At my first real job (I'm not counting years of newspaper routes where might I add, I had the professional pride to zing the papers to the top of every stair. My apologies to the neighbors whose doors I pounded). Sylvia's Continental Restaurant, home of fine dining and pizza (the original Smash dining concept) featuring Red Boy Pizza, owned and run by the very unorthodox Chris Kelly. Chris built and named this restaurant after the much younger lust of his life, Sylvia C.(she was very nice) - who left only five months from when I started. Chris gave me many opportunities to do many things, from prep cook (lost a piece of finger in the mushroom slicer- don't worry- it went into someone's pizza) to the eventual pizza chef, with my signature mandarin orange finish. Chris also left me to answer to his construction crew when he neglected to pay them. I think they might have throttled anyone else if I didn't look fifteen, did not weigh less than a twelve year old girl and probably wasn't getting paid myself. Oh yeah, back to the pants.I was able to drag my friends to work in the restaurant at one time or another; at least five of them. (10 sentence countdown to the pants) Chris certainly liked the gang and he certainly liked the wages you could pay seventeen year olds. And there is no other staff that you would want in your fine dining establishment than seventeen year olds that have zero food experience. But most of my crowd was in back, prepping, driving, cleaning. In the front of the house was a more experienced troupe. The waiter with the most style and elan was a young man, then in his twenties, Shahri. Shahri helped transition me to have the ability to relate to people that were different in age, culture, interests. To this point, my friends and I attempted to be the same. Any departure from the collective was not appreciated. Shahri smiled like the cheshire cat of Alice in Wonderland and with long hair and an earring. A crazy laugh. My friends tried to persuade me that Shahri was gay-different. I thought the flamboyance was because he was from Malaysia.
Shahri took me under his wing; perhaps he viewed me as a younger brother that he could confide in and laugh with. And so he felt the need to have me dress better. Having a bit of money- remember I was making a whole $2.65 an hour (before overtime!). Shahri took me to his favorite place to buy slacks; a boutique store near Union Square. A French boutique and in little time, I was equipped with the tightest, sleekest, woolest pairs of French dress slacks- $100 plus each. I should have asked them to sell me a butt first. The funny thing is is that I can not recall buying nice shirts, or jackets, or shoes- just having these navy blue, black and beige slacks. In 1979 to be a swanky dude, all you needed were swanky pants. My parents really must have been busy with their jobs back then.
We hung out. I met many of his friends. All of them were great to me. Other than having nice pants, there didn't seem to be any concern about acting cool, or being a jerk to others. One man always wanted me to try the other side, he would encourage. However not having tried any sides to that point, I really did not know what he was talking about. In truth, I understood the concept but I didn't think I could go to Vancouver until I'd been to Vacaville first, if that makes any sense. Got to get to Vacaville. Shahri would sometimes call me at my parents house during one of the crazy parties he would attend. It often sounded as if people were jumping on sofas and trampolines. We stayed in contact for 10 years or so but as time and distance works its magic, the rabbit vanishes into the hat.
I might still have those pants (never mind the blog about Stuff for now). Never know when the boys might need fancy pants. Might bring them back for myself. Might show my youthfulness by fitting in them again. And that my friends is the most horrible thought I leave us all with, before I say goodnight. Goodnight.
No comments:
Post a Comment