If I did half the things that Steven does regularly—and I'm not even
talking about the felonies, just the brutish misbehavior, the bad taste, the
remarks, the exhibitionism, the conniving—I'd end up in court defending
myself against a host of sexual harassment lawsuits. And yet, I can't
think of anyone, except the owner of Sullivan's (but that's another story)
who doesn't like Steven, who doesn't find him adorable, who doesn't
confide in him, go to him when they're confused or in trouble . . . an
amazing accomplishment for a guy who shows up to work with sperm on
his shoes ("Stopped at a peep booth to toss off," he explains casually.
"Hey! I was horny!"), who behaves like an utter pig at times, freely
discusses his every digestive, dermatological and sexual manifestation
with anyone within hearing.
And this . . . this, dear reader, is my closest and most trusted friend and
associate.
THE LEVEL OF DISCOURSE
THERE WAS A LULL in service the other night, one of those all-too-
brief periods of about ten minutes when the floor staff is busy trying to
turn tables, and even though the bar is packed three deep with waiting
customers and there's a line out the door, the kitchen is quiet. While
busboys stripped and reset tables outside the kitchen door, the cooks,
runners and sous-chef swilled bottled water, wiped down their stations
and bullshitted.
I stood in the doorway to the cellar prep kitchen and smoked a cigarette
nervously. We were in that eerie, eye-of-the-hurricane calm. In ten
minutes, when the next wave of hungry public had been seated and
breaded and watered, there'd be a punishing rush—the slide filling up
with orders all at once, the action swinging from station to station,
boiling up the line like a Drano enema. First, the salad guy would get hit,
then the sauté station and finally the grill, until everything came down at
once—the whole bunch of us in the cramped kitchen struggling and