|
 |
Jumpin' Jack Flash Summer
Sixteen with car keys. Remember? I was the new busboy at Shield's Fine Dining. A harsh and exotic world of college-girl waitresses, no curfew, zits and testosterone. I didn't have a clue what I was doing on the floor. All I knew was that Sharon, my particular college girl wanted me to do it even faster. And for Sharon I would. Late, very late, covered with a residue of grease and dried sweat we divvied up the bux. I pocketed my share plus the little extra Sharon would slip me on the side. How could I not adore her, even though I had to watch her leave with her boyfriend, the bartender, every night. I hated him. But, every night I waited in the parking lot until she waved to me from his Camaro. Then we sweaty bus animals would pile into a VW and drive up the strip to the only joint still open--the Big Boy. Smoking and flirting with the waitresses, our classmates all through the school year, but suddenly interesting and exotic in their little orange uniforms. Playing at high rollers we would pool all the change in our pockets and fill the ashtrays with clanking loot. Pulled by a primal need to over-tip other service employees. A roll of quarters lighter and a chocolate shake heavier, I would slide into bed after Johnny Carson and all decent people had left the day far behind. Next morning, I could hear activity downstairs, but I was allowed to sleep (he has a job, now, you know.) After the rest of the family was out the door I would stumble downstairs, Lord of the Manse. Popping the top on my can of Pepsi, (even then I was dosing on caffeine, this was the summer before we discovered LSD). I would settle down in front of the TV. And there I found Graham Kerr. This bon vivant, this roue of the kitchen. Sloshing wine and flying around the kitchen chopping, slicing and sauteing. I didn't know or care what he was doing. I was mesmerized by his attitude. This guy was making food glamorous and he was making it seem important. He was making me seem important. His little daily dose of nonsense made me want to go back each night into that confusion and turmoil. I hid (sort of) my passion for Sharon all summer and pined for her after her departure on Labor Day for the University. Everyone who lasted the summer got a bonus. Just enough to support our Big Boy habit for a month or so. But football and school took over and my restaurant days were over. That is until the next Memorial day.I was back looking for my old bohemian lifestyle. I was seasoned now and ready to take control. The first day back I scanned the floor eagerly. Would Sharon want me this year? She wasn't on the schedule. Her bartender sadly told me that she wouldn't be back, she had died in a car crash downstate during the winter. Watching The Galloping Gourmet have his little slurp of red wine as he brought his sauce pan to temperature was somehow not as invigorating as it had been the summer before. Perhaps my hormones were alittle more under control, but one thing was certain- I was hooked. I wasn't going to be able to escape my genetic coding. --Gary Epting |
 |
|