dishwasher dilemna

rachel screwed up my life.

i write for this salon...
every month,i knock out a short play, some children's poems, sometimes a humorous reading....it was a lot of fun.
however, one salon night, not too long ago, i had a change of heart.
rachel, a writing teacher at the new school, suggested i submit some material to magazines - the new yorker, playboy....

why this???
why couldn't she have said:
oh i like your writing, you should do more.
or,
i had a similar experience when my father died/
or,
i also had very bad asthma from working in a kitchen and the only non medical relief came from foreplay/

etcetera.....

she put me on the spot. "this can't be for fun. you have to take it more seriously."

now i'm stressed. i freeze up.....

it makes me think about work.my real job. and the dishwasher dilemna.....

"oh shit.
could it get any worse?"
it was a holiday weekend. half the staff was away.
rusty, who works as a host and back up dishwasher, called me.
"my grand father died last night." he said
" i have to leave for the weekend."
so, on a busy friday night, i did some dishes, ran some food, worked as the host...
the next day, carmen , who is the manager and the other jack of all trades around here, called me as well.
"my grandmother died this morning." she said
" i have to leave tonight for a few days."

holy shit!! now i'm really fucked....

i need a dishwasher.....

"hey, it'll be ok.... chef, staff, don't worry everything will be ok....
i'll work the streets. i know how to do this. i know everybody."

am i the only person freaking out?

"why am i doing this, anyways?" i say to myself as i hurry out to second avenue.
"yeah, i know the streets. i know the supermarket cashiers, the laundromat ladies, the window guy at san loco, the bengali deli guy "david", and george the butcher at the east village meat market. who am i fooling? i might as well post an ad on craigslist...."
at met food, the supermarket, i asked the cashier, rosa...."i need a dishwasher.here is my card. if you know anyone, they should come at 4 oclock. thank you , rosa."
they know me. i always say hello, i say thank you....they will know someone....

next.at the laundromat.
i say "hello, if you know anyone, i need a dishwasher, to start at 4 o clock. just have him come over. "
"how young can he be?"christina asks me.
" how young?"
" can he be 16?"she inquires....
" yes, yes, 16 is ok, please send someone over...."
then i remember...... several years ago,i had asked her if she knew anyone who could babysit.
she sent her teenage daughter, anna, to babysit our daughter.
she wasn't bad. she hadn't done anything wrong.
she just didn't do ANYTHING. and when she left, she asked if her boyfriend could come over the next time.

"that's ok, i'll see whom she sends over anyways....maybe she'll surprise me.but i know i won't be thrilled with ANYONE she sends....."

now i'm on to better operations.
san loco, the taco shop on second avenue. the window guy knodded to me. hey he knows me, i get lunch there so many afternoons......yes, it's me. "i'm a good guy......please send someone over."he nods to me, i walk out. you wouldn't think so, but sometimes i'm a little shy...

at the bengali deli...sam's....i talked with david."jimmy, how much does it pay?" was all he asked. good question.....i hadn't thought of that.

george the polish butcher.....he wants to do it himself. good old george. he calls me "gaa-neck" that means jimmy in ukrainian....i remember over the years he had hinted to me, several times, that he could do extra work for me, on the side......but he is too old, over 60...
"no. george, a young guy"
-no, george- didn't send anyone over.

i turned to craigs list.
" there's always craigslist." i said.

our first, franchise dishwasher, mack, came from craigslist.
"it's a good way to edit people out without alienating anyone. it's anonymous....."


i typed in.'dishwasher wanted. east village restaurant/pub. work 3 days...."

within 5 minutes, i had an answer. robbie, from d.c....
he wrote well, had worked in a hip dc pizzeria called "comet ping pong pizza". i googled it. a pizza place, with ping pong tables, cheap chic decor....ok ,this fits the bill, even if he didn't really work there or they hated him....at least he can reference an interesting establishment.he was new to the city, lived in brooklyn, worked at an art handling company.great! my new mack!

i needed someone for 3 nights. only 3 nights.

i decided i would pay robbie at the end of the 3 nights. if he didn't like the job, he would take his first night's pay, and not come back the next. i couldn't risk that.....
around 10pm, when his first night's shift was almost over, i talked with robbie. "you'll get paid monday night, after you've worked the 3 nights."
i saw something in his eyes....he wasn't happy about that.....

he said:
"you said tonight would be a trial, for both of us. well, i don't like the job. i can't come back tomorrow."
"what?!? it's a 3 day job. someone's grandfather died...i need you..."
"i'm sorry . it was a trial for me as well as for you."
i walked away. "ok"i said as i threw up my hands
in helpless disgust.

i wasn't happy.
just then, wilson, an older gentleman-customer, walked into the bar.
i like wilson. until fairly recently, he had lived in short hills , new jersey, with an aging wife on one side of town, where he lived, and a not so young girlfriend on the other side of towm, where he spent a lot of his time.
one day, it all blew up on him. both sides of town hated him. he moved to manhattan, to an apartment on east 6th street....
some of the bar staff didn't like him. he had a way of provoking them. he liked to boss them around.....

wilson noticed i wasn't my cheery self.
"you're in a dilemna. GET OUT OF IT!"

"no. wilson. i'm not."
i was pissed off, so angry at this robbie the dishwasher fellow.....

i took mack aside.
"mack, the new guy is not coming back tomorrow. he's quitting. give him all the glasses now, extra dishes,..."
he looked confused.
so i spoke plainly."PILE IT UP ON HIM.'
he winked at me, and said, with a smile, "i already am."

ha ha

we'll teach this boy a lesson.

i gathered my things. it was time to go home. i spoke to the chef"call this number in the morning. this guy gabrielle, from the laundromat" will work tomorrow.
the chef nudged me. "it's all right. he's coming back"
"he is?"
he nodded.

i turned around, smiled at robbie, patted him on the back....

hee hee
he is!!

i had almost lost my temper on him. "get the fuck out of here"i had wanted to scream....where is his coat? i'll throw it at him,tell him to "get the fuck out of here...." and i won't pay him?

or i should pay him?

so i was in a dilemna.
wilson was right.

wilson, i was angry......now i'm not.....
but he was gone. he had ordered his one chimay beer, bossed the girls around, read my mind and egged me on. and then he left.
good old wilson!!

i still don't know what the chef had said to robbie, but he had convinced him to stay. that we were in a bind, that it would be good "karma"....
is that good karma???

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Actual conversation/writing for playboy?

I had an actual conversation with a little italy actor named butch the hat, who has appeared in several martin scorsese films.

it was october 1st, 2007. i was waiting for the m15 bus, at second avenue and 9th street. it was late but not too late, maybe 1am.

butch the hat, whom i've met from time to time in little italy, was at the stop. i said hello, he said he had been at a party. he preferred the bus. he didn't want to walk home eventhough it wwasn't very far.

we talked about how the city had changed. he told me to google him, that he had been in some movies.
he said:
"mob? what mob?....
there were guys walking around with $400 suits/
back when a beer cost a dollar/
walking around with $2,000 in their pockets.
"they were all part of the street action. there was numbers, gambling.....that's all gone now. .....

now....

people can get $30,000 from their credit cards..there's the lotto, lottery....
it took away the street action.
"people used to stand on the corners.
it was safe then."

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writing for playboy?

i was recently asked to write a short story for playboy. i was thrilled, and confused.
when i write, i prefer to use code-words, like "kissing and rubbing". i'm not shy, but i do have a 5 year old daughter.

"we like your writing, mr. pots and pans. but we want you to substitute specific sexual words for "kissing and rubbing."

boy, would i love to write, and get paid to write. a story for playboy!!

ladies , don't be offended. i read the magazine at my barber's. it's part of the ritual. pick up the magazine, wait for the barber. now i even read it while he's cutting my hair.
when we were kids, the only real exposure i had to it was at donny johnson's. his dad had a great collection in his closet.
the older kids, like donny , my brother mike, had a hierarchy of dirty magazines.
from dirty to dirtiest:
1. playboy
2. penthouse
3. hustler.

i only got to see the playboy. there was a lot of hair, misty photos. the ladies didn't look real to me. there was a lot of flesh....some lacey garments. i was a little too young for it all, all of 8 or 9.....
what was a sexy lady supposed to look like to an 8 or 9 year old boy? i really had no clue what it all was about. i knew that it was taboo...and it seemed old.

not just for grownups, but slightly out of date.

once the older boys found a penthouse as well. that was supposed to be a little dirtier than the playboy. apparently, pent house could show the girl's "hole" and playboy could not.
but this penthouse was even mistier. the ladies had even more hair on their heads, bigger hair, longer and more flowing. it was a trip.
who styled these women? who did their hair?
i never got the chance to see a hustler at that age. and i don't know if i ever did as i got older, either.

however, one day,at a cafe in the east village, i did see the publisher of screw magazine. i forget his name. he was older, really thin, wearing black.

all i can remember is what the older kids said to me back then:
"yeah, they go from dirty to dirtiest":
1. playboy
2. penthouse
3. hustler.

looking back, my friend donny probably talked to his dad about the magazines. it always seemed that even though his dad had them stashed in his closet, they really weren't off limits. maybe his mom would get mad about them, but his dad liked them.

donny was this cool, older friend. when he was 12, he had a girlfriend. he had had a hernia operation. amazingly, just a few days later, he was riding his bike with a girl on the front bar, side saddle.
girls, blow jobs. kissing and rubbing. early teens.donny johnson was the cool guy.

my story should be about this. these times, watching my older friends hook up with girls. act real cool. ride girls on the front of their bikes.

for some reason, i ended up playing baseball, football. having crushes on girls. never talking to them.

my older brother was shy. i heard that at the 7th grade dance, he didn't ask even one girl to dance. i made it a point that when i got to 7th grade, i would dance......


(more on this)\
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oedipus

the draft was invented to combat the oedipal urge.
take young men.
draft them,
send them off.

lest they take what is their father's.....

it never seemed real. how ridiculous! imagine a mother falling in love with her son, manipulating him to try to kill his own father.....

now that i have a kid, i see the love mother's have for their sons. i see how they love their boys.

i'm lucky i have a daughter. she is so devoted ,such a loving child.

when she was first born, the doctor handed her to me. purplish red. and not a boy.

_________________

the call

i spent 20 years waiting for that call.
"your father died."
i lived for 20 years, in dread/fear that it would happen. ominous fear that just when i was relaxed , and had my guard down, i would get that call.
i'd be at home, the rare night when i wasn't working.
the phone rings.
i jump up.
if it is my mother's voice, i would expect to hear - could it be that call- "your father is dead."

the actual call was so unlike that.
my wife, pixie, called me a week and a half ago.
"there's something i want to tell you....."
i interrupt her: " i know. he died."

(silence)

he had been ill. 3-4 months, age 87. i had visited him 2 days before. at the time of his death, i had been sending out an email to friends with a story about my relationship with him....

i took the chinatown bus to boston. fung wah, from bowery and canal. very courteous. i got to use the bathroom at the ticket store.
4 hours to boston, $15, 2 more hours to my hometown, another $8. i walked across boston to north station for fresh air....

travel. travel.
the energy of travel. always going somewhere. and doing very little...and waiting....

i'm freezing up now. i hated the trip. felt very macho as well. proud to be traveling on a little pilgrimage to see my dad.
the train was delayed coming out of boston. i arrived at the hospital with only 45 minutes of visiting time.....

i touched his hair. he was not well, not happy.
he sternly said:"how can you live the way you do, walk up 4 flights of stairs.....sell that business, move back here/...."

i touched his hair. he asked me to leave the room, to get the nurse so he could use the toilet.
i peaked in at him, on the portable hospital commode. he did not want me to see him like that. proper to the end. they left him there. sitting on the toilet. no one came back to check on him.
what could i do? hey, i'm from new york now!that's my father! he just took a piss and now he needs someone to help him back into his chair.!!!!!!

nobody would help him. nobody would answer me.

his hands were shaking. both hands were shaking. the red sox were playing cleveland in the championship series. the tv was on in his room. he kept fiddling with the controls. he thought the tv remote was the controller for his medicine, or medical equipment. it kept beeping. he kept on fiddling with it....

i looked at the clock. it was 5 of 8...i traveled back home to see my dad. he was ill.

i left him there. visiting time was over, but no one had asked me to leave.
my brother had picked me up at the train depot downtown. he had initially wanted to take me home first.
"mike, there's only 45 minutes left before visiting hours are over. take me to the hospital."
"no. mama said to take you home, you have to eat."
"mike, take me to the hospital. i traveled 6 hours to see dad. "


the next morning i went back to nyc.
on the bus, i read the new yorker.
there was a story about kosovo.
soldiers who had seen their father killed by a band of serbs....they were not upset, not angry about this.
"it is far worse to see your children die, than your father."

--------

halloween

the traditions of halloween are bizarre.

imagine, take the most misshapen pumpkin or gourd, cover it with caramel.....make a strange, inedible "candied apple"....

i have logged a list of traditional, scary, spooky, folk stories. from old america, tyrolean, chinese....

1. from china - the story of the man named sung who was not afraid of ghosts.....
2. the old lady who had more curiousity than sense. she peeked out her window at a forbidden band of howling, freaky ghouls.
3. the old man, dinkins, who died but wasn't buried properly. so he kept greeting passerbies who'd say: "but old man dinkins died"; he'd say "t'tain't so."
4.the good, young cleaning girl who uses her wits to stay an abduction by goblins."you will marry our goblin son, " they said.
"yes, but first,i need a wedding gown made of golden thread."
the gobling suitor ran to the underwordl to fetch it.....
she stalled the goblins until dawn, they vanished with the first rays of the sun.

i read these stories to my daughter.
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