The USS Intrepid is a battleship that saw active duty in WWII, Viet Nam and countless other military initiatives. As far as The USA is concerned, it is an absolute icon permanently moored off The West Side of Manhattan. Today it is a museum.
To those of us in the theatre who must support ourselves with jobs here and there between gigs, it is a place we cater-waiters occasionally and grudgingly trudge off to work. Grudgingly as it is a Grand Exodus to get there. The Blue Line Subway gets you as close as 8th and 49th and then there are long blocks to go in the cold past theatres, restaurants, apartments and eventually warehouses and buildings that belong to another century and whose use is now mysterious and at best, circumspect. Getting back after work is even more fun because--belieeeeeve me--you want to take a cab to either Penn Station (Ah, Kew Gardens), your apartment (if lucky enough to live in Midtown) or back to the E/C train because it is dark, late and potentially dangerous... even post gentrification of Hell's Kitchen. And puh-LEEZE---as long as Port Authority is nearby, it will ALWAYS be Hell's Kitchen regardless of what cute little name you want to attach to it. "Clinton"... Uh huh... and Shell Shock is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I digress.
You never know what you're going to have to put up with when you go to a catering gig. Here, you know it's a steel floor and a dodgy sewer system. Last night, add dressing up like a sailor in a tshirt, dog tags and little sailor hat... which sat on my big head like a yarmulke with fintails.
Adding to this discomfort, my cheap, black, polyester trousers decided to abandon ship and break the clasp, so I ran around trying to look as if my shirt were tucked in, when in reality I was praying to any handy deity to please at least keep my loose zipper half of the way up so said trousers would not slide South during the salad course.
During the set up, I noticed that the white, red and gold motif was a little on the MGM side--circa 1963... Did Jerry Lewis work for MGM? I don't know, but it looked like one of his sets.
Essentially it was some Australian company that was being treated to a concert--direct from Atlantic City... Cher, Bette, Liza, Diana and Sinatra lookalikes crooned/lyp synched into the wee hours whilst I tried to smile, serve coffee and keep my pants on.
Discomfort and embarassment reached sitcom potential when I realized that the Sinatra lookalike ("look" is all, because "sound a like" was beggaring belief) was someone I had a brief but memorable and sweet fling with 1,000 years ago.
Folks--nothing tops an evening when you must consistently walk past an old amour--dressed like an extra in South Pacific and schlepping dirty plates when they are clad in an Armani tux.
I sometimes wonder if my life is on pay-per-view up on Mount Olympus, or wherever the gods meet to laugh at we mere mortals....
The fun of this night kept exploding like a concussion grenade... Humiliation after degradation--
UNTIL--he and the drag queens began a rousing rendition of New York, New York.
Clad in Armani, surrounded by drag queens and a bad sound system--there he was, attempting a kick line. Ghosts of sailors past more than likely watching in amazement, I realized that while he may be in a tuxedo, and I was dressed like a cheap sailor we were equalized by the serving up of the cheesecake.
I like to think that mine was palatable.
