Christopher Sorrentino - Trance

The man steers them up a gravel pathway that leads to the kitchen door, which is propped open with a battered old hubcap. Two young people, dressed in whites, drop cigarettes and grind them underfoot into the gravel.

“Come inside, everybody,” says the man cheerfully. “Show Josh and Beth how hard we work around here.” They step into the enormous kitchen. “Here’s Josh and Beth. They’ve come to save the day.”

A desultory cheer goes up in the kitchen.

“Attaboy. Now let’s get some uniforms on you.”

They stand before a group of lockers in a brightly lit passageway linking the kitchen to several dining rooms.

“Take any locker you want. If you don’t have a lock it doesn’t matter because you kids can always sort it out amongst yourselves in the unlikely event of a misplaced personal belonging. That is to say it happens rarely if at all around here. Now get dressed, go see the captain, and give your mother my very kindest regards when you call her first thing tomorrow.”

For the next two hours neither Teko nor Tania sees anything resembling a purse, a wallet, or a room key. She sets tables, hand washes spotty glasses, rolls silverware, folds napkins, fills cruet sets, fills monkey bowls with Parkay pats and single-serving creamers, vacuums, polishes chrome and brass, evens stacks of coasters, straightens barstools. He fillets chicken and fish, peels and chops vegetables, washes lettuce, prepares trays of desserts and salads, schleps beer kegs up from the storeroom, sterilizes and stacks dishes. For the first time since the Marines he is doing the work of the People, though in this case the People mostly are boys and girls speaking of Columbia Law or the dentistry program at NYU.

By the time the diners begin to enter the room Tania is exhausted, and she stands with Sarah Horowitz, a psych major at Sarah Lawrence and a veteran of five weeks at Grossinger’s, on the gravel path outside the kitchen door, smoking and drinking black coffee.

“You look sort of familiar. Where you from anyway?” asks Sarah. She looks her up and down. “The Upper West Side, or something?”

“California,” Tania answers promptly. She drags hard on the cigarette.

“California!” exclaims Sarah. “Westwood or the Valley?”

“Bay Area, actually.”

“Didn’t know they had Jewish people in the Bay Area.”

“What about Levi Strauss?” They laugh a little.

“You better hope he’s funny, Beth.”

“What? Who?”

“The comic tonight.”

“OK, I hope he’s funny.”

“Ha. Seriously. He’s not funny, they don’t tip.”

“Really?”

“You kidding? Everything’s our fault.”

“What’s funny up here?”

“Take a look at the house.” She shrugs. “Strictly Geritol.” She tosses the cigarette. “We better get inside. It’s about to go bananas.”

They duck inside, Tania kicking the hubcap and allowing the kitchen door to slam behind them.

“Get out there, twatlick,” explains the chef. “I’m not taking shit because your section’s orphaned.”

Tania steps into the dining room in time to see their driver from this afternoon, wearing evening clothes, stride out onto the stage. Apparently he is the show’s compere as well, his right hand placed strategically over a small gravy stain on his left lapel so that he assumes a pious or patriotic mien.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are so happy to have each of you here with us as our guests tonight, to see you having such a good time. And so you should. Many of us work too much, too hard, too often. We are terribly pressured every day and often can’t find any time for ourselves, for contemplation, for recreation, for some peace from the rat race and the endless demands. Some do this — they go to the shul or synagogue or temple of their choice on Shabbat. They sing, they read Torah, they listen to a sermon. Some talk to their friends. Some visit with their grandchildren to play and dote and incidentally to strike a lasting family bond with their son- or daughter-in-law as the case may be. And some come up here to our beautiful Catskill region, for a weekend or with our special family rates for a stay of a week or of even longer duration, circumstances permitting. Not anymore the most fashionable destination maybe but still a place for family togetherness and the company of like-minded people getting away from it all like yourselves. Forget the daily grindstone for a while and cut yourself off from the everyday tsuris that besets us all. Relax, forget the stock market, the clients, the customers, the patients, the students, the office politics, and all the other concerns that nag at a person. It’s better than golf, though here we have a quality golf course that visitors with a professional involvement in the game have showered with the highest praise. It’s better than canasta, though here a willing partner is always to be found. It’s better than watching your favorite television programs, though here each of our comfortable rooms is equipped with a famous maker seventeen-inch color set. So live a little. As they say in the antacid commercials, try it, you’ll like it. And that reminds me, incidentally, the chef has asked me to mention that our specials tonight, the baked halibut and the apricot-glazed chicken, are very fresh and still in plentiful supply. These each come with a lovely cauliflower kugel in fresh tomato sauce, as well as your choice of tossed salad or the soup of the day, of which we happen tonight to have two, which are cream of asparagus or a delightful gazpacho.”

“So what’s this gazpacho?” asks a man.

“I’ve had it; it’s a mechaya. It’s Spanish . Like from Spain. ”

“Nu?”

“I tell you, you’ll love it. Young lady, could you or could you not plotz from it?”

“I think so,” says Tania, uncertainly.

“Pfeh,” says the man, waving dismissively. “Give me the cream of asparagus.”

“Fine. Suit yourself. I ’ ll take the gazpacho. Then you can sit here with a face on you that you could drag across the carpet until I offer to switch. And,” she adds, “I hate cream of asparagus.”

“Pfeh,” says the man.

“Now tonight,” continues the compere, “in addition to the contemporary sounds of David Lubash and his Love Rush, we have some really prime entertainment. Direct from some very wellreceived engagements in the tristate area, we’re happy to bring you without any further ado the very funny Jules Farber. ”

Here the small band strikes up a jaunty, snare-driven theme, to which the compere sings words in a vaguely cantorial tenor:

Settle back, it’s time to laugh,

the land of comedy is down this path

And if you want to know the man who rules,

I’m here to tell you that his name is Jules

He’s awful special, yeah, he’s okey-doke,

Julie Farber is a man who’s awful quick with a joke.

On today’s events he’s got a unique take,

so why not give the guy an even break?

Welcome Jules Farberrrrrr!

With the closing brrr the compere jokily wraps his arms around himself as if to indicate enclosure in a walk-in freezer and then, perhaps realizing the ambiguity of this gesture, begins to applaud while backing off the stage. Farber enters the small circle of light that surrounds the microphone stand and stands there for a moment, looking blearily into the audience. He is about forty and wears a rumpled business suit and has the general mien of a man searching the carousel for his checked baggage after the worst commuter flight in the history of commercial aviation. He waits with visible impatience for the house to settle down. He then begins, appropriately enough given his appearance, with a story about airports and air travel. Glamour of the jet age. Well, there’s the pilot with his Captain America voice. The buxom stewardess demonstrating the life jacket, wink. The turbulence moment. The in-flight movie, the meals and snacks. Barf bags and “occupied.” Fear of hijacking. A Cuba joke. A Cuban cigar story. The uncle who rolled cigars. His Aunt Malka, who lives in Florida. A Collins Avenue story. The audience is polite and attentive, though the waiters are just beginning to serve dinner and each crash and tinkle seems to send a frisson of nervous energy through Farber’s body. He wipes his palm on his jacket, examines it, essays a look into the audience.