleasantly buzzed.

“I come for the Margaritas, but I stay for the show,” said Jerry, sweeping his hand across my domain with a theatrical flourish.

“Michael, you are a master. This is your true métier, forget about playwriting!” Said Ansel, clinking his glass to Jerry’s in a theatrical toast.

There were lots of walk-ins. I couldn’t keep up with the bar crowd. The servers were lining up with their dining room orders, jockeying for position like Whack-A-Mole. A couple of suits waiting for a table started acting like jerks. One of them, strapped snuggly into his yellow suspenders, kept snapping his fingers and pointing to the empty spot on the bar in front of him. Then he’d roll his eyes and smirk.

“If I did my job that bad they’d revoke my Series 7,” he said to the other guy, loud enough for me to hear. I started to turn to him. Then a movement at the end of the bar caught my attention.

Francois was sitting down at the end of the bar with another guy. The supervisor, I imagined. The supervisor looked like he stepped out of a mid-seventies Sears catalog. It was the polyester sport jacket. And, in 1985 skinny ties were all the rage. This guy’s looked like a baseball catcher’s chest protector. I hadn’t seen a flattop haircut in the wild in years.

“This is the man I been telling you about,” Francois said to Mr. Polyester. And then to me, “Hey Mike.”

I wanted to scream, ‘not tonight! Get out!’ but of course it was destined to be tonight.

“Hey, Francois, how goes it? And, good to meet you ...”

“Larry,” said Francois, “My boss.”

“Larry, hi, yeah, nice to meet you. I wish I could talk to you guys but we’re jamming tonight.”

Larry’s face belied no acknowledgement or interest.

I pivoted toward two women approaching the bar. When I realized they were with the yuppie guys I turned back to Francois and his wide-tie boss.

“Your round’s on me. What’re you having?”

I made their drinks and turned to the yuppie foursome. Suspender-guy was still smirking.

“Think we can bother you for a little service?”

“What’ll it be?” I asked, mostly professional.

“Two Sea Breezes and two shots of tequila. And we’re eating dinner so run a tab.” The command issued by someone used to barking orders and having them followed. Run the tab up your ass, puss bubble, I thought. From across the bar Ansel’s tenor soared over the din.

“Skip the shots of tequila, this guy makes the best Margaritas on the Upper West Side.” He gave suspender-guy a look like, ‘trust me,’ nodding his head with great sincerity.

“I hope his Margaritas are better than his service.”

I wanted to keep my mouth shut—I really did—but it was too much.

“Hey, look outside, man! There are hundreds of bars and restaurants on Broadway. If you don’t like the service at this one, find another one.” Then, burning the ships, I added not-so-under-my-breath, “Douche bag.”

The guy stopped smirking; his face reddened. He looked like he was going to come over the bar. I started to reach under the shelf for the sawed off Louisville Slugger the bartenders called ‘Customer Service.’

Torcello appeared, no doubt having observed the scene from his hiding place behind the hostess station. He—and the whole bar—had witnessed the exchange. A jittery hum descended over the lounge area as Torcello maneuvered his girth toward the bar.

“Hi folks, come with me, we’ve got your table ready. Please, this way. Your bar tab is on me. Sorry for the wait. I’ve got you by the corner window.”

As he ushered them up into the dining room he turned back, hissing in my direction. “See me later!”

Yuppie guy scratched the back of his head with his middle finger extended as he walked away. He wasn’t wearing socks.

I looked around for Francois. I caught his eye and he looked away, rubbing his forehead. The seat next him was occupied by an older woman. His boss was gone. I made another Rusty Nail and walked it over to him.

“On me.”

He nodded, a meek smile on his face.

“I guess our timing was bad,” he said, killing half the drink in one gulp.

“Look, man, I am really sorry. I know you wanted to impress him. We’re short-handed, that little prick pushed my buttons, you saw, right? I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay Mike, I get it. Larry’s kind of a tight ass anyway.”

He knocked back the rest of the drink and stood stiffly.

“I’ve got to go.”

“I’m sorry if I made you look bad. Look, if it means anything, I’m still interested.”

“Sure. Yeah. I’ll see you.”

I watched him walk out and head up Broadway. I wondered if he was going back to work.

Flailing hands were flagging me for drinks. I reentered the chaos of the night and pretty much forgot about it, already planning my post-work drunk.

~~~

I never saw Francois again. I felt bad. Not just for him. I couldn’t get a script read, let alone produced. The bartending lifestyle, ample cash in hand, late nights, drugs, drink, was not conducive. My typewriter gathered dust.

Worst of all, I didn’t know what to do. I’d actually started to entertain the idea that a fresh start selling furniture might be my salvation. But who was I kidding? A real job?

Torcello wasn’t planning on firing me but I changed his mind after I told him I quit and threw my apron on his desk. My bartending career was over before it started, or more appropriately, before my real career ever started.

~~~

I hadn’t stayed in touch with anyone from the restaurant. Jill moved to LA. So, it was a bit surreal when I found myself one Sunday afternoon in the neighborhood after a long absence. I’d been doing temp work on a nine-to-five gig, reclaiming my weekends and sacrificing fifty percent of what I’d made bartending. I was sleep-walking into the straight world.

The awning announced that the place was now known as Cantina 88. The out-west pastel palate had been replaced with a Tex-Mex motif, the “T” in Cantina, a jaunty lime green Saguaro cactus. Through the big glass doors facing Broadway I made out the skeleton of the old Durango now overlaid with a warm, earth-toned facelift. I stood watching for several minutes as brunch service wound down, guests laughing, languidly enjoying the fall afternoon. I didn’t have a stake in the place anymore so I felt pretty stupid when my eyes welled up behind my sunglasses.

Further up Broadway I saw the Jennifer Convertibles store. I stepped out of the sunlight to peer in the window. There was no sign of Francois. Way in the back of the store I thought I saw a flash of gaudy polyester. I was tempted to go in, maybe vouch for Francois after the fact. Instead, I kept walking.

Louis Scenti's professional career has spanned 40 years, from theater production and playwriting to corporate executive, Columbia University adjunct faculty member and executive coach. Threaded throughout is his keen interest in human behavior, motivation and personality. As an aspiring actor and playwright, his play, Jangled, was read at the 92nd Street Y as part of Playwright's Horizons new voices series of 1985. The same play enjoyed a staged reading in 1987 at Brown University in Providence RI. Jangled also received an Honorable Mention in the script category of the 1990 Writer’s Digest competition. His short story “Matunuck,” was recently published by Half and One. Another of his stories, “Hey Shakespeare,” was published by Free Spirit/Poets Choice as part of their collected stories: "Christmas and Halloween: Those Festive Stories." Having finally slipped the bonds of organizational life he has rededicated himself to writing.