Mawde Goes to Hollywood

Or, Mawde’s Follies While Pursuing Stardom and Working As A Waitress

Two hundred years ago, I was a waitress in various places. Nowadays, wait people are called servers. But back then, I was “Excuse me, Waitress!” I shall stick with the outdated term in this essay.

First, we shall examine my entry into the world of waitressing. Allow me to set the scene.

I had moved to L.A. to work as an actress and win my first Oscar. I had the vision board to prove it. Of course, I was willing to pay my dues while scouring various L.A. rags that carried casting calls. I had easily scored some extra work in a film, Frances, in 1982, starring Jessica Lange. I was even selected for some screen time when I was caught doodling in a notebook during an acting class scene. They filmed over my shoulder scribbling away. My face was not seen, and even if it was, the scene didn’t make it to the final cut. Despite that, I knew I was on my way. I figured two years tops before I worked my way to the pinnacle of stardom.

There was only one casting couch offer. (No doubt because directors sensed I was a serious and gifted actor.) The couch was actually an invitation to a desk top. I declined. At least the casting director was quite the gentleman. “Would you like to have sex on the desk?” I didn’t need to go down that sordid path because I was tremendously and deeply talented.

Side note: “Sex on a Desk” would be a killer name for a cocktail, which leads us to…

My first waitress gig. It was in a small restaurant called Two Dollar Bills, a few blocks off Sunset Blvd. My brother, also living in L.A., got me the job. A Scientologist managed it; my brother was involved with Scientology at the time and knew the manager. She could have been a talking kangaroo for all I cared. My focus was getting started, so I could later tell my funny waitress stories on Johnny Carson. For you youngsters out there, he is three hosts back in time on The Tonight Show.

Scientologists are organized and efficient. (Hey, they sound kind of like The Borg. Sorry. Star Trek reference. I can’t help it.) The training was extensive and strict. There were drills on how to up-sell, and we had to do our side work off the clock, which seems ethically amiss. If you fell below a specific monetary checkpoint, you had to go in for more drills also on your own time. But I was in HOLLYWOOD. I served coffee to Brian Dennehy. He smiled and said thank you. I was being noticed right and left! Or least right!

I felt exhilarated in the mix of things. I was sending out headshots, attending auditions, and thinking every “no” brought me closer to the inevitable “report to the studio tomorrow at 9 for a costume fitting.”

Next is a section that has nothing to do with my first restaurant job, aside from happening simultaneously. It’s ok, though, don’t be upset. It’s a good section. It will meld seamlessly back to waitressing, I promise.

I was taking an acting class from an actor named Robert Lyons. He was in a bunch of stuff. Check him out on IMBD if you like.

He was a Scientologist as well. Hmmm. There seemed to be a lot of those there. Isn’t this how “Attack of the Body Snatchers” started? However, he was a good teacher. AND there was a STAR in our class — someone I had watched for years. 1969 to 1974, to be precise. Yes, hold on to your hats, folks, I’m going to name drop! Ready to catch it? OK, close your eyes and hold out your hands. Open them! Behold!! BARRY “Greg Brady” WILLIAMS!! Yeah, that’s right, in MY acting class. If you are over 55, you’ll know who I mean. He was a bonafide working actor with years of experience. He was famous. He was a teen heartthrob, often featured in Tiger Beat, a fan magazine my mom would get me when I was home sick from school. Those blue eyes and curly dark hair! And there he was in the chair next to me. I did wonder why he was taking acting classes after being on TV for so long. I decided he was open to bettering his craft. Go Barry!

I tried not to stare. Hey, I was barely 21, and he was my first celebrity sighting aside from Mr. Dennehy.

(I had assumed spotting celebrities in Hollywood would be like shooting fish in a barrel.)

I did an acting exercise that required some comedic skills. After, I got feedback from Mr. Lyons and other students. Barry raised his hand. My heart raced. He said, “I thought you were hilarious.” (SCORE! I thought.) He continued, “but I was distracted by your terrible posture.”

If I had a diary back then, that night, I would have written while wiping my nose on the sleeve of my nightgown, “Barry said I had bad posture. And what’s HE done since The Brady Bunch?? TOTAL HAS-BEEN. The ink is smeared from my tears.”

He was right, though. I still have bad posture due to two frozen cervical vertebrae, which cause me to carry my head forward. But I didn’t know that then. Had I known, I may have balked at his comment and said, “I have a CONDITION, Mr. Smarty Pants!”

I thought he was being mean and petty. Perhaps due to jealousy of my acting chops, I reasoned. I have since forgiven Mr. Williams, and if he ever needs a nearly 64-year-old pale lady with lousy posture to be in whatever he needs, I hope he calls. Hey, Barry! I’m still funny! And not nearly as sensitive!

I continued with my class and dropped the delusion that Barry W. was totally in love with me. I didn’t care though (except I did.) Guess I wouldn’t be surfing Barry to stardom. Damn it.

I stopped wearing my essence of rose oil, which I am sure enticed him despite Mr. Lyons commenting one day after sniffing the air, “It smells like a funeral parlor in here!”

Here comes the seamless melding back into waitressing.

Carrying trays at Two Dollar Bills undoubtedly did not help my posture issue. (See? Nice segue, Mawde!)

It was hard work, and I wasn’t that good with the “Would you like ice cream on that pie?” “Yes? Well, would you like some chocolate syrup on top of the ice cream?” “Would you care for a sparkling water with a lemon wedge?” “Would you like a salad with that sandwich or perhaps extra alfalfa sprouts?” I was going in a lot for drills.

My first solo turn at Sunday Brunch finally made me quit. Sunday Brunch was a shift only for the best waitresses. I’m unsure how I made that list and was a little apprehensive. Probably the best waitresses were heading to the beach, and I was what was left. I was told, though, that it was never that busy for the first shift and that a manager would always be “on call” if I needed reinforcements.

I got there early. The prep cooks were busy chopping in the kitchen. The busboy was checking tables. I had my pens ready in my apron pocket and my pad to write down orders. All looked perfect. The first hint it might be a problematic shift was when a cook came out from the kitchen and said, “Nosotros no tenemos huevos.” “What?” I asked. “NO EGGS,” he replied, barely containing his disdain. No eggs?? For Sunday Brunch? Ok, I thought, I can handle this. I’m the captain of this ship! Getting money from the till I calmly instructed him to head off to the nearest Alpha-Beta to get eggs. Looking back, I wonder if they were messing with me, this being my first brunch shift. Considering how long it took, I suspect that may have been the case. He arrived with the eggs minutes away from opening time. I never asked for the change, and he never offered.

Side note: I am now close to being fluent in Spanish. That’s a lie, but I am learning.

Nervously, I watched a line forming at the door before we opened. But I had coffee made, menus stacked up, and I threw back my shoulders to greet the masses.

Music Cue: Julie Andrews singing in the Sound of Music: “…besides what you see, I have confidence in ME!”

My confidence did not last long. I had no hostess or bartender. I had never made a drink. Didn’t people like drinks at Sunday Brunch? The assurance that the first couple hours weren’t busy and people never drank at nine in the morning dissolved when I opened the door to hungry people waiting to get a buzz on AT NINE IN THE MORNING.

I had six tables right off the bat. If you’ve ever hosted in a restaurant, you would never do that to a waitress unless it was for revenge and you were willing to lose your part of her tips for a night.

They all wanted Bloody Marys and Mimosas. There was a small book behind the bar where I frantically started looking up drinks. I put in extra alcohol to make up for my lack of finesse. I got no complaints.

More people appeared at the front, waiting to be seated. People were wanting to pay, or ordering a Kir Royale, whatever the hell that was, or asking for hot sauce for their hashbrowns or a different syrup, and why isn’t my french toast dusted with powdered sugar?

You get the picture. The one busboy was doing the best he could, plus running for ketchup and grabbing an occasional order for me. (I forgot to mention, they were called busboys back then, instead of bussers these days). I would have tipped him a ton, except the total of my tips reflected the restaurant's name.

I was beginning to panic. I felt like Lucy in the episode where she worked at the candy factory.

I took a moment to lean against a wall in the back while calling the number I had for backup. No answer. I stared at the receiver in my hand, not believing what was happening. I called back and left a message with her service. For you youngsters, 200 years ago, people, especially in Los Angeles, had something called an “answering service.”

Cooks were yelling from the pass in the kitchen. “ORDER UP!!!” “PICK UP YOUR ORDERS!” “VAMOS!”

I gave free refills on booze to appease the people seated out front. I was losing tickets or not putting them in at all. I’ll never forget the looks of people looking around for me when I only wanted to hide.

As things backed up, I heard strings of what I assumed were Spanish curses from the cooks. I won’t go into that, and maybe they were discussing baseball very loudly for all the Spanish I knew then. Didn’t sound like that, though.

A manager showed up as my shift was ending. She was alarmed at the mess and helped check people out and bus tables.

Right before I burst into tears in the back, I told her I had called for backup, but there was no answer. “Oh,” she said casually, “I was getting ready to go to the beach, I guess. I did check my service, though.” She was one of the non-Scientologist managers and was a more laid-back surfer type. I dragged myself home and left a message on the service of the Scientologist manager, as she was senior. It was simple enough. I think you know what it was.

NEXT TIME on Mawde’s Follies.

My next server job was the Beverly Hills Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on North Beverly Drive, about a block from Rodeo Drive. Not technically a restaurant, but we served coffee and biscotti. Star sightings! Sex in the bathroom! But not by me! Entertainment will abound!

Until then, my friends, be kind to your servers. They may be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.