 |
| Artwork: Behnan Shabbir |
John Gailey was a
legend. He was a waiter’s waiter. He had worked for Richard and Lynn for
years. He was a Gangly Mulatto Homo--his
own description—which phonetically sounds like the Swahili word
ganglimulatohomo, which roughly
translates to “black man with dick in mouth.” He stood 6’ 3” with size 13 feet and weighing
in at 150 lbs soaking wet. He was a
total nut, and totally dishonest. He
would cheat his own Grandmother. He was
infamous. He would train waiters and be
vague about how many tables they had in their section, then steal those
unattended tables.
And he was cheap. One time he was limping real bad. “My foot is killing me. I bought these new
shoes from a busboy at the Ivy by the Shore, whose brother got them when
they fell off a truck.” The bussers were
famous for their “five finger discounts”
“One of them feels okay, but the other
one is real tight.” “Maybe they need to
be broken in,” I said feigning concern. “Take them off and stretch them.” So he
did and soon we heard him cursing to high heaven. Apparently the busser’s brother had sold him
2 shoes. One size 13, the other, size 12.
Tom partied hard.
He told this “I’m lucky to be alive!” story
about being at a BBQ up in the Hollywood Hills, and being on a deck, tapping a
keg, and he was laughing, and pumping the keg, and was chortling at someone
else’s lame joke and went to lean on the deck rail, which would have been great
if a rail existed. And as he tumbled
over backwards and fell into some gravel he realized that he was still holding
the keg hose, and had managed to drag the keg to the edge of the deck.
“I looked up and saw this keg of Coors
Silver Bullet plummeting down at me, and I thought, ‘This kind of booze isn’t going
to kill John Gailey!’” He was right
about that. Another kind did the job
later.
 |
| Photo: Batrachus |
Tom went to Las
Vegas with me and some friends a few years later, and the highlight was him, as
token gay man, threatening to drape is flaccid penis across the face of the
first of us straight guys to pass out, and memorializing it with a polaroid
photo. I switched to club soda early
that night.
I hadn’t seen John in weeks, and if you
didn’t see someone for awhile, but their
name still appeared on the schedule, this meant they were either suspended,
fired, or worse: scheduled to work at The Ivy at the Shore (aka Siberia by the
Shore). The Shore is to The Ivy as Khloe
Kardashian is to Kim.
The ugly sister
who might still put out, but not like her ho-bag sister. We were guaranteed to make money turning
tricks at The Ivy. The Shore was often
just one big party of Europeans waiting to shove a five percent dildo up your
keister.
Turns out he was sick. In a normal restaurant world employees are
kept informed about other employees illnesses, or family tragedies. Obviously privacy is paramount, but
restaurants are a tribal system, and if someone is suffering, others help
out. I heard the Latinos would actually
pool their tips and give them to their uninsured co-worker friends. The Ivy wouldn’t allow us to post any non-Ivy notices on the bulletin board. Our
focus was always to be on “our important guests” and their needs.
John was not fired, suspended, or
working at the Shore. He was very sick. And soon he was hospitalized. In the end he was in a hospice wing at Cedars
Sinai, which was just around the corner from The Ivy. I went to visit him after the lunch
shift. Strangely, Roberston Blvd. was
quiet that day. I recall seeing a few
open parking spaces. I walked passed
Chaya Brasserie, and entered the hospital.
I noted that I hadn’t stepped foot in Cedars since my own nervous
breakdown in 2000. I took the elevator
up to ICU. He was all alone in his own
private room. He would have been happy
to make the list. I entered, and waited
for that vaguely warm yet dismissive greeting he was so famous for, “Hello,
Stupido!” coupled with his usual crazed,
Jerry Lewis smile. Instead I saw his eyes
wide open, and unblinking. He had a
breathing tube, and his gangly legs poked out of his gown revealing his big
feet. Now I understood why he was in such
pain that day when the busser sold him mismatched shoes. I held his hand, and told him about my
day. I told him about the waiters, about
Brenda crying about how she was being seated, and Marc cheating the busboy, and
who got suspended this week, and the paparazzi being desperate for any kind of
picture and having to settle for David Hasselhoff. The whole time he just clutched my hand,
despairing, unblinking, as if he was afraid that if he closed them for a second
too long they would never open again. I
cried for John. I wept like a soldier
weeps for a fallen comrade. We were
waiters. We were veterans. I had served at Spago. He had served at Wolfgang Puck’s Granita in
Malibu. I was sober. He was dying.
I was glad I showed up for my “frienemy” John. Soon, I said my final goodbye. I looked back,
hoping that maybe he would say, “Adios Stupido!”. He was staring at me, unblinking. The next morning he died. It was his final checkout. I hope he kept all the tips.
