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. . . .

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.