4-09-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #97 (Flirtin’ & Hurtin’ at the Main Squeeze? Pt. 2)

Oh, that last part sounded very Marilyn (Monroe), didn’t it?  Well, cool beans and right on, eh?  Flirtation is one of those little kindnesses that is always in style – so long as it’s not insincere (how d’ya like them double negative apples?). I sincerely want others to feel good and to be fed and hydrated in the style they enjoy.

At any rate, nice customers like David would come in -- in his case, he’d come in alone, most times, and bring a book, reading with his tall glass of ale to the side. (No wonder I was intrigued – I have a soft spot for bookworms, inveterate reader I be.)

And then, there was a man who was not just a flirt but a king seducer: the kind of guy who gets randier with each drink & doesn’t know when to stop. He was kind of scary and dark, and very sexy. . . very reminiscent of John Cale, with a great Alan Rickman type voice.  Dangerous.  And yes, this guy was a professional actor. We’ll call him Paul.

Paul had a good friend, another actor, who played character roles (like Sancho Panza in Don Quixote and Renfield in an early ‘80’s Dracula movie), named Tony.  Tony was kind of homely, with baggy paunches under tired puppy dog eyes, and a short, stocky body.  These two unlikely (but then again, perfect foils so it made sense) friends would both be quite loquacious after dinner & drinks at the Main Squeeze.  Although Londoners at the time, hey were both born and bred in Liverpool.

Paul was as moody and closed as Tony was upbeat and open.  I don’t think they acted in the same productions but their friendship went way back and they shared anecdotes ad infinitum.  But at the end of the night, Paul would “pull a bird” and Tony usually rolled home, alone.

I have a feeling they kept me on at the Main Squeeze because I could be cool and professional as a server, but was funny and caring and never a pain in the ass to the customers.  Even though people like that bitchy manageress, Hazel, made it plain they didn’t like me and I should “pull up my socks,” there was no question that I was an integral part of the serving staff. . . 

4-08-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #96 (Flirtin’ & Hurtin’ at the Main Squeeze?)

Probably the best reason to work in a bar/restaurant or members club in London like the Main Squeeze would be – for a writer – the amazing assemblage of colorful characters who’d frequent the premises.  Oh yes. 

I’m remembering one young man (in his early thirties – five or so years older than I was at the time) who dressed well, wore aviator glasses and a sort of dirty blond David Cassidy shag haircut.  His name was David and he had a lovely smile and was unfailingly polite.  He worked in the United States part time, so even though we’d see him regularly at the Main Squeeze (was in the neighborhood, so he was a walker), I knew he’d be in San Francisco for weeks at a time.  Jeez, that was half way around the world!  Definitely made him interesting.  David’s business was in technology and travel. . . remember, this was pre-internet but computers were on the rise.

Did I flirt?  If you know me at all in person, the answer is OF COURSE!  I do believe that being charming and sweet, using kindness and warmth even if it does seem slightly sexual (I have never been overtly sexy or the kind of girl who flaunts it – sigh).  One of the things I’ve learned over the years about flirts, though, is that they love the initial “flirtiness” but don’t usually follow through. I see no reason to not flirt, if the spirit moves me, because I’m not trying to seduce people into bed, I just want to touch their hearts and give them a little joy. . . I just like being sweet.

4-07-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #95 (What else happened at the Main Squeeze?)

Parties with celebrities, weekly discotheques for swingin’ singles with free food and a mob scene – these were actually the exceptions to what life at the Main Squeeze in fabulous Chelsea was like, as a rule.

The club was actually nearest to the Sloane Square tube station, which I’d frequent when not biking to work.  Weather permitting, I’d ride a used black bicycle (a three speed I picked up for cheap at a jumble sale or something) to the Main Squeeze and park it, outside, chained & locked up.  Something about riding the streets late at night, the romantic feeling of being all alone in a sleepy town with ancient roads and architecture, appealed to me.  Besides, it was only a few miles to my bedsitter flat on Earl’s Court Road.  I mean, the tubes cut off service before work ended, most nights, so that wasn’t practical unless I wanted to black cab it home.  And cabs were expensive! 

So much for my practical side; I suppose I’d have tried to get temp work or something in an office if I thought that was available “off the books.” But bar and restaurant work always seemed a good survival job in a pinch.

My true calling – music and writing – was still something I pursued with ferocity on the side.  But the topic of this blog is “What else happened at the Main Squeeze?” so here we go:

Generally, I’d come in around 5 o’clock, do some setting up, have a staff meal.  I’d get changed into my Main Squeeze black one-piece  zip-up catsuit, and fix my makeup. Then, with the rest of the staff, we’d stand around, polish stuff, vacuum again if the carpet needed it.  Customers would come to the restaurant side from around 6 to 9, stopping in for cocktails on the bar side (my section) either before or after dinner. Then they’d stay until closing -- which in our case as a members club was about an hour later than the pubs were permitted to remain open -- drinking.

I must say, I’d been around drinkers in New York City, but these Englishmen (and yes, the customers were mostly men) took drinking to a new level.  Not that I’m judging! Merely an observation *-)

But really, I was glad that most of the customers either walked home or cabbed it.  There were some regulars who lived in the neighborhood who’d come in for a nightcap, and others who’d bring business meetings there. I got to know a few of them. . . 

4-06-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #94 (God Bless Slowhand and His Good Friend, Harrison)

The Simon & Garfunkel reunion tour party at the Main Squeeze was winding down.  Most of the patrons had filed out, moving up the stairway like irascible cattle, mooing drunkenly, weaving from side to side as they ascended the carpeted stairs to the street.

One lone table remained, a threesome who had only just sat down, hoping for a nightcap.  I neared the table, tired but ready to oblige with a drinks order.  I hoped they wouldn’t be anywhere near as rude as Art Garfunkel and his entourage.  I looked at them.  I did a double-take.  Could it be?  NO!!  Not in a million years. . . it made sense, though, as they WERE both English, and musicians.

All right, get ready: My last customers that night were George Harrison and Eric Clapton.  They ordered beers.  What kind?  Probably Heineken, as that was the popular brewski at the time and I’m sure we had it.  I felt in awe but at ease as I asked, “May I get you something to drink?  What would you like?”

Trembling inside with excitement, I brought my drink order to the bar and whispered to Greg the bartender, “Are those guys who I think they are?”  Greg teetered up onto his tippytoes to have a looksee.  He whispered back, “Yes, darling, now do us proud!”

I brought over the chilled beer glasses and cold bottles of “Heine” to the two pleasant gents and their lady friend at the small table.  I smiled and poured the beers with my usual professional panache.

They all smiled back at me and said thank you.  I was thinking how amazed my big brother, Tom, an Eric Clapton fanatic, would be and I wondered if I could possibly muster the courage to ask for autographs.  But no: that’s not my style and how could I be cool and professional as a server and break that trust that I wouldn’t be a pain in the ass?

And then, George said the very thing I was thinking when I heard he’d passed away in late 2001. . .

“God Bless You,” he said -- for real.  Dear God, I miss George Harrison.  . . I do hope he’s at rest and happy in the afterlife, even just for being kind to an anonymous young server in a bar so many years ago!!

4-05-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #93 (The Reverse of Mr. Attitude Plus -- Thank Gawd!)

Yup, there he was, a short guy with short dark hair, maybe around 40 years old, leaning against one of the mirrored walls, not 12 feet away from me, looking lonely.

Paul Simon.  All alone.  Probably thirsty.  Maybe he wouldn’t snub me, I hoped.  I grabbed my drinks tray and rushed over to him.

“Er, excuse me, can I get you a drink?”

“Uh, sure. Do you have a Perrier?”

“Will do.”  It took me less than a minute to get back to the bar, grab the Perrier, open it, fetch a glass with ice and a wedge of lime.  Back to his side, I offered the drink, saying, “Hey, I’m also from Queens, and I’d like to thank you for the music you’ve made because I really like it.”

Simon smiled, accepting the drink, and nodding assent.  I didn’t really expect a response other than that, and the music and talking in the background made it really too loud to chat.

But, at least HE was nice.  And toward the end of the evening, Colin Blunstone (Ex of the Zombies, another one of my favorite bands), interrupted me, washing glasses at the bar (as usual) to ask me for a stick of gum.  He seemed mildly intoxicated, and when people drank & drove, they needed something to mask their breath -- like gum.

Other than looking tipsy, ol’ Colin was nice enough, too.  So, at least a few people who made music I admired seemed to be cool.  But, at the end of the party, as the crowd thinned out, my last table of drinkers really topped the list of nice celebrities/rockstars I’ve ever met. . .

4-04-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #92 (Mr. Attitude Plus -- Maybe Just Havin’ a Bad Day?)

Art Garfunkel had a minor solo hit, “I Love You, And It’s All I Know.” Not a bad ditty, really -- but I could never listen to it without wincing after that night at the Main Squeeze. 

A big “after party” was being thrown for Simon & Garfunkel on the occasion of their opening concert of a big reunion tour in 1982.  I didn’t have connections and wasn’t at the show, but I’d always been a Simon & Garfunkel fan (had The Sounds of Silence and The Bridge Over Troubled Waters albums back in Douglaston, Queens, when I grew up and loved to sing along).

As I mentioned in the last blog, Art Garfunkel came into the room with an entourage of unhappy looking Eurotrash & London Scenester types.  They proceeded to walk to the largest, big round table in “my” section of the bar room.

Eager to do a good job, I hustled over to the table, serving tray in hand, dressed up in my Main Squeeze one piece zip up black “catsuit.” 

“May I help you?  May I get you some drinks?”  I said that several times, trying to get the attention of Mr. Garfunkel and his table.  The volume in the room was nigh punitive, and perhaps some of them were hard of hearing, but believe me, when necessary, I can make my voice P-R-E-T-T-Y   L-O-U-D. 

“Excuse me, I’m here to get your drink order. May I help you?  Please, can I get your drink order?”  I asked in vain for the 8 or so obnoxious people in Garfunkel’s party -- himself included -- to give me the courtesy of at least acknowledging that somebody was trying to communicate, in English no less!!

Frustrated, I turned heel and went back to the bar, where I complained bitterly to Greg, the bartender: “Greg, those assholes!  They didn’t even acknowledge my presence!  They didn’t order any drinks at all, and I tried!”  Greg tut-tutted, “It’s all right, darling, there’s a good girl. Stay with me and keep washing up, all right?”

I got mad at those dirty glasses and set to washing, rinsing, dunking with great energy.  After a few minutes, I looked up and saw -- no! It couldn’t be! -- a short guy with short dark hair, maybe around 40 years old, leaning against one of the mirrored walls, not 12 feet away from me, quite alone.

I knew it had to be Paul Simon.  I knew that maybe HE would want me to get a drink for him. . . 

4-02-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #90 (True Greatness Eschews Attitude)

When Michael Caine, the actor, comes to mind, what’s the first thing you think?

I always had a really good impression of him: down to earth, good sense of humor, kindhearted -- and a great actor.  Even though you believe him when he portrays a bad guy, he seems on talk shows and otherwise to be the kind of person you’d like as a friend.

Fortunately, I can tell you that, in my brief encounter with Michael Caine at the Main Squeeze in the cloakroom, that he was REALLY COOL.

He seemed to wear his kindness, warmth, and magnanimousness on his sleeve -- but his cashmere overcoat needed to be fetched and I was nearest to the cloakroom in my behind-the-bar location, washing glasses as usual. 

“May I help you, sir?” my voice raised its pitch several levels as soon as I realized who I was dealing with. Michael Caine has an unmistakable face and voice, and he definitely had one of those “larger than life” presences.

“We need to find my coat, luv.”  Once he told me the kind of coat -- a long, dark blue cashmere overcoat with no particular label mentioned -- we set to rummaging through the piles of outerwear like weathered teammates.

“Thank you, luv!” Once the coat was found, Caine handed me a fiver for tip, then took off, smiling, happy, a little tipsy but no worse for wear.

As for other celebrities who surprised me with the opposite attitude, there was a certain singer, half of a legendary duo from New York, no less. . .

4-01-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #89 (No Foolin’ - It’s all TRUE!)

Being a prime party rental spot, publicists clamored to book parties at The Main Squeeze -- at least, in 1982 we had regular parties for all sorts, but mostly television and music celebrities.  There was a party for a guy named Kenny Everett, who was big there in England, but I’d never heard of him in the states.

But then, in England, a famous drag queen named Dame Edna Everage was really popular.  Everage was really a precursor for Mike Myers’ Linda Richmond character, an outspoken, lovable, middle-aged doyenne of domestic philosophy -- although much more glamorous.  Dame Edna was a “gal” who’d made it through a hard life to finally grace the stage, where she craved to belong.  The comedian who invented Dame Edna and performed in her character, Barry  Humphries, was actually an Aussie, which makes sense because in a way, Dame Edna Everage was “taking the piss” on a certain stereotype, whilst also loving what that stereotype stood for. 

Hmmm.  A lot of double-edged swords and irony in entertainment, I daresay. But that’s always been the case, especially across the pond.  Another comedian who was big in the U.K. and tried to cross over to stateside was Benny Hill, who was just so over the top and slapstick-y people either loved or despised him.  Monty Python is, of course, the King of British Comedy troupes -- but they were cerebral and sort of silly.  Hill was rude, crude, and sexist most of the time. 

Anyway, the Kenny Everett party at the Main Squeeze hosted many celebrities through our doors. I can’t say I was a big fan of Everett, a small, bearded man who seemed kind of weaselly.

However, at his party that night, one of my all time favorite English movie stars (er, actors) needed assistance in the teeny tiny extremely messy cloakroom, and I snapped to the task, gladly. . .

3-31-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #88 (“Goody Two Shoes”)

All right, back to the Main Squeeze was my new dysfunctional family, with a few more characters.  There was Sandro, the gorgeous Italian waiter who joined the waitstaff at some point in the spring.  He had the loveliest warm, light brown eyes and smile, and sandy light brown hair.  As he didn’t speak English well, but wanted to learn, I befriended him & told him I had an American nickname for him: Sandy. 

Problem was, I kind of had a crush on ol’ Sandy, and knew it would be a doomed romance, so I felt a little awkward.  I also wanted to learn Italian, so hanging out with him just got confusing -- him wanting me to practice English with, me wanting him him to teach me Italian.  I think he had a sister (or maybe a girlfriend who he called a sister so he could flirt with me more shamelessly and conveniently) in London, and needed to spend time with her.  Anyway, after a few weeks, it didn’t work out for him at The Main Squeeze and so, no more Sandro.

There was also an Australian waitress named Michelle who worked there for a bit, who had a sweet, sad face (she had lost a baby to crib death back in Australia a few years previous) and a rather relaxed manner about her.  Not remarkable looking but down-to-earth and kind of indescribably appealing, she worked at the Main Squeeze for a few months, and during that time, met and dated a celebrity who came to the club for dinners, a young pop star we knew as Adam Ant.  Mr. Ant, by the way, was a really nice guy, not at all snobby or full of airs. . . that song he sang, “Goody Two Shoes,” really made sense!!

Other celebrities came and went through the doors of that subterranean den of sin. . . they regularly had parties that were run by Carol, a P.R. person who had a charmingly annoying nasally accent and was quite funny (cheeky!) so of course I liked her. 

Every week, a jazz band played a regular residency at the club, and set up on a postage stamp sized wooden dance floor (well, maybe actually about 10’ by 10’).  The drummer in that jazz band: Mitch Mitchell, who hailed from the Jimi Hendrix Experience.  Not a shabby claim to fame, nosiree!!

And many others came through those doors when there were parties. . .

3-28-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #85 (“Main Squeeze” -- more)

Come 1982, in England, I was in a pretty good place, emotionally.  I was able to move out of the flatshare with nutty Nora, and she had just introduced me to one of my all time favorite people, Patrick Marvin -- whose wit, sweetness, charm, and practicality won my heart in friendship.

More on Patrick, anon.  But physically, in 1982, I was feeling very run down and wrecked.  I’d take daily naps (just before dinnertime) in order to function and work -- because I did have to go to work at the Main Squeeze about five nights per week, from 6 o’clock until 1 AM. 

The Main Squeeze was my new dysfunctional family, with characters who made you sigh, cry, and get so angry you could die (er, murder!).  Hazel was the first person people met at the bottom of the stairs at the club’s entrance in a box office type box: a feisty Northern Irish lass, slight in size (about 5’5”, weighing 8.5 stone -- around 100 lbs.).  Hazel must have been in her mid 30’s.  She’d taken an instant dislike to me, “the Yank,” and was always carping away at me to do this and do that again and “Do it right, darlin’ -- and pull yer socks up!”  She meant that as “Watch it!” and I got paranoid and nervous around her, always.

A nicer person was Hazel’s pal, Greg, who worked as one of the bartenders.  Swarthy, wiry, a small man, only about 5’ 7”, with dark stubble where he shaved his head, sporting a Freddy Mercury mustache, Greg was as gay as the day is long on a Midsummer’s Night.  He had masses of dark hair, almost like fur, on his arms and chest (Greg would wear tight lowcut tee shirts that showed off his hirsute hairsuit).  You could barely see his eyes because he wore aviator-shaped tinted glasses -- but when I could, I saw he had lovely, long, curved-up dark eyelashes. In his mid 30’s, Greg was also an American expatriate who loved being around the English.  Happily, he approved of me and we were friends of a sort. Unhappily, I heard he’d died of AIDS in the ‘80’s. . .

The other bartender, John, was a tall, slender, blond, blue eyed, blandly good-looking man around 30 years of age.  He had a sort of modified Dutch boy haircut, an outgoing personality, and liked to flirt with the ladies (heterosexual?  Yes).  He had a resonant voice and maybe something of a drinking problem -- I wasn’t sure.  Then again, Greg also liked to drink, but because these guys were responsible workers behind the bar, they’d pace themselves and when they did get blasted it was infrequent and seldom seen.

The cuisine at Main Squeeze, in the restaurant area, was award-winning continental, some tasty oasis between Italian and French cooking.  Of the chefs, there were two I recall: one was Italian, robust and round, a mostly happy guy named Maurizio, I think.  The other and most memorable chef, Don, was a guy from Devon.  He was tall, average build, had mousy brown hair that was dead straight and lanky and a bushy mustache.  His pale blue eyes had sleepy lids, and he was a pretty good cook, as I recall.  Don was also something of a nutritionist.  He’d cook staff meals with meat, which I refused to eat “Because I’m a vegetarian!” I proudly boasted. 

Don noticed I was run down and probably anemic. “But darling, you really MUST eat some meat -- that’s why you’re all run down.  You need red blood food!”  At this point I was desperate to feel good again, so I slowly started off eating a few bites of burger, or lambchop (ugh -- I don’t like lamb), along with a hard boiled egg that I always made him cook for me. 

Weirdly enough, after a week or two, I DID feel better.  Guilt filled my guts with the dead meat it digested, but the rest of my muscles, skin, and bones said THANK YOU!  By just adding a little red meat to my diet each week, the gains to my well-being were considerable.

Thanks, Chef Don -- it was a little thing you did, but had a tremendous impact on this little Yank who needed to pull ‘er socks up!!

3-27-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #84 (The Misadventures of Nutty Nora -- con’t pt. 3)

“Oompah!  Ooopla!!  Dahling, vat a night we had, I made 70 pounds, can you imagine?”  She prattled on about what a good night we’d had at the Main Squeeze (we pooled tips and those were always great nights, though hard work).  Obviously, since I’d pocketed 40 quid Nora had made some 30 pounds worth of “extra tips” on the side, somehow -- even though she was the “kitchen monkey,” she’d find a way to break out and get onto the floor and earn an extra few bob.  Enterprising, for sure. But was she lying?  Never could be sure. . .

Oddly to me, the next day after Nora’d brought a night visitor with her -- really, a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am was more like it -- she awoke without a recollection.  The young American actor left after “the deed,” and I only hope he found his way back to wherever he’d been staying.  I never understood how people could get SO out of it they blacked out the next day. . . so, that was a scary thing about Nora, to me.

A lovable trait of hers, though: she loved music, and when she found out I was a musician, she demanded that I play and sing for her.  Of course my guitar and I came along to the little flatshare with Nora. . . and I gladly would play for her.  I’d play country (“Labelled With Love,” “He Thinks I Still Care,” “Out of Hand,” “I Still Miss Someone”), I’d play rock (“I Knew the Bride,” “Almost Saturday Night,” “Sedated”), I’d play my own new songs (“Reminders,” “Blackheath S.E. 3,” “Sad Saturday Girl”).  Nora seemed to love them all, equally, bestowing fulsome praise.

She made sure I knew that Yugoslavs -- and she was proudly one -- knew how to live, and how to party.  I don’t think I’d ever met anybody who could be so wild, yet so functional when necessary.  My admiration, while not unbounded, definitely grew for her -- as did my fondness.  A small still voice in my head got louder and louder, though, and it screamed, “LEAVE!”  I’d be mulling over how in the back of my head, with my spare brain cells. . .

Every week or so, she’d invite the Greek over -- her friend/dealer, a tall, handsome, swarthy young man, with med. long thick black wavy hair, and trimmed black beard.  He had good teeth and a big smile.  Come to think of it, Nora, the Greek, and many others I’d met were extremely hippie-ish in attitude and world view.  They were always kind to me and inclusive; they were kind of new-agey; they loved to get stoned almost non-stop.

In fact, Nora’s friend, The Greek, had heard from some other friends/customers of his, Jackie & Toni, that a basement flat was coming available on Earl’s Court Road.  I arranged to meet them and soon, Jackie, Toni and I were fast friends.  After spending a nervewracking month and a half with Nutty Nora nearly nonstop, I moved into my own bedsitter, finally.  After five months of living in England, I had friends, a job, and my own flat.  Not the Top of the Pops, exactly, but I didn’t want that as it turns out.

It was now 1982.  Nora had just introduced me to one of my all time favorite people, one I miss from time to time, especially when England comes to mind: Patrick Marvin, Nora’s dear, amusing, savvy, and very classy, friend.

3-26-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #83 (The Misadventures of Nutty Nora -- con’t pt. 2)

As previously mentioned, in late 1981, I was sharing a bedsitter flat in Knightsbridge with a woman who made me nervous but I admired nonetheless.  Nora’s energy and loyal, caring nature gave her a great edge as a friend, but as a coworker and then some, she was worrisome.  You never knew what she’d do when she started drinking and smoking.  At that point, all bets were off.  She would do things that were beyond embarrassing at times, things that I’d laugh off but also wonder to myself, “Is something wrong with this person?”  Then I’d feel bad I was being judgmental!

Anyway, we’d work at the Main Squeeze on Sunday nights, mostly.  Those were the big nights for the discotheque and buffet at the club.  A deejay came in to spin current hits, a free buffet (with the price of admission) was laid out and devoured, and the cash bar really cleaned up. Nora was exceptional when it came to clearing & cleaning the dirty dishes; I’d tackle dirty glasses at the bar and rinse & scrub them with the special upright crush gizmo for the glasses at the bar sink.  Dunk - plunge up and down - up and down - dunk in water - rinse - dry. 

I also sauntered through small crowds of customers flirting with each other, trying their pick up lines on each other while I was trying to hawk drinks, but two other waitresses who were more experienced, taller, and pushier did more selling while I was actually happy to stand behind the bar and be useful there.  Gabby was one of the waitresses, a tall, pretty, dark curly-haired English girl who was a bit of a snob and not nice to me . .  . she was actually kind of common; I could tell from her accent and the way she talked about things and her mannerisms.  She called napkins “Serviettes,” enjoyed eating “courgettes,” and was quite tough.  Gabby & her friends spoke a lot about holidaying in Ibiza (“Eye BEE thah”), Spain.  Stephanie, the other waitress, was also a favorite of Roger’s (might have been one of his girlfriends at one time).  A redhead with long curls that jiggled when she wiggled (med. tall, Stephanie was curvy and soft and pretty).  She was always laughing, giggling, very merry and high spirited.  We got along just fine.

Anyway, on one of these packed nights at the Main Squeeze discotheque buffet, Nora met John Strange, the actor.  I went home the usual time, after work, but Nora stayed on to finish work and have an after-work cocktail.  That wasn’t all that she had. . .

About two in the morning, an hour after I went to bed, Nora crashes in to the room with this guy (a young film actor named John).  They are both obviously plastered and oblivious to me sleeping in the other bed.  They fall into Nora’s bed and make love, noisily, for about 20 minutes.  Never the quiet, retiring type, Nora is even louder when she’s in the throes of passion. 

I felt very embarrassed, and pretended to sleep.  I might have even stuffed my pillow over my head.  I hoped and prayed they were ignoring me, because if they tried to get me involved, I wouldn’t have screamed, but would have been disgusted and very uncomfortable. . . and would have had to leave. 

That would not have been ideal on such a cold and strange night in loveless Knightsbridge. . .

3-25-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #82 (Knightsbridge, London -- Not Just the Home of Harrod’s)

(photo of the front of Harrod's Department store in Knightsbridge, London)

If you haven’t been to Knightsbridge, it’s a lovely place, zoned for commercial as well as residential.  In 1981, Blocks of beautiful neo-classical and classical revival-styled buildings that were divided into small flats or hotels shared the surroundings with the priciest real estate and residential dwellings in London, along with the largest, most respected of department stores in England, Harrods.  Oh, there were probably also Selfridges and Marks & Spencer’s (“Marks & Sparks”) and HMV stores all around, but Harrod’s stood proud and imposing, like a dowager princess.  . .  (can there BE such a thing as a dowager princess?)

Anyhoo, on a lovely side street in close proximity to Harrods, Nora’s building greeted us. . .

Being a place where various boarders occupied flats on a monthly basis, there was a pay phone in the hallway and a shared bathroom on each floor.  The floors and stairs were swathed in thick, well worn carpeting -- the sound of bygone wealth: muffled sounds, silence. 

Nora’s flat was on the ground floor, which was really convenient when she’d gone on a bender and came home, smashed and stunningly loud at three in the morning.  At least, by not having to ascend the stairs, she wasn’t making more noise on the stairway (which, even though carpeted, would have made some residents unhappy to say the least).

Leading the way with her purposeful tread, Nora welcomed me in. “Here, dahling, you’ll sleep in the guest bed.”  She indicated a twin sized bed, more like a cot, against the wall.  Her bed, a similar one, was also against the wall and two feet away from the other bed -- separated by a nightstand.  The room was about  14’ by 10’, and that was it except for a little sink with a large mirror, a closet, an electric kettle, and a heater that was fed by 50 pence (“50 p”) pieces. 

I wasn’t sure where my suitcases would go, but Nora said, “Dahling, there’s room under the bed,” and lifted up the blanket.  She also offered to share her closet.

The room was small, but clean.  There weren’t any chairs or tables, but we sat on the floor or on the beds.  “Will you stay with me, dahling, until you find another place?”  Nora looked into my face and I at her liquid chocolate eyes that seemed to smile, with their upturned almond shape.

“Er, sure, Nora, thank you so much.  Very generous of you.”  She told me I could pay her ten pounds per week, and that would include the heat.  Then she took out a baggie and some rolling papers and other stuff. 

“Dahling, can you roll??”  It was tea time in Nora’s flat, and she wanted to work up an appetite -- as if I have ever met anybody who had a larger appetite or a larger heart!!

3-24-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #81 (“What”)

Although not tall, gorgeous, rich, or powerful, the natural energy and strength of Eleanora Russell, a Yugoslavian expat living in London, was a formidable force.   Her head seemed a little large for her muscular, hardworking body, but her long shaggy hair and beautiful, dark, almond-shaped eyes were her best features.  Her reactions were quick, generous, witty, and always very caring.  Nora didn’t actually do a whole lot of thinking on her feet, just reacting.  Sharp as panther claws were her animal instincts; she was loyal, protective, and not always smart when it came time to make sensible decisions or when judging people or situations.

Nora had such a good heart, though, and worked hard.  She was also kindness incarnate.  Her deep, sexy voice really did speak the way that I quote her (lots of “dahlings!” and exclamation points). A major league character, of course Nora became a fast friend.  We met at the Main Squeeze, where she was doing the scut work, washing dishes and anything else.  Because of her unpredictable ways, the management tried to keep her off the floor, although she did love to waitress, flirt with customers, and give her emphatic, uncensored opinions on just about everything.

Oh, did I mention: Nora was a major pothead -- or hashhead.  One of her best friends was a drug dealer (just pot & hash -- nothing hard) from Greece, who was a really nice guy, too.  Nora also loved getting blitzed on champagne cocktails (Bucksfizz) and vodka drinks.  She also didn’t have the ability to “filter” thoughts for public consumption -- and in a place like England, one really needs to use discretion.

“Nora, dahling -- call me Nora!”  From the moment she extended her hand and gave mine a good, strong squeeze and a warm shake, I knew I was in the presence of an exceptional human.  About five years my senior, Eleanora Russell was more experienced in the ways of the world and, especially, London.

IN a place where I was the new girl and outsider (the Main Squeeze), the garrulous and protective mother hen, Nora (also an outsider), befriended me in more ways than one. For a start, I needed a place to live because Gervaise was due back from her three-month sojourn in America, and I would no longer be welcome as a flatsitter or flatmate.  Really, there was no room -- and she had no obligation to help me further.

“Dahling!  Stay with me!  I’d be so happy to have you share my flat!”  Here I hardly knew this woman, but she so kindly offered and my back was against the wall, so to speak, so I agreed to come and see her flat -- in lovely Knightsbridge, just a tube stop or two distant. . .  

3-23-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #80 (“I Don’t Want to Go to Chelsea”)

The owners of Blushes and The Main Squeeze, Kevin & Roger (“Kev” and “Rog,” of course), were together when I met them.  They sat at a table in the bar area. . .

At the Main Squeeze, you walked down a flight of steps to arrive at a landing, where a little booth with a ticket taker’s window greeted incomers.  To the right was a doorway that led into a bar and cocktail area, with an assortment of little tables dotting a long room (about 40 feet long). Against the wall on the far side, a long bar dominated.  At the far end of the bar to the left, the kitchen door beckoned.

To the left of the kitchen door, a wall separating the bar and the formal dining area kept the drinking and eating activities segregated somewhat -- though of course you could order plainer fare at the bar.  The dining room contained about eight white-tableclothed, very formally set tables.  The Main Squeeze featured “silver service” dining, whereby the waiters (half of whom didn’t bathe often, spoke little English, and scowled when not smiling at customers) wore white gloves and served meat, potatoes, rolls and veggies with forks and spoons held just so in the hand.  I tried it, and thought the mechanics behind silver service similar to using chopsticks. . .

Anyway, here was the underground domain of the fancier members club where Kev & Rog conducted their evening business.  Rog started with the interview questions.

“Have you worked a bar before, love?”

“Yes, of course -- in New York.  City.  Downtown.  Soho?”

“And how do you look in a catsuit?”

“Er, not sure -- what’s a catsuit?”

Kev and Rog chuckled and I think Roger rolled his eyes.  “Well, love, it’s a one-piece zip up thingie that the waitresses wear who work at the Main Squeeze.” Kev explained in his smooth, dolorous voice.

“Er, sure, I guess.  Can I see one?”

Roger went back to the kitchen and summoned “Nora!”

A true female force of nature burst through the kitchen door. “Roger! What do you vant?  Can’t you see I’m working here, dahling?”  This five-foot-two red brunette with long shaggy hair in a ponytail and beautiful, dark, almond-shaped eyes boomed in a laughing, 80-decibel voice.  She was wearing a black one-piece cotton kind of boilersuit, not unshapely but not tight or form-fitting, that zipped up the front, with long sleeves that she rolled up to her elbows and pants legs that she cuffed up a little to show her white crew socks and plimsolls (sneakers).

The Main Squeeze logo, with a sexy looking saxophone and accents of red and gold, was adhered just above her left breast.

Kev coughed and said, “That, love, is a catsuit. Oh, and this is Eleanora Russell, who works here as a waitress and kitchen staff.”

“Nora, dahling -- call me Nora!”  She extended her hand and gave mine a good, strong squeeze and a warm shake. . . .