See LA the John Gailey Way

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.