Today in New York City there is a definite feeling of fall floating in the air. The gray skies and drizzle accompanied with the cooler temperatures tells me that autumn is right around the corner which means that winter is right behind. I hate winter. All of those people who say they like freezing their tits off make me want to snap. They're always like, "oh, but then you get to wear your sweaters and cute coats." Sorry. Wearing a cute sweater is not enough for me to embrace the frigid bitch known as winter. My point is, that once fall is here there is another season that makes its presence known: catering season. Time to pull the used tuxedo out of the closet and scrape off the honey mustard from the last party, because I will be needing to put that shit on and pass around hor d' ourves too soon. Tis the season for a cater waiter.
Every Thanksgiving, I work for a family in Westchester. Or Long Island. I dunno where it is really, I just get on the train they tell me to and then they pick me up at the station. I have done it for three years and they consider me "part of the family." I guess they are referring to that one family member who stays in the kitchen all day and serves their food, washes their dishes and takes out their garbage. What family member is that anyway? Grandma the Housekeeper maybe? Uncle Charlie the Slave perhaps? Anyhoo, that's me. Last time I was there someone brought their friend for dinner and the guy started making small talk with me in the kitchen. "So how are you? Where do you live? What do you do?" I told him I was an actor and I do catering and stuff and this year I got to work on Thanksgiving. He was all, "you have to work today? That sucks. When? After dinner?" I realized he had no clue I was the hired help. It finally dawned on him when I pulled my apron out of my bag, tied it around my waist and opened up a can of cranberry sauce. He was embarrassed. And didn't talk to "the help" anymore.
The year before I was washing all the dishes (by hand, because that's how I roll) when I realized I was familiar with the pattern on the dinnerware. I turned it over and recognized the name of the potter who makes them. It was the same lady that I work for twice a year at the New York International Gift Show when she sells her pieces to stores all over the country. Yes, I had sold these very dishes at one job and here I was washing them at another. It was a perfect circle of subservience. The lady of the house couldn't believe that I knew the lady who had made her dishes. I couldn't believe that the universe had made it so crystal clear that I was having a shitty Thanksgiving. Thirteen more weeks until Turkey Day. Gobble gobble, mother fuckers. Life is funny, isn't it? So fucking funny.
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