by Ted LoRusso

Best way to find a waiter gig in Manhattan is to pick a neighborhood, wander from restaurant to restaurant, ask if they’re hiring. I’ve been wandering all afternoon. No luck. I need a break. I’m three blocks from Bloomingdale’s, my sanctuary. Meandering around the store pretending I can afford stuff soothes.  

I enter Place Elegance, a boutique on the 9^th floor that specializes in women’s haughty couture. I’m inspecting the merchandise. The sales clerk notices me. If he pesters I’ll tell him I’m shopping for my girlfriend. I don’t have a girlfriend. I’ve never had a girlfriend, but he doesn’t know that. 

“We don’t have that in your size, I’m afraid,” the clerk says. 

I’m holding a black silk evening gown embedded with thousands of crushed beads that are probably Schwartz crystals. It should be heavier. 

“I’m just looking.” 

“For yourself?” 

“No. Just wandering,” I say and wonder why I told the guy the truth. 

But I know why I told the guy the truth. His frisky smile tells me he likes me. I feel obliged and a little off. 

“And you wander into Place Elegance by an accident?” 

“I suppose I’m looking to buy a dress for a girlfriend who doesn’t exist with money I don’t have.” 

“Ah,” he says, “I see.” 

The guy is real close now. He takes the gown from my hand and places it back on the display rack. He tells me his name. François. He’s remarkably clean, polished, a defiantly debonair Salvador Dali. He has a soft but slicing European accent. He says he saw me last week, on the first floor, in Men’s Perfume, working the guy at the Aramis counter for free samples. 

I don’t deny it. 

“The way you are dressed tells me you are bohemian, no? You must be hungry. All bohemians have the hunger.” 

“I am constantly hungry,” I say. 

He’s by my side now, sliding into his coat. He says he’s finished for the day and suggests an early dinner of Fettuccine Alfredo. Twenty minutes later we’re sitting at a window table in The Isle of Capri, a nifty little Italian Bistro on Third. I’m embarrassed to be sitting across from him; surely someone so sleek and elegant can spot my fine layer of grime. 

But François is smitten with me, and I with him. We talk into the night. He says I am his first bohemian, and how would I like to accompany him to Alicante, Spain where he has a house?  

I notice the Cartier wedding band on his right hand. He must have a boyfriend. They all do. I ask him if his boyfriend would mind him taking me to Spain. He says, “Tedee, this is the 80s. We are not Ozzie or Harriet.” 

I never make it to Spain, and François and I never hook up. His boyfriend, Lou, was having an early dinner with his new protégé at the same restaurant, at the same time. Once seen by Lou, I became forbidden. 

Three months and two failed jobs later, I bump into François outside Bloomingdale’s. 

“François,” I say, “I was just on my way in to say hello.” 

“Do not bother, Tedee. I have a new job.” 

“Oh…where?” 

“I’m maître d’hôtel at Le Provençale” he says avec un petit peu of pride. 

“Oh really?” I say avec un petit peu of desperation. 

— 

I arrive at Le Provençale, a watercolor postcard of a French restaurant. It lies dormant après le déjeuner. The long and narrow dining room smells of Chablis and Chanel N°5. Bistro tables cluttered with dainty lunch debris line opposing walls. A petite service bar near the entrance keeps its champagne secrets at bay for now. 

François, wearing a pure white, billowing waist-to-floor apron, approaches. “Wait here, Tedee,” he says and pushes me against the bar, “I will get Lancel.” 

François glides off. I picture myself waiting on sophisticates and debutantes, clicking heels, speaking French. Another waiter, Marco, a short, stout, angry tea-pot, gets near me and scowls, “Que veux-tu? Rentre chez toi. Nous n’embauchons pas!” 

I know only one word of French and use it even though I don’t know what it means. “Merde,” I say, happily. 

Before Marco can leap, Lancel, the owner, emerges through a curtained door near the bar, followed by François. Lancel scans the room with one insouciant glance. Satisfied his restaurant is still here, he leans against the bar and lights a cigarette. Even leaning he’s three inches taller than anyone else in the room. He’s dark, solid, just this side of comfortably hairy, his wide lips surrounded by a deepening three o’clock shadow. His smile for me seems genuine and a little bemused. 

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” 

“This is Tedee,” François says to Lancel, “I told you about him. I thought we could offer him a chance.” 

“Parlez-vous Français?” Lancel says to me. 

“Oh, yes,” I say, “many times.” 

“François a dit qu’il t’avait rencontré pendant que tu achetais des robes. Est-ce vrai?” 

“Why, yes, I love French food when I can get it.” 

“Avez-vous de l’expérience dans les restaurants?” 

“I agree.” 

“Avez-vous une idée de ce que je dis?” 

“I’d love to, and I’m available anytime.” 

Lancel says, “From now on, we speak English, no?” 

“That would be nice, yes.” 

I am hired.  

Under François’s tutelage I begin climbing the rope-ladder of French service. He says, “Do not be afraid. To learn you must watch me.”  

And so François teaches me how to look haughty when taking an order, how to roll my eyes and sigh exasperatingly at a customer’s lack of sophistication, how to sell an expensive bottle of wine to a customer who can’t afford it. And he teaches me how to smoke like a Frenchman—hold the cigarette with two nonchalant fingers, shoulder-high, inhale like you don’t care, and blow the smoke in the nearest American’s face. 

By the end of my second week, I’ve mastered opening a bottle of wine without jamming the cork in the bottle and spraying the customer, like I did three nights ago when I assassinated a $40 bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet, splashing John Irving in the eye. Mr. Irving was not amused, but his dinner companion, Kurt Vonnegut, thought it was a riot, and merrily chortled from the Croque Escargot all the way to the Crepe Suzette. 

It’s difficult work, high stress levels. I don’t understand the menu, the chef, or the customers. But, with François as a mentor, I’m surviving, and making money. 

Several months later, I arrive early to seek out François. He’s the only friend I have in the city. I need his advice. Then again, it isn’t his advice I seek, really. It’s his blessing. I’ve been offered a summer job on Fire Island, and I think it would soften the blow if I ask François’s advice on whether or not I should take it, even though I’ve already said yes. 

François is in the kitchen, toasting a dinner roll on the grill to go with his coffee. He stands as he always stands, erect, with his right ankle casually crossed over his left ankle behind him. His shoulders quiver. He’s weeping quietly. 

“Hello, François.” 

François dabs his eyes with a kitchen rag, “Ah, good. You are early for a change. Begin your side work.” 

“I need to talk with you.” 

“Not now, Tedee, unless it is important.” 

“I’ve been offered a job.” 

“Where?” 

“On Fire Island. The Pines.” 

“I give you a job when you needed one, and this is how you answer me? You twit.” 

“Is everything all right?” 

“What does this mean, ‘all right?’ No. I am not ‘all right.’ The doctor tells me that Lou has gay pneumonia.” 

“What’s the difference between that and regular pneumonia?” 

“Gay pneumonia is for gay men only. It is special.” 

“Is it catchy? I mean, will you get it?” 

“The doctor says no. He thinks Lou got it by masturbating with the windows open. So do not masturbate with the windows open.” 

“I won’t.” 

“This job on Fire Island, it is for the summer, no?” 

“Yes.” 

“How did you get it?” 

“Remember that male model I dated?” 

“The one that got up and left you in the middle of your first date? Yes.” 

“Well, he called me. His ex-boyfriend manages a restaurant called The Botel, and they need summer help.” 

“Do you know anything about Fire Island Pines?” 

“No, but I—” 

“It is for men only, Tedee. It is “The Garden of Earthly Delights” with jock straps. Sex there is what you do between meals.” 

My mouth hangs open. I want to start tomorrow. 

“French restaurants are never busy in the summer. Take the job, Tedee. It will do you good to see more of the world even though it is just Long Island.” 

“Thank you, François.” 

“When you get back, come and see me, if I am still here … and if I’m still talking to you.” 

François gathers his coffee and roll; walks into the dining room. I remain in the kitchen, greatly relieved. François has freed me for the summer. It hits me how much I like this guy. Then it hits me how much I owe this guy, and guilt is suddenly a great impenetrable wall, blocking my way to any sort of happiness I may feel about moving on. 

I stand at the grill, my right ankle casually crossed over my left ankle, just like François. I toast a roll, just the way François does: crispy at the edges. I empty two sugar packets in a cup, dash it with milk, then pour the coffee, just like François. I put my coffee and toasted bun on a tray and back out of the kitchen into the dining room, just the way François does. 

—

It’s 1987, I’m working in a pizza joint on the Upper West Side. I’m waiting on John-John Kennedy in Station One. He’s with three buddies. They had a pick-up basketball game around the corner and are in need of a pitcher of beer and a pizza. The air around them reeks of Burberry and body odor. 

Station One has a bank of windows overlooking Columbus Avenue. A crowd has formed, watching me wait on John-John. 

Among the crowd is François. 

I’ve not seen him in three years. He waves. I excuse myself from John-John’s table, and run outside to greet him. We share perfunctory hellos. I point behind me. 

“Look who I’m waiting on.” 

“Never mind, Tedee. He is still too white for me.” 

He asks me about my job here. I tell him it’s a “good gig.” He notes my confidence and says he’s pleased I have finally found a home, even though it’s just a cheesy pizza parlor that serves fried zucchini. He does not look well. Something is off. Not as sharp. Sweating a lot, He exudes impatience, not Aramis. It’s clear he’s eager to get away from me. I’ve encountered this before in this era of AIDS. Unwell people who become agitated when they run into healthy friends.  

We say hasty goodbyes. Before we part he grabs my arm and says: 

“Tedee, you will always be my favorite bohemian.” 

Months go by. I hear from a mutual friend that François collapsed and died at the airport on his way home to see his mother in Alicante, Spain. 

That night I go to The Isle of Capris. Order Fettuccine Alfredo. And cry just like François.