The Bohemian

by Bill Bowler

Chapter 2: Love and Money

I was swimming naked in warm, blue-green water. Gentle waves washed over my head as I luxuriated, floating and swimming, tranquil and happy. She appeared before me, wrapped in a towel, smiling and beckoning to me. I longed to reach her. I saw a telephone on the sand underwater and tried to swim down to call her. I swam down deeper and deeper but the phone stayed out of reach. I realized I had swum too deep to get back to the surface. I couldn’t breathe.

My eyelids rolled up. My heart was pounding. After a second of confusion, I recognized the dim contours of my room and realized that I was in bed in my apartment.

I got up and went to the window. She was already up, leaning out her window in a slinky black dress.

“Hi,” I called out.

“Hi,” she answered, and disappeared into her apartment.

Well, that’s something, I supposed.

I made coffee and sat at my desk. Did she watch me from her apartment? Not likely. Are women driven by voyeuristic urges? Hmm, I wonder? Could she see my typewriter? Did she consider the poet a romantic figure? Not likely. I tried to put such fruitless musings out of my mind.

From the desk drawer, I took out my dog-eared manuscript, “The Bum Chronicles,” and leafed through it. None of the poems was finished. They all needed work. But I was distracted and edgy, not in the mood to write. I should take care of more practical, less demanding matters now and write later, in the afternoon maybe, when I could concentrate.

The ConEd bill was waiting for me in the mailbox, a rude awakening that triggered the unpleasant sequence of thoughts that the rent was coming due and my savings account was near zero.

When all seemed lost, Fate intervened. My brother’s girlfriend’s sister’s boyfriend owned a restaurant in Gramercy. I had a connection. It was worth a shot. I walked up to Gramercy Park.

And what a beautiful neighborhood it was. Clean. Quiet. Two and three-story townhouses on a tree-lined street. A little Garden of Eden undiscovered in the midst of Bedlam. The restaurant was on Irving Place, kitty corner from the big bust of Washington Irving in front of the high school and just down from the gated park. I walked up the concrete steps under the awning and into Paulie’s Ristorante.

A good looking, strapping man with black hair slicked back and dark eyes, and the most brilliant and immaculate starched white shirt I had ever laid eyes on, was on the phone taking a reservation. He motioned for me to wait. He hung up, made a notation in a big book, and turned to me.

“I’d like to apply for a job,” I mumbled.

He looked me up and down. “What’s your name?”

“Walter Wobble.”

“You can call me Paulie. What do you do, Walter? You an actor like Dave here?” He nodded at the bartender.

“No,” I smiled. “I’m a writer.”

“You ever work in a restaurant before?”

“Yes, in college.” The snack bar was sort of a restaurant.

“College? Great. But I’ll tell you something. We prefer you not to have too much experience. They walk in here and think they know everything and we can’t train them. We want you to do things a specific, certain way, which we have developed and arrived at for this restaurant. We’ll let you trail tonight. Follow one of the busboys who speaks English. You watch and learn our systems. And look sharp. Black pants and a white shirt, OK?”

Black pants? Who has black pants? And I wasn’t looking all that sharp, either. This was my third day with no socks and my second with no underwear. OK. No more putting it off. This was it. I had a job. Time to do a load of laundry and then buy a pair of black pants.

* * *

I went home and packed a few more sheets and towels into the bag and dropped it off at the Chinese laundry, then headed up to 8th Street to look for a cheap pair of black slacks. After looking in store windows, I found one slightly dingy place that looked like it might not be too expensive.

As I entered, I saw the store was deserted. It looked like I might have been the first customer in forty years. I hate when I’m the only customer in a store. A seedy browbeaten salesman edged out from the back room, a yellow measuring tape around his neck, looking desperate to make a sale.

“What can I do for you, sir?” He was very officious.

“I need a pair of cheap black pants.”

“Right. You a waiter?”

“Yes.” I was, almost.

He shuffled through a stack of trousers. “Let’s see, yes, I have this very nice pair here. A fine pair of pants for a waiter.”

“Do you have a pair with the bottoms done?”

“Not to worry. There’s a tailor right around the corner on 13th Street. Here, try them on and I’ll measure them for you, then the tailor will hem them up in five minutes.”

“Well, I don’t know. Polyester has a lot of static and clings. Do you have a pair with some cotton in them?”

“You want cotton? Just a minute.” He shuffled through another pile of pants on a table. “Here’s cotton.”

He handed me a pair of black pants, half cotton.

I examined the garment. “Yeah, these are very nice, sir, but I need 31 length. These are 36.”

“I told you, don’t worry. The tailor will fix them. Try them on.”

He led me over to the changing cubicles. I went in one and closed the curtain as well as I could. It hung down about to knee-level and didn’t cover the width of the cubicle entrance. It was at that point I remembered I had no underwear on. I looked up. The salesman, with his back to me, was watching my reflection in a well-placed wall mirror. I came out.

“Excuse me, sir, this is kind of embarrassing, but do you have a pair of underwear I can buy?”

He went over to a rack, “What did you say, large?”

“Medium.”

He handed me a pair of five dollar blue bikini briefs. I took them, cursing to myself, and went back into the changing cubicle. I undid my pants and glanced in the mirror. The salesman was watching me, with no pretense of discretion. Here goes nothing, I thought, turned around, and dropped my pants. So, I give the guy a little moon, give him a thrill, if he’s such a pervert. Looks like he could use it. The pants were nice, but five inches too long.

“You won’t find nice cotton slacks for that price anywhere.” The salesman marked the hems with chalk. “The tailor’s right around the corner.”

“Okay, I’ll take them.”

But screw the tailor. I’d had enough excitement for one day. I bought a needle and thread, which I needed anyway, and hemmed the pants up myself.

* * *

Within a week, they gave me a full schedule as a busboy. I was now, I am proud to report, gainfully employed and a contributing member of society. You have to have a dollar in your pocket to survive in this world. The realization was slowly dawning on me. It got a bit boring clearing endless dirty dishes from table after table, but I was already getting good at piling and balancing the plates on my arm.

Most of the other busboys were Hispanic: Mexicanos, Argentinos, Colombianos. There was only one other gringo: a guy named O’Hara. He was around thirty and an alcoholic. He was the nicest guy you could imagine: quiet, friendly, polite, a gentle soul with a serious drinking problem. As a busboy, he specialized in clearing half empty wine glasses. He would cruise the dining room, spot a wineglass with wine still at the bottom, zero in, and clear it before the customer knew what hit him. Once back through the double doors to the dish washer, it was down the hatch. You walk a journey of a thousand miles step by step and, sip by sip, gulp by gulp, O’Hara got groggier and groggier as the night progressed. By ten or so he would be completely drunk and stumbling around the dining room.

Paulie’s Ristorante was a small, family operation. Paulie went by his first name and was on a first-name basis with every one of his employees. He had a short fuse and was a bit apoplectic. If a veal chop went out burnt or an espresso was too weak, or, God forbid, a plate got cold before it reached the table, Paulie’s face went red. He went nose to nose with the offender, waved his arms and screamed, and vowed to fire the employee responsible if he screwed up once more. The truth was, though, that the more Paulie liked someone, the more he screamed at him. It was his way of showing affection.

Paulie’s was Paulie. It was his baby. He knew every inch of it. He could do everybody’s job in the restaurant and better than the person doing it. The restaurant was his life. He lived for it, devoted himself to it, and gave it everything, his entire self, holding back nothing. As a result, the cuisine was superb, the service excellent, and the restaurant prospered.

By the second week, I was really in the swing of things. I came in around 11:00 and started my opening chores: brought clean linen up from the laundry room, prepped butter and sugar bowls, stocked milk, tea bags, coffee and de-caf, put flowers in the vases on the tables.

Around 11:30, the truck from Cosmo’s Bakery in Brooklyn dropped off the big brown paper sacks of Italian bread at the front door, still hot from the oven. I brought them in to the coffee stand. The heavenly aroma of warm fresh-baked bread wafted through the dining room. I put my hand on the crisp brown paper and felt the warmth seeping through. My stomach growled. I drew myself a cup of coffee, sliced off a chunk of warm bread, buttered it, and savored the delicious taste and texture of warm, soft, buttered bread encased in crunchy crust. There isn’t much more to life, when you get right down to it.

At ten to twelve, the first customers started coming in. Most of the lunch clientele was businessmen with a smaller percentage of affluent ladies in to talk for the afternoon, and a handful of Italian regulars, Paulie’s pals.

There was one pair of sourpusses that came in regularly. They appeared quite wealthy and looked like they’d been depressed for about thirty years. Lord and Lady Witherspoon, I called them. They never talked to each other. They never smiled. Once their grown son came in with them, a doctor or some professional. A drip off the old block, ha ha. He looked suicidal.

Carlos, the waiter, an immigrant from Honduras, told me to bring a hot tea to 45, the Witherspoons’ table.

“Him or her?”

“Her.”

I made a cup of tea and delivered it.

“I’d like another slice of lemon,” commented Lady Witherspoon.

“Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

I brought two slices of lemon in a little dish to the table. “There you are, ma’am.”

“But I ordered tea, as well,” commented Lord Witherspoon, with a sigh of resignation.

“Right away, sir.” I did as he requested.

Drawing hot water from the machine, I noticed a filthy little street urchin wander stealthily in the front door and stand by the bar.

“Where’d that kid come from?” Paulie wanted to know.

“He just walked in, Paulie,” I said.

The urchin slid, light as a cat, from the bar to the desert table.

“Okay. Time to leave. You’re too young to come in here.” Paulie moved to usher him out.

Quick as a flash, the kid grabbed an apple and shot out the door.

It must have been a full moon or something because, within ten minutes, among the business suits and jewels entering and leaving the restaurant, an incongruously shabby man with a matted beard, covered with dirt and grease, appeared. He walked right up to Paulie.

“Listen, man, excuse me. I’m a Vietnam vet. I was shot in the leg twice during Tet.” He rolled up his trousers to show two deep ugly red scars. “I’m a heroin addict.” He rolled up his sleeve, showing masses of sores from needle pricks. “I just want some bread, maybe a little cheese or meat, for my wife and child.” He pointed outside to the street, where a woman stood holding an infant. “I’m telling you the truth, man.”

“Wobble!” Paulie called to me. “Put a half a loaf of bread and some salami in a bag, to go.”

“How much salami?”

“A couple of slices. Move it.”

I delivered the to-go order to the front door. The shabby man took it gratefully. In front of the restaurant, he handed the package to the shabby woman, then walked into Il Ponte Vecchio, the restaurant across the street.

* * *

I was now in a financial position secure enough to pay the Con Ed bill. On my to the Post Office to buy a money order, near the bodega on Mott St., I passed a tall woman in a black dress pushing a bicycle. There was something about her. I couldn’t quite place it. What was it? Half a block later, it hit me. I recognized the dress. I ran back and caught up to her.

“Hi! Excuse me?”

She stopped and turned with no idea of who I was. I couldn’t believe she didn’t recognize me.

“Excuse me, I just wanted to say hello. We live right across the street from each other.”

She squinted at me. “Oh, that was you?”

“Yup.”

She kept walking, pushing her bike. I tagged along. An awkward silence followed.

“Can you see into my apartment?” she asked.

“Yes, quite clearly.”

Another long pause. I picked up the slack. “What’s your name?”

“Cynthia.”

“I’m Walter.”

She didn’t say anything. Her hair was strawberry blond and curly. Her butt was a little big, but not objectionably so.

“On your way somewhere?” I was really struggling.

“To class. Listen, I’m sorry. I have to get going.” She jumped on her bike and pedaled off.

That night, I left the lights off and sat outside on the fire escape under the night sky. Cynthia’s shades were up and she was in her kitchen. She looked so innocent and naïve, so beautiful. She was tall, I remembered, as tall as me. I fantasized she was an Amazon warrior queen in a leopard skin loincloth, and I was her captive, in chains. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, yet I realized I should stop peeping at her, especially now that we had met in real life.

I was about to go inside and lower my shades, when I observed another person in her apartment in complete violation of my fantasy life, which collapsed in rubble at the sight of this intruder. A man with gray hair, seeming quite at home, was looking through her refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. They toasted. Her back was to me and he was looking over her shoulder, out their window, in my direction. In the darkness, at that distance, he could not have seen me on the fire escape. He strode to the window and lowered the blinds.

I sat on the fire escape landing, watching the translucent shimmering of the shades, edged with gold from the lights within. I had recognized the man.

To be continued...

to Challenge 348...