Full Service (19 page)

My daughter Donna was nearly four years old and it was critical that I start putting money away for her education. Betty and I continued to live together but even though we cared for one another, as I said before, there wasn’t much of a sexual relationship left between us. Nevertheless, I didn’t want her to have to go out and work; I wanted to be the breadwinner and I was adamant about supporting her and Donna. Bartending would pay better, but even that would have to be augmented by the odd day job painting fences, mending roofs, trimming trees, laying concrete, and the like. I wasn’t scared of an honest day’s work. The big dilemma was whether I had the balls to hand in my notice to Bill Booth. He had come to rely on me so much and I didn’t want to make any waves in his little world. I didn’t want him to feel that I was letting him down. I mulled over the situation, carefully examining it from every angle. But whichever way I looked at it the time seemed right for a change. However, I kept putting off my decision. It was driving me crazy and I wasn’t sure what to do.

Finally, with much regret and trepidation, I submitted my written resignation to Bill. He reluctantly accepted it, indicating that he understood it was time for a guy of my age to move on in the world, and wished me the best of luck. Meantime, I put out word that I was available for freelance bartending gigs anywhere in town, at any time, day or night. I then informed all my friends and contacts that I was no longer going to be available at the station for arranging tricks. I received a lot of feedback about that decision, most of it expressing disappointment that Richfield Gas on Hollywood Boulevard was no longer going to be the place to go for a quick trick, or the place where you could arrange to meet pretty people or pick up folks for sex.

Bill soon hired someone to take my place and continued to operate his gas station without ever having even the slightest notion of what had been going on there for the previous five years. He was such a sweetheart, but oh so naive. I loved him dearly and I knew I was going to miss him. I also knew I was going to miss those evenings hanging out with my friends in the driveway. I was going to miss the endless ringing of the telephone at night and the pile of messages waiting for me when I checked in for work at five o’clock the next day. I was going to miss those requests for an hour in the trailer out in the back, or the five titillating minutes peeking through the hole in the wall of the washroom. All of that was now over. History. It was time for the next chapter. When I finally hung up my blue Richfield Oil uniform and walked out of the gas station at the end of 1950, it was in every way the end of an era.

A
lot of the gay guys who had asked me to arrange tricks for them during the gas station days were bitterly disappointed when I decided to move on. Although I was still available to arrange tricks for them, many had preferred the system we had going at the gas station. They liked to be able to drive in, arrange a trick, and quietly disappear into the night with a young man of their choice. Now they would have to resort to calling me up on the phone and, at times, leaving their name and number with Betty. To some of them this eroded the spontaneity and secretive nature of their sexual liaisons. But there were still many places in town where they could go to pick up men.

Hollywood Boulevard itself was full of gay bars at that time. Some of the better known ones were Slim Gordon’s, Bradley’s, and the Jade Room. In earlier days there was also the famous Streets of Paris, located below street level in a basement near Cherokee Avenue. In its restroom one wall alongside the urinals was set aside for “glory holes.” What’s a glory hole? Well, it is a commonly known fact that men love fellatio. All men. And in the gay world it is arguably the commonest form of sexual release. Many gay men gain added pleasure by having their dicks sucked by complete strangers. And that’s what a glory hole is for. The penis is thrust into a hole in the wall and someone completely unknown sucks it off from the other side. No names, no faces, no identities, no nothing. Just sheer erotic carnal pleasure. The Streets of Paris had a row of about six or seven glory holes. Each one was separated from the one alongside it by a waist-high wall, purely for semiprivacy reasons. But a lot of guys got an added kick by being able to see the guy next to him with his loins thrust up against the wall squirming with pleasure until he reached full sexual release. Then the guy would pull his cock out of the hole, slip his trousers back up, and go back into the bar. The person who had just satisfied him sexually would remain completely incognito. During the fifties and sixties I tended bar at the private parties of many queens who had glory holes in their homes. These were often in fancy, palatial, marble-clad corners just off the pool area or situated in a room alongside the guest bathroom or bedroom.

Gay bars were a dime a dozen along Hollywood Boulevard during the fifties. Just between Highland Avenue and Vine Street, a distance of six or seven short blocks, there were at least ten gay bars, all of them well-patronized.

John Walsh was a singer who appeared at both gay and straight bars and at high-class nightclubs. I had been tricking him regularly for years and we had become good friends. He managed two extremely successful nightclubs. Café Gala, on the Sunset Strip, was owned by a wealthy British-born widow, the Baroness Catherine d’Erlanger. It was a top-class joint, frequented by the Hollywood crowd, and it had a spectacular view overlooking the city from the main dining area. Then there was the Plymouth House, also on Sunset; it was an extremely fashionable and expensive restaurant, also popular with Hollywood movie stars, producers, writers, directors, songwriters, and composers.

Just about the time I left Richfield Gas to go it alone I got a call from Johnny inviting me to join him starting a new upscale club to be located at 881 North La Cienega Boulevard. At that time there were still many private houses in that part of town. Baroness d’Erlanger had bought one of them and wanted Johnny to turn it into one of the best nightclubs in town. The place would take its name from its address and would simply become known as the 881 Club. It was to be a chic, expensive establishment with a fully equipped kitchen specializing in French cuisine. Johnny was very enthusiastic about the project and pleaded with me to join him in the process of converting the 1920s house into one of the classiest places in the city. I was thrilled. I had just resigned from the gas station and here I was being offered this gig. It came at just the right time.

We dove into the project. I cut lumber, laid down bricks, installed windows, built a bar, helped with the plumbing, lent a hand with electrical rewiring, changed the ceilings, laid down new floors, and did whatever I could with a small army of helpers. When the manual labor was over John and I stood back, put our hands on our hips, stared at our handiwork, and slapped each other on the back. We had done it and we were mightily proud of pulling it all off in a matter of only a few months. The 881 Club was ready for business.

Johnny knew that I had been dabbling in bartending at private parties for some time and as he had not yet found a professional bartender he liked he asked me if I would temporarily man the bar for him. I told him that I would happily do it for a couple of weeks but that I really wanted to get on with my life and build up my own party bartending business. Johnny was most grateful that I agreed to help out so, on opening night, armed with a veritable tower of how-to manuals on mixing exotic drinks tucked under the counter, and wearing a brand-new dress shirt and black tie, I proudly took my place behind the bar at the 881.

Things went very well that first week. Spurred on by rave reviews in the press, on the radio, and on TV, and by word of mouth, new clients flocked to the restaurant. Pretty soon we were taking reservations a month ahead of time. After the first couple of weeks I asked Johnny whether he had interviewed any candidates to take my place behind the bar but he said that he hadn’t and asked if I could stay on for a few more weeks. I happily agreed; the truth is that I was enjoying myself enormously. With the help of my manuals and a bit of advice from some of our more patient customers, I was doing very well dispensing cocktails, aperitifs, wine, champagne, and after-dinner liqueur.

After our first month in business the Baroness d’Erlanger called a special meeting. She had been coming in for dinner every night and was thrilled with the quality of the food and the service. But she felt there was something missing. She was adamant that John, the maître d’, the waiters, the bartender, and all staff who had direct contact with customers learn to speak fluent French.

“This is a French restaurant, bar, and club,” she reminded everyone in her high-pitched and perfect British accent. “The menu, the wine list, the ambience, the food is all French. It is important, therefore, that we all speak French. We owe it to our customers.
Oui?
”

Oui
indeed. Over the next few weeks the entire staff, myself included, armed ourselves with language courses on vinyl records and with dictionaries and training manuals to master the rudimentary elements of the French language. Whenever the baroness came in for dinner and asked us how things were progressing we all lied through our teeth by telling her that we were doing wonderfully with our studies.

My weeks behind the 881 Club bar slowly turned into months. Every time I broached the subject of my replacement with Johnny he would dismiss it with an excuse like, “I’m really sorry, Scotty, but there’s just no one out there who comes even close to your level or expertise. But I’ll keep trying.”

Trying my foot. I don’t think Johnny did anything to attempt to replace me. I knew the guy was fond of me. It’s never a good idea to mix business with pleasure but we were still tricking one another periodically and we had a really good personal thing going. Johnny once went as far as saying that my personality and my popularity were good for the restaurant. I had developed a following. Both men and women liked me. Johnny believed that many of them were coming to the restaurant because of me. I guess there was some truth in that. People from the upper ranks of society who used to come around to the gas station to have me arrange tricks for them were now coming to the restaurant for the same reason. In a way, the 881 Club had replaced Richfield Gas as a place for connecting people for sex. I just couldn’t escape it. Folks followed me wherever I went.

After a few months in business the restaurant received a visit from a representative of the bartenders’ union.

“You work here?” the stocky man in the suit asked me as I served him a beer at the bar.

“No,” I replied as innocently as I could. “The management is still negotiating with a few potential bartenders and haven’t come to an agreement yet. I’m just helping out in the meantime.”

The guy eyed me suspiciously and said that if I had any intention of staying on in the job I could only do so if I joined the union. A few weeks later he was back again.

“You still here?” he asked. “I thought you said you were only helping out.”

Trying to keep a straight face, I told him that the restaurant’s owners had hired a couple of different guys but that both of them had let them down. And away he went. Until another couple of weeks went by and there he was seated at the bar again.

“I think you’re lyin’ to me, buddy,” he said, ordering his usual single beer.

“Oh, no,” I lied again, trying my best to sound serious and quickly making up some cock and bull story to try to put him off.

“Yeah, right,” the union man said sarcastically. And left.

This went on for weeks until I started running out of excuses and he ran out of patience. He threatened that he would have the place picketed or closed down if I stayed on without joining the union. I know he brought the matter up with John Walsh, and with the baroness herself, because about a month later my union card arrived in the mail. Johnny just winked at me when I showed it to him.

“You’re legal now, Scotty,” he joked. “I can’t let you go now.” So that was it. He had obviously applied for union membership on my behalf and paid my dues for me. He must have figured that that was one way to ensure that he had my loyalty and that I wouldn’t leave the job. And the ploy seemed to work because before I knew it I had been at the 881 Club for a whole year.

But it was a year well spent. I had acquired a lot of valuable knowledge about bartending. I learned when to shake and when to stir. About how to mix the right ingredients in precisely the right order and quantities. I became familiar with my tools: the citrus stripper, the reamer, the cocktail muddler, the shaker, the strainer, the blender, the jigger, and the measurer. I learned a great deal about extracts like anise, Worcestershire sauce, coconut, Tabasco, and wormwood. About ciders, syrups, liqueurs, rum, tequila, and schnapps. I got to know most of the local and imported beers and, as the restaurant had built up a very impressive cellar, I grew familiar with the best of local and imported wines, champagnes, and ports.

But the baroness continued to bug me about my French.

“How are you progressing, Monsieur Scotty?” she would ask as I placed her favorite drink, a pink martini, in front of her when she took her usual place in the restaurant for dinner one evening.

“Oh, just swell, ma’am,” I lied. “I have a French teacher now and we’ve already gone beyond basic French.”

“That is wonderful,
mon cheri,
” she cooed. And then she threw a French sentence at me. I could not understand a single word of it. I had to think quickly. I told her that I wouldn’t insult her with my French until I was word perfect. She was impressed. She held out her hand. I reached out, touched the tips of her fingers, and gently kissed her hand. Her face was aglow.