Tennessee Williams' Waitress
Waitrons are often embarrassed of their ostentatious step-cousin, the Pump Handle, in the same way that Christians blush uncontrollably at the slightest mention of their own adorable relative, the Chimpanzee.
I was abrubtly reminded of it the other night at "The Play" and a wave of sadness quickly passed over me, followed by acute irritation.
We had been conspicuously displayed on elevated bar chairs, in the center of the theater. Our table tent read "How to Burn Down the House" and a target was placed on the back of my seat with the nickname "Pumpy" printed on the bullseye. As actor Chris Wecklein announced our foolhardy presence, a distinctly horrified, yet imperceptible murmur circulated among the crowd, comprised largely of food and beverage people with their staff and families.
It was intermission when the cork popped.
In a poignant offensive designed to express her indignation, a matronly but shitfaced off-duty waitroness stumbled up to the table and cut me off on my way to the bar.
"I read about you two...(pant)...(gurgle)..BASTARDS...(rrrrrrip)... in the Gambit! Thirty years in THE INDUSTRY and I never pulled any of that...ssshtuff!!!...(pant)...(sputter)"
Good girl, Flossie. Now get the f@!# out of the way before they close the bar. I tried, tactfully, to reassure her that we were just farting across the stage, juggling chainsaws, and taking a piss on everyone out of boredom.
"Don't take it personally, Mother. Your sterling reputation was only collateral damage."
All eyes were on us.
It became clear that she had been punked by her angry cohorts into delivering a few pointed statements and putting these young upstarts in their place. Unfortunately, all that 190 proof confidence building had taken an unexpectedly early toll and by the time she reached tableside, the witty old windbag had been reduced to a blithering idiot.
I could tell it plucked Peter's heart strings to see the poor creature so degraded, and being a gentleman, he tried to change the subject by complimenting her dress and revisiting some of the lighter-hearted moments of the first act.
She turned on him like a rabid saint bernard. She had spirit if nothing else.
"THE INNNDUSSHRTY!!!...(growl)...(burrrrp)...30 years in the god damn indussshrty!...(pant)...(pant)...and now this...(pant)...cruel...mean-sshpirited...assesssshment (sniff)..."
Her eyelids grew heavy and she now stared long and dreamily at Peter, losing her way in his friendly smile.
"Sonny?...(sigh)...Is that you, Sonny?...(sniff)...(sniff)..."
Their secret weapon had failed them.
My old lady rolled her eyes and noisily sucked the straw of her empty drink. That was my cue. But just as I made the break, Flossie's last remaining neuron fired a parting shot and with lightening speed she turned and grabbed my arm, pulling me in close with a startling display of force.
Glaring at me intensely she hissed her final confession-
"I was Tennessee Williams' waitress before he died!"
Hmmm
I was abrubtly reminded of it the other night at "The Play" and a wave of sadness quickly passed over me, followed by acute irritation.
We had been conspicuously displayed on elevated bar chairs, in the center of the theater. Our table tent read "How to Burn Down the House" and a target was placed on the back of my seat with the nickname "Pumpy" printed on the bullseye. As actor Chris Wecklein announced our foolhardy presence, a distinctly horrified, yet imperceptible murmur circulated among the crowd, comprised largely of food and beverage people with their staff and families.
It was intermission when the cork popped.
In a poignant offensive designed to express her indignation, a matronly but shitfaced off-duty waitroness stumbled up to the table and cut me off on my way to the bar.
"I read about you two...(pant)...(gurgle)..BASTARDS...(rrrrrrip)... in the Gambit! Thirty years in THE INDUSTRY and I never pulled any of that...ssshtuff!!!...(pant)...(sputter)"
Good girl, Flossie. Now get the f@!# out of the way before they close the bar. I tried, tactfully, to reassure her that we were just farting across the stage, juggling chainsaws, and taking a piss on everyone out of boredom.
"Don't take it personally, Mother. Your sterling reputation was only collateral damage."
All eyes were on us.
It became clear that she had been punked by her angry cohorts into delivering a few pointed statements and putting these young upstarts in their place. Unfortunately, all that 190 proof confidence building had taken an unexpectedly early toll and by the time she reached tableside, the witty old windbag had been reduced to a blithering idiot.
I could tell it plucked Peter's heart strings to see the poor creature so degraded, and being a gentleman, he tried to change the subject by complimenting her dress and revisiting some of the lighter-hearted moments of the first act.
She turned on him like a rabid saint bernard. She had spirit if nothing else.
"THE INNNDUSSHRTY!!!...(growl)...(burrrrp)...30 years in the god damn indussshrty!...(pant)...(pant)...and now this...(pant)...cruel...mean-sshpirited...assesssshment (sniff)..."
Her eyelids grew heavy and she now stared long and dreamily at Peter, losing her way in his friendly smile.
"Sonny?...(sigh)...Is that you, Sonny?...(sniff)...(sniff)..."
Their secret weapon had failed them.
My old lady rolled her eyes and noisily sucked the straw of her empty drink. That was my cue. But just as I made the break, Flossie's last remaining neuron fired a parting shot and with lightening speed she turned and grabbed my arm, pulling me in close with a startling display of force.
Glaring at me intensely she hissed her final confession-
"I was Tennessee Williams' waitress before he died!"
Hmmm
posted by R.Chip DeGlinkta at 10:40 AM
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