The Water Club

During college and for a couple years after, I worked at a Manhattan restaurant as a valet car parker. There is not a lot of valet car parking in Manhattan, but they had it at the Water Club, where we dubbed ourselves “New York’s First Valet Corps,” in no small part because there weren’t many/any other rival valet groups. First by default. This was a trend that would continue in my life later when I was in NYC’s “most powerful jug band” and “Brooklyn’s Greatest French rock band.” I got the job while I was studying at Columbia College, and it was a great way to earn money during school. But after I graduated, I continued parking cars while thinking that I should be doing something else, something that my college education would have prepared me for.  I had no strong idea what that was, and no one whispered “plastics” to me like in the film The Graduate.  I interviewed for a few “real” jobs but always failed to stick the landing. College had not actually prepared me for much, aside from the fact that I had a degree, but it had not helped me get a “good” job or even to interview for a good position. I did, however, have a license and knew how to drive a car (I was from the Motor City), plus I could drive a stick shift.

The Water Club was situated along the shore of the East River, around 30^th Street if the street had connected. Instead, it was isolated by the river of cars sometimes flowing, often crawling or idling, in that stretch of FDR Drive. I really felt like I was on the edge of the city, with only the river and restaurant at my back. Living on the edge and literal outsiders, working outside the restaurant. It was cold in winter or rainy and our uniforms, a white cotton suit jacket and black trousers, bow ties, and black shoes, were sometimes not suited for the weather. But it was good to be outside away from the restaurant’s internal politics. I felt free somehow. We had a manager who made the work schedule, but he was basically one of us, as he also parked cars, a sort of player-coach. We were on the same team, not adversaries as happens in a lot of jobs.

The restaurant itself had a main building on land: two floors that held the bar, kitchen, restrooms, coat check, offices, kitchen, employee lockers and a small party room. Behind, or flanking that, were two large barges in the river, one for the dining room and another for separate banquet room “events” that hosted a lot of bar mitzvahs, wedding receptions, etc. Thus, the name Water Club. It was actually the sister ship of an earlier venture in Brooklyn on the opposite bank called the River Café. The W.C. (as we dubbed it) was an “in” spot, newly opened and trendy, and it drew a good number of celebrities I spotted like Keith Richards, Bill Murray, Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley, Ashford and Simpson, Dave DeBusschere, Lloyd Price, and the infamous lawyer Roy Cohn. Unlike in the recent film The Menu, we did not serve human flesh. In my idle time, I wondered what Roy Cohn had ordered.

I had started work at the W.C. as the person assigned to care for plants, also the assistant flower arranger. Both jobs I was utterly unqualified for. I had worked for a while in New York’s Wholesale Flower District on West 28^th Street, and while that gig was vaguely plant adjacent, it had nothing to do with plant care or floral design. I had basically unloaded and delivered boxes of flowers. But I got the job at the W.C. by exaggerating my horticultural knowledge, then was mostly responsible for caring for the seven-foot-tall ficus trees, our fates forever intertwined. I showed up and dutifully watered the trees and snipped off the dead leaves with my ikebana scissors, which I had cleverly purchased to look like I knew what I was doing. Guy must know something about plants, look at those scissors. But I had no idea on basics like how much and how often to water them. I just winged it and had to bluff my way through answering questions posed by customers, co-workers, even the owners, who sought my advice on plant care. Yes, keep them in the sun. Not too much water.

But I knew the clock was ticking on this job, because what were the odds I would be able to keep these prized plants alive for long? The plants and I were both surely doomed on my watch. Additionally, because of my presumed flower knowledge, I was assigned the job as assistant to the W.C.’s flower arranger, Gordon. He actually knew what he was doing, and his big job was creating an artful display for the massive arrangement that greeted customers when they first entered the restaurant. But that guy Gordon was no dummy and he soon sussed out their nefarious plan to have him train me, then fire him and have me work cheaper. Perfection. Capitalism at work. I had no desire to be part of this tawdry arrangement, so that was another reason I needed to get out of the flora world and get back to automobiles, my natural habitat. I joined the valets. It was a safe harbor for me from the stormy seas inside the club.

Car parking money was alright but enough for me as a young guy living with roommates and at a time when NYC was much cheaper. The standard tip was $1 per car and a good night was eclipsing the $100 mark. Yes, make it rain! Waiters and bartenders did better, of course, because it was a fairly expensive place and you could do pretty well in those jobs. I liked the camaraderie with my co-worker valets and I liked driving the cars, mostly new models, some fancy and expensive. Cars I was already certain I would never drive otherwise. This was a once in a lifetime experience! Nowadays they might have me intern for no pay. Everyone was around 19-23 years old. The one exception was a 32-year-old aspiring song writer guy, but it seemed everyone sort of pitied him. What was he doing parking cars at that advanced age? Valet car parking is a young man’s (occasionally woman’s) game. Did he lose his paper route?  Some of the guys had gone to colleges, even prestigious ones, while others had not gone to college at all. Most were aspiring writers, actors, painters, etc. No models—they worked inside as hostesses.

Occasionally I got some leftover morsels from the kitchen, usually from one of the banquets, not the regular restaurant fare. Also, we could help ourselves to coffee and sometimes black bean soup. If you arrived in the late afternoon, you could get a staff meal, inevitably baked chicken, and not something the chefs would serve to their dogs. Maybe, but people love their animals. This was food devoid of any hint of love. I usually made no effort to arrive for that meal. And at the end of a late shift, you could score a beer at the bar if no one else was around. Optics.

The restaurant was rife with cocaine sales and use. This seemed a big part of so much in NYC in the early ’80s even though coke was expensive. In fact, one of the triumvirates of W.C. owners (an Irish guy, an Italian and a Jew — their own “three guys walk into a bar” joke) was at a party and asked a guy where he had gotten the good blow they had just snorted. The guy said, “The bartender at the Water Club!” Yes, that bartender dealt cocaine, but others did, too. One time, a cook gave me a rock of cocaine the size of a softball. He said, “They’re inspecting the lockers tonight. Take this home, do as much as you want, bring it back tomorrow.” So I did, blithely not grasping the full consequences of what might happen to me if somehow this felony weight mass was discovered in my bag as I transported it home and back. I guess he calculated that I looked innocent and perhaps a bit young and dim. Despite my best efforts, I was only able to enlist one other person to help with my mission and barely managed a dent in Cocaine Mountain. The next day, I dutifully returned it to its owner after he presumably passed locker inspection. Success all around.

I enjoyed the spending money and the free time now that I was done with school. I was into music and caught a lot of shows, including every Monday night at Sweet Basil on 7^th Avenue South, where the former Dollar Brand, then Abdullah Ibrahim, played with his band Ekaya. I’d roll in there with my trouser pocket stuffed with one-dollar bills after my shift. I might get high, get a drink, enjoy the show. Once the waiter had to advise me to watch out because I was nodding out and my cash stash was peeking out of my pocket. I didn’t want to lose the money, it would have been a small-scale tragedy for me, but any thief might have been sorely disappointed that the large wad of bills in his sneaky haul was almost all ones.

I moved to Hoboken with a fellow valet, Jon. I found a place there, far from the PATH but cheap, a five-room shotgun. No refrigerator included. Jon brought along his uncle and father—that was a surprise! His dad, who was sober and had a job in Brooklyn as a back-of-the-house guy at Peter Luger’s Steakhouse, decamped after a month or so, not willing to cross two rivers to get to work and having the money for his own place. But Uncle Jack was not going anywhere. He was unemployed, having lost or left his job in the city and having seemingly burnt all bridges with any old friends. It was me, nephew Jon, and Uncle Jack. Jack had decided to devote his newly job-liberated free time to writing a detective novel about a gay detective named Jack, while his 19-year-old nephew supported him. The plan was that when the novel sold and the money was pouring in, they would both share the bounty. I saw this as a bad wager on young Jon’s part. But, you know, family.

Jack would while away the hours, smoking 100 mm cigs, listening to his cassette copy of the La Cage aux Follessoundtrack, and watching Phil Donahue on his little black-and-white TV.  Occasionally, he took his meager spending money to a café at the end of Hoboken’s Washington Street. For the price of a coffee, he would hang out there for hours. And it was near the Maxwell House coffee plant with a roasted coffee aroma permeating the air, practically free coffee. There was a young, good-looking waiter there named Kip, and Jack befriended him. Jack was an aspiring writer and Kip was an aspiring musician and they became friends, despite the age gap. Not long after, Kip got a record deal and his band Winger went on to notable success before being brought down by the wisecracking MTV cartoon characters Beavis and Butt-Head, who constantly mocked Winger as a “weenie band.” You can only plan so much and not fully anticipate a cartoon upending your musical career because they saw fit to make you the butt of their joke. Music can be a tough gig.

Also living with us in Hoboken, sleeping on our couch for months, was a guy named Marat, named after the French revolutionary famously portrayed in his bathtub where he was murdered. Our Marat, despite his grand name, was no French revolutionary. He had lived with his parents near the Water Club and used to hang out there, unemployed. He slyly befriended my roommate Jon. After Marat’s parents gave him the Felix Unger treatment, “he was asked to remove himself from [their] place of residence” and he moved in with us. Their problem solved, ours just begun. Marat’s parents were diplomats of some sort and had diplomatic pouches which enabled the bearer to skirt customs inspection. Marat got hold of one and was using it to smuggle illegal artifacts and contraband, and after his parents discovered it, he was Marat non grata. So it came to pass that he began a near constant occupation of our living room.

Marat was grossly and graphically homophobic, despite Uncle Jack being obviously (but not openly) gay. The one thing he did was bet on NFL football. His bookie was one of the W.C.’s bartenders, so at great expense, and suited to his imaginary situation in life, Marat would take a cab from Hoboken to Manhattan to place his bet with the bartender, Jimmy. All the bartenders were either Irish-American or Irish-Irish, and Marat placed his bet with an Irish-American guy, a Vietnam war vet, who had a sort of tough guy mien about him. When Marat won and came to collect his winnings, the bartender told him to get lost. I suspected Jimmy never placed any bets for Marat. Even when he won, he was still a loser.

At the lot, if we got a sporty car, say a Porsche 911 Targa, we might take it on what we called “the course”: exiting the back of the lot and entering the FDR at 34^th, taking a spin up to 61^st and back. The really expensive cars we parked right in front of the restaurant, both so we could keep an eye on them and in anticipation of getting a better tip for the VIP treatment from its wealthy owner. One time, however, while I was working a guy came out and gave me his claim ticket. I set off dashing through the lot in search of his vehicle, but to no avail. I ran back and asked the gent his specific type of vehicle. He told me the Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible. Ah yes, I remembered it well. Instantly alarm bells rang out, as I knew that particular ship had sailed. It had been in a prestige slot in front but was now gone. Searching for sunny South France no doubt. I realized that my co-worker (now off shift) had given the Rolls away to a guy who simply walked out of the restaurant and pointed to the Rolls, claiming it was his. And the valet, a dim bulb in a frantic and unwitting effort to please, had responded, “Chop chop, sir,” and handed over the Rolls keys — without asking for the claim ticket since he was obviously Mr. Rolls-Royce so no need to insult him by asking for the actual ticket. Well, that was one way to lose your job. As for the owner of the Corniche, he was a good sport. We got him a taxi home and I learned that he had a bunch of fancy cars, and insurance of course. Who knows, maybe it was an inside job? But all good on his end.

After a while, as the song goes, “New York, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down.” It wasn’t the seeming humiliation of living in New Jersey, decidedly not New York, and having my apartment occupied by a collection of characters, but the job, the job, the job, was becoming soul-killing. I didn’t so much hate the constant exhaust fumes, being underdressed for bad weather, or being in a service, servile position, yes sir and ma’am. If it rained, you held an umbrella over the customers when escorting them to their vehicle even while getting soaked yourself. And because of its edge-of-the-city location, cut off from connecting streets above 23^rd and below 34^th, it was hard to get taxis there. So sometimes we would go to 23^rd and 1^st Ave. and hold a large sign saying “Water Club Needs Taxis” in our silly outfits. All of these amounted to unpleasant but not horrible job side effects. But ultimately the thing that got me was just working for tips. If someone gave you $2, you would exalt “Yeah man” like you had struck a vein in the Klondike, and if it was 50 cents or a quarter, you would throw it down on the pavement in disgust as if someone had kicked your dog.

One valet, a talented mimic, took it upon himself to ape the customers right to their faces. A quick study and desperate for acting work, he would do the voice or odd gait of some unfortunate guy who had just pulled up in his car unprepared to have the car parker openly mock him. “Thank you, sir,” said the valet in some twisted facsimile of the customer’s voice, the guy not noticing the uncanny semblance. But we did and would split with laughter, though I was also aware that it was causing us to debase ourselves a bit.

Additionally, after cars kept getting stolen from the back of our lot, the Water Club instituted a security shift, with one guy drawing a small hourly salary to sit in the lot all night long discouraging thieves after our pricey jewels. I would often opt for a customer’s roomy Mercedes 4-door and liked to bring a six-pack of tall boys to drink and smoke the time away. Another valet took his girlfriend to the movies in a customer’s Mercedes, returning hours later and well after the owner had finished his meal and wondered where his car had gone. That was awkward. You’re asking me? I have no idea. Another firing offense. I always thought it was the valet’s own self-immolation, a sort of Viking funeral, going out with a bang. He did everything but drive off singing “Take This Job and Shove It.”

So I recognized, as with the flower job before, it was time for me to move on. I had a rusty, rust-colored Saab that had twice broken down inside the Lincoln Tunnel. If only I owned one of the nice cars I had been parking all those years, alas! But that was not my lot. I managed to drive my Saab back to Detroit, certain I would never return to New York — until I did, a few years later.