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Authors: Valerie Martin
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hard-earned money and then stick me for the price of a beer, especially since he was flush enough to buy tickets to a popular musical revue. My chance with Madeleine was at hand and I determined to take it. I signaled the bartender to refill her glass and when she demurred I insisted. “On me, please. I haven’t had a minute alone with you since—”
“We went night swimming,” she finished.
“Yes,” I said. “You were right. That night was definitely magic.”
“It was,” she agreed. The bartender set a full glass before her.
Two hours later we were hand in hand, climbing the narrow stairs to my apartment, pausing on each landing forlong embraces. The next morning when I opened my eyes to find her arm draped around my waist, her soft breath oscillating against the nape of my neck, I sighed with satisfaction. Guy could have the money. I’d beat him to Madeleine a second time.
L ike most actors I worked for tips in restaurants that I couldn’t afford to eat in. Three days a week I did the lunch shift at Bloomingdale’s, where stylish ladies who had just maxed out their husbands’ credit cards picked at cold chicken salad and vowed to economize, beginning with the tip. On Thursday and Friday nights I served dinners to artists and gallery owners at a trendy bar and restaurant in SoHo, which was a good gig because artists have often worked as waiters themselves, so they’re sympathetic; also, not being good at math, they tend to round up the percentage. This gave me Monday and Wednesday nights free for my classes with Sandy, Thursday and Friday all day to pursue auditions. Doubling up meant losing audition time as well as Saturday night. So I spent the week resenting Guy Margate, though I was perfectly conscious that if not for him I wouldn’t be working at all, I would be a waterlogged corpse tossed up after a thorough pounding on some rocky beach in New Jersey. Friday night I had the additional pleasure of imagining Guy and Madeleine out on the town on the money I was working my ass off to replace. It was midnight on Saturday when I hung up my apron and counted my take, which was unusually good. I decided a nightcap at Phebe’s wasin order and set out across the cultural divide of Houston Street with a firm resolution: no beer, straight whiskey.
The traffic was light, only the occasional yellow flurry of cabs and a few delivery trucks. The streetlamps hissed and buzzed overhead, shedding a blue metallic light. Phebe’s glowed like a golden spaceship dropped down in a grim future world; the sound of voices and music ebbing and flowing as the doors opened to exiting aliens. As I crossed Third Avenue, a panhandler appeared from the shadows and planted himself on the sidewalk so that I couldn’t pass without getting his pitch. He was a gray, wizened fellow, with hair like a mudpack, wrapped in a combination of blanket and plastic sheeting that served as both his attire and his lodging. “Jesus,” I said, as he stuck out his grimy hand. “Aren’t you hot?”
“Any spare change?” he said. His voice was lifeless, but his eyes were black and keen. I dug into my pants pocket; I actually had a lot of change, and extracted a couple of quarters and a dime. “You need to work on your patter,” I advised him.
“Fuck you,” he said. I dropped the coins into his palm and pressed past him. Actors are superstitious about beggars, perhaps because we’re largely in the same line. They know this and make a point of hanging around stage doors, particularly on Broadway. Long-running shows have regulars, who call the stars by their first names. “Dick, the reviewers are in tonight.” “Shirley, look at you, you’re drop-dead gorgeous as always.” So I didn’t relish being cursed by a panhandler. He stepped back into the darkness from whence he came and I pushed on to Phebe’s, feeling tentative and anxious. The bar was packed,with some overflow to the tables, and the two bartenders were constantly moving
“We went night swimming,” she finished.
“Yes,” I said. “You were right. That night was definitely magic.”
“It was,” she agreed. The bartender set a full glass before her.
Two hours later we were hand in hand, climbing the narrow stairs to my apartment, pausing on each landing forlong embraces. The next morning when I opened my eyes to find her arm draped around my waist, her soft breath oscillating against the nape of my neck, I sighed with satisfaction. Guy could have the money. I’d beat him to Madeleine a second time.
L ike most actors I worked for tips in restaurants that I couldn’t afford to eat in. Three days a week I did the lunch shift at Bloomingdale’s, where stylish ladies who had just maxed out their husbands’ credit cards picked at cold chicken salad and vowed to economize, beginning with the tip. On Thursday and Friday nights I served dinners to artists and gallery owners at a trendy bar and restaurant in SoHo, which was a good gig because artists have often worked as waiters themselves, so they’re sympathetic; also, not being good at math, they tend to round up the percentage. This gave me Monday and Wednesday nights free for my classes with Sandy, Thursday and Friday all day to pursue auditions. Doubling up meant losing audition time as well as Saturday night. So I spent the week resenting Guy Margate, though I was perfectly conscious that if not for him I wouldn’t be working at all, I would be a waterlogged corpse tossed up after a thorough pounding on some rocky beach in New Jersey. Friday night I had the additional pleasure of imagining Guy and Madeleine out on the town on the money I was working my ass off to replace. It was midnight on Saturday when I hung up my apron and counted my take, which was unusually good. I decided a nightcap at Phebe’s wasin order and set out across the cultural divide of Houston Street with a firm resolution: no beer, straight whiskey.
The traffic was light, only the occasional yellow flurry of cabs and a few delivery trucks. The streetlamps hissed and buzzed overhead, shedding a blue metallic light. Phebe’s glowed like a golden spaceship dropped down in a grim future world; the sound of voices and music ebbing and flowing as the doors opened to exiting aliens. As I crossed Third Avenue, a panhandler appeared from the shadows and planted himself on the sidewalk so that I couldn’t pass without getting his pitch. He was a gray, wizened fellow, with hair like a mudpack, wrapped in a combination of blanket and plastic sheeting that served as both his attire and his lodging. “Jesus,” I said, as he stuck out his grimy hand. “Aren’t you hot?”
“Any spare change?” he said. His voice was lifeless, but his eyes were black and keen. I dug into my pants pocket; I actually had a lot of change, and extracted a couple of quarters and a dime. “You need to work on your patter,” I advised him.
“Fuck you,” he said. I dropped the coins into his palm and pressed past him. Actors are superstitious about beggars, perhaps because we’re largely in the same line. They know this and make a point of hanging around stage doors, particularly on Broadway. Long-running shows have regulars, who call the stars by their first names. “Dick, the reviewers are in tonight.” “Shirley, look at you, you’re drop-dead gorgeous as always.” So I didn’t relish being cursed by a panhandler. He stepped back into the darkness from whence he came and I pushed on to Phebe’s, feeling tentative and anxious. The bar was packed,with some overflow to the tables, and the two bartenders were constantly moving
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