You Want Me to What?!!!

      Bussing was not without it’s hazards though. There were a lot of “events” that occurred on my watch but there are but 4 that really stand out in my mind. One: Picture a summer Sunday brunch with beautiful weather……place is packed, we’re slammin’ and all of a sudden a manager beckons me over to the phone booth (popular rendezvous spot for secret conversations…among other things) and in a slightly shaken whisper announces “I need you to go look for a bomb”…….Well, you can imagine the multitude of questions running through my head not the least of which was “you want me to what?!?” which I asked in no such whisper. But when asked again I had grasped the situation and like a trained robot went off and looked for what I thought a bomb might look like (visualize Wiley Coyote here).  As I was walking around all the places I thought someone could possibly put such a device the police had been summoned and the restaurant cleared and no bomb found by either yours truly or the police. This happened one more time in the same year I think which made it obvious that it was some disgruntled former employee calling in these threats to wreak havoc during the rush. Not funny! (Photo late seventies)
   Two: One year, I forget what triggered the idea, it was decided that someone had too “streak” through the restaurant at the height of the rush. I think it was the opening day of yacht season and possibly to compliment our annual topless woman in an Indian headdress buzzing the deck on a very expensive looking yacht. Anyway I’m not sure how it came about but Eric Shuggar was to be the “streaker”. The plan was for him to bolt from behind the cashiers box  run to about mid room, execute some complimentary pirouettes & and exit to the bench at mid deck where myself and I think two other streaking assistants were waiting to toss old Eric off the deck into the bay. This was all fine and very trendy until I realized that I hadn’t really thought about how we were gonna grab a naked dude with enough grip in a place where we wouldn’t hurt either him or his pride, to “toss him up and over the bench … clearing the deck railing and the flag poles that stuck out every few feet or so. As he came racing out and towards us I just kept saying to myself…”self, if ever there was a time for you to be extremely accurate this is it”……..and so into the drink, went Eric… maybe not as gracefully as he could have but to our relief all hand prints were accounted for on his back and lower legs and his voice retained the lower register…….whew!      Three:  There were just everyday type hazards associated with this type of work as well. Cuts, burns, etc,. and even if you’re as careful as can be there will be something that gets ya sooner or later. One of the most feared hazards were the ever present “black holes”. These were small pools of water on the floor from spills or plants draining, any number of causes. Because the floor was wood and coated with an incredibly hard thick plastic finish you couldn’t always detect them. One fine summer day I happened to find one of these little buggers as I was coming out of the kitchen doing the “One handed goblet tray balancing while running act” passing just in front of a packed dinning table. Of course it it was the height of the rush….and I did not see the large, multi pronged “black hole” directly in my path. The table referenced here is one of two very large tables capable of seating at least 10… anyway, down I went. It was so fast that I didn’t remember the trip down, just that one moment I was cruisin’ the next I was on the floor with my right arm buried in a pile of broken glass. The goblets I was carrying were big heavy glass mugs on stems. I think you could only get 12 on a tray but they were heavy so when you were carrying them to any specific place, you wanted to pick ‘em up transport and deliver in as few moves as possible…..which I did…just minus the third or delivery phase. The sound was as though a bomb had gone off. It literally froze the room. You could hear a pin drop and I’ll never forget the look on the faces of my direct audience seated ring side. Picture this: the audience reaction to the number at the end of the first act in Mel Brooks “The Producers” called “Spring Time for Hitler” same look, but some were terrified because apparently it looked by the way I was holding my arm when I got up, as though it were broken and I was bleeding pretty good from all the chards of glass stuck in my forearm.   
     
Gary/ Espresso Bar 

Jan McDonald                                           Sue C.

Post by Evan Palmerston: email: psyckn@sbcglobal.net

Photos by Jiro Yoneshige: email: bookofshadows4@yahoo.com