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. . . .

3-22-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #79 (“I Don’t Want to Go to Chelsea”)

After a dismal night pulling pints in a pub, I was wandering ‘round the King’s Road in an effort to find “better fit” employment under the table in 1981 (had to support myself as well as find somewhere to “belong” so I could save my sinking psyche), I walked into a winebar called Blushes.  It looked nice, the menu was good, and the ambiance was one of controlled gentility, perfect for social-climbers and arrivistes alike. 

A recent review of the place (still going in 2012!) says, “During the day, Blushes Cafe is a cool cafe bar boasting a comfortable, relaxed atmosphere and tasty cuisine of all types from around the world. However, the atmosphere changes after dark at Blushes and it transforms into a vibrant, upbeat wine bar with a fantastic selection of cocktails, champagne and wines to get you in the mood for a night out on the town.”

Ah yes, all about the nightlife!  That’s where the inhibitions recede and there’s money to be made!  Every restaurateur knows that. . . as do the waitstaff, who make much better tips on the larger checks created by booze intake.  Yeah!

So I had a feeling about the place, and they had a feeling about me, so they sent me over to their “members club” establishment, across the road and down the stairs.  Voila!  The subterranean home of Main Squeeze -- a “members club” where membership afforded better and longer hours for alcohol selling and consumption than the laws that governed pubs and publicans.  Members could bring guests, so in that way more customers were billed and the Main Squeeze remained in the black.

So, the Blushes manager sent me over to speak with one of the owners, Kevin or Roger (“Kev” and “Rog,” of course).  They were usually together.  Kevin, the taller one, had a soft, caressing voice, soft brown eyes, a full head of med-short, curly salt and pepper hair and a sweet, almost lugubrious manner.  He could have been a kindly undertaker but for his clothing -- middle-aged, upper-middle income, not flashy and casual. Roger, the shorter owner, had sharper features, a sharper voice, a brasher personality.  His electric blue eyes didn’t miss a thing; he wore dark suits, usually navy blue; and his full head of brown, curly hair was probably a vain spot.  Like Kev, Rog enjoyed a drink; the two of them -- most times I saw them -- seemed kind of blurry and woozy from drink, though I could have been mistaken. . . I was a little puritanical and down on boozers and drank very little, personally. 

At any rate, these guys were to be my bosses for the better part of a year, when I joined the Main Squeeze staff.

3-21-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #78 (Pulling Pints in the Pub)

November 5, 1981: Guy Fawkes Day in London.  Bonfires at night and “A Penny for the Guy.”  Kind of like trick-or-treating, but not as sweet -- that is, it’s not a candy holiday like in the U.S.  It’s just a remembrance of civil disobedience where kids ask for small change and burn “the Guy” in effigy annually (his eternal reward for trying to blow up The House of Lords).  So English!!

Ahh, so.  My first non-music job in London was “pulling pints” at a pub on the King’s Road in Chelsea.  I was right chuffed (quite pleased) at getting a job so easily (relatively) and quite relieved to not have penury be the wolf at the door.

I got there for work and squeezed into a space behind a bar that took some maneuvering, even for a size two person (me at the time).  And as it was Guy Fawkes night, even though just a Thursday, the place was VERY packed.  It seemed to get busier and busier, and the place filled up with boisterous, no, make that obstreperous young people, mostly the kind of obnoxious type. 

Worst of all:  I could NOT understand what about 80 percent of the customers were saying!  It was like I was underwater and in the land of big fish, making weird indecipherable noises like “Mmpph!!  Errrrgh!  Roff-roff-ROARFF -- roight NOWWWW!” 

Welcome to true culture shock.  When faced with a crowd of yobbos who had very thick and diverse British accents (Geordies, Mancunians, guys from the Humberside, Liverpuddlians, Cockneys, you name it!), I was a fish out of water and then some.  They wound up barking at me and lobbing insults; I kept going, “Eh?  Pardon.  Eh?  Pardon. . . “ But I just couldn’t get it.  I was also unfamiliar with the many types of beer because I really don’t drink it.

Once the shift was done, I don’t recall if I quit or was fired.  (Just for the record, I generally try to quit before I’m fired, as a rule.)  But it was most definitely NOT the job for me.  Besides, the Brits don’t tip much at the pub and the money was disgraceful. . .

A few days later, I returned to the King’s Road to find employment at a place that might be a better fit.  I walked into a winebar called Blushes, and spoke to the manager there, another nigh-incomprehensible speaker of the mother tongue but a sharp guy, perceptive enough to see I’d be a good worker in the right environment.

“Look, luv, we have a member’s club across the way and if you go there now, you could speak to Roger or Kevin. . . “

3-20-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #77 (Back to London, 1981)

Bshzoop!  Back to London, 1981.  Well, it was the best of times and the worst of times.  (Thank you, Charles Dickens -- a Londoner.)  Temporarily, I was catsitting and staying at the flat of the petite powerhouse of photography and networking, fellow expat Gervaise Souerouge, near Tottenham Court Road.  I was a fan and devotee of the invaluable street guide, London A-Z, part of the “knowledge” of those amazing London cab drivers.

Believe me, without a London A-Z, you couldn’t really get around the town very well.  In fact, I still have it here and look forward to (maybe) visiting ol’ London towne again.  But then again, I tend to shun big cities these days. . . I dig the boondocks, the quiet, the occasional people & plentiful nature. . .

Anyhoo, in 1981, London was starting to gear up from being a sleepy town to something TOO big, fast, crowded, and cosmopolitan.  But, being a New Yorker (from Manhattan), London was quite manageable at the time for me, thank you.

The unmanageable in my life was my physical and mental health.  I’d been a vegetarian (no red meat, very little chicken, mostly fish, cheese, eggs) since the age of 15, and it was starting to wear on me.  I was also plunging into a sadness I couldn’t shake off. . . I think we (at least I) take it for granted when surrounded by loving family & friends. . . even though they may seem like a hassle every now and then when sharing our space, they really do help to keep us together.

So. . . I’d get to crying often for little reason, feeling very tired & taking naps every day, invariably. . . my appetite was OK, but I felt scared and lonely and tired of life.  Every time I thought I’d scored a victory in life, something dire or dismal (like having Mickie Most tell me I didn’t have a career in music!) would happen to SMASH me and my mood down again.

I even tried taking up tap dancing (how can you be depressed tapping?), but that didn’t really work out (your foot reflexes need to be quite keen, you know -- and being in my mid twenties was a tad late to start if I couldn’t commit hours to practice). 

I knew I needed to work -- for my pocketbook, peace of mind, and sanity -- but how and where to get “clean” work off the books? 

During one of my weekend visits (or “haunts”) down the King’s Road in Chelsea (take the tube to Sloan Square and start walking!), I started to think about the many bars and eateries there. 

I inquired in a few places, then bingo!  One of them -- a trendy pub in the middle of the King’s Road -- took me on to be “pulling pints” that very night (Guy Fawkes night, Nov. 5^th).  Cool, I thought. . . just the thing to bring up spirits and replenish the pocketbook. . .