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Catering for Clinton
I'm an actress / cater waiter, with the present emphasis on cater waiter. I was trying my luck in the City of Angels, and missing NYC desperately. Catering, although a tedious and tremendous drag, allows me to sneak a peak at the lives of the rich and famous in the two hottest cities in America.
I pulled my '90, navy Pontiac station wagon with Jersey plates into a spot at the end of the street between a BMW and a Jag. The car was filthy. I'd had no money or time to get it washed, and for me it was not a priority. I was fighting tooth and nail to hang onto my New Yorkness and not fall into the void of appearances and "detailing".
I smiled a defiant smile as I climbed out; hoping a neighbor would spot my eyesore. The Jersey plates were my favorite attribute on my baby wagon. I had driven cross-country and wasn't sure if I would stay, so I didn't change the plates.
I slung my garment bag enclosing my tuxedo over my shoulder, lit a cig, and headed up the street. All I'd been given by the catering company was the address. It was unusually secretive. No client name or any party information at all besides cocktail reception/ dinner.
As I got closer I noticed a lot of activity on a lawn, and a lot of very large men wearing uniforms. This was my destination. I flicked my cigarette butt onto the neighbor's perfectly manicured lawn and headed up. As I approached, I was briskly escorted by two men to a table where I was asked what my business here was. "Cater waiter" I answered disdainfully. I was then asked to empty my pockets and go through a metal detector. The last time I was asked to do that was when I had worked the Academy Awards the previous March, so I knew this was something huge.
The scary security then ushered me into the backyard where the rest of the waiters were setting up tables and unwrapping dishes, silverware, and thimble-sized salt and pepper shakers. There was unusual tension hanging in the air, and I felt like I was being watched. I then realized I was. Some of the scary security were positioned in the shrubbery surrounding the yard, and this time I noticed they had guns.
"What's going on?" I asked another underling as we robotically folded dinner napkins into origami.
"Clinton's coming. It's Katzenberg's house. Democratic fund-raiser. Ten thousand dollars a plate. Sixty guests. Cocktails from 7-8pm, dinner 8-10. We should be home by midnight. And Stone's coming."
The Clinton thing didn't phase me. I never thought much of him, and didn't understand the reputation he had for being a lady-killer. As for Sharon Stone, I was curious to see if she was as beautiful in person, but I'm no fan.
It was Katzenberg -- Jeffrey Katzenberg, Hollywood giant -- that made my eyes glint. In my fantasy I would walk up to him with a tray of hors d'oeuvres and he'd be struck by my presence and beauty and insist I play a role in the next DreamWorks flick. By the end of the night Stone and I would be telling each other how we lost our virginity and be life long friends.
I was looking for my break. It would be hard, wearing a boxy tuxedo with my hair pulled back and no jewelry. We are NOT allowed to wear jewelry. Rings only, one per hand. Androgynous penguins. I quickly excused myself to the bathroom and applied more lipstick.
After a few hours of set up, a meeting with our dictator / captain, and a staff meal of peanut butter and jelly (I've had more PB & J as an adult than I ever had in elementary school), it was show time.
At 6:45pm we were told to take our positions for guest arrival. "In position" means spread around the perimeter of the yard with your left hand crossed behind your back, and your right hand holding a tray of whatever. I always get stuck passing hors d'oeuvres cause I'm a chick. The guys always get stuck butlering drinks. "AND NO TALKING!" the captain (dictator) hissed.
So there we stood in sweat-soaked polyester. Waiting. The votive candles on the tables and along the pool were motionless in the hot smoggy air. Soft jazz poured out from speakers around the yard. After ten minutes the waiter's trays of champagne, white wine, and Pellegrino started to teeter. An underling standing near me was sweating streaks out of his temples in a pattern that resembled the Tigris and Euphrates.
After what seemed an eternity, the guests started to arrive. Steve Martin, Diane Keaton, Sly Stallone, Jeff Goldblum, Sharon Stone (who is very beautiful, by the by), to name a few. Then, on a pair of crutches, hobbled Katzenberg. I beamed. He was more unattractive than the pictures I'd seen in magazines. Smaller, bigger teeth, and much more balding. It was odd watching this mogul clumsily maneuvering around. "Tennis accident" some one whispered.
We'd been instructed earlier that his drink of choice for the evening was Diet Coke, and that at no time should he be holding an empty glass. An overanxious underling approached him with a glass, and he chugged it without much notice or thanks. Underling took the empty glass and sprinted to the bar to refill it knowing the captain would be counting the seconds that Katzenberg was without beverage.
I threaded through the guests with my silver tray offering mini roset potatoes filled with crème fraiche and caviar. By 7:30pm I felt like I'd circled the yard and repeated the phrase "mini roset potatoes filled with crème fraiche and caviar" a thousand times, and my face hurt from smiling at Katzenberg.
I had to face it. I didn't exist at this party. I was a nameless, faceless, polyester ghost. Hope turns to hate easily in L.A. I took my focus off the limping hairless host and decided to see what everyone else was doing. I had seen lots of celebs catering in NYC and L.A. This was nothing new for me. What was new was this weird electricity and anticipation in the air. Usually the stars are laid back, or probably more accurately, bored. But they weren't bored this time. They were waiting for Bill.
It was now 8:15pm and no Prez in sight. The crowd was getting restless. I'd finally managed to switch hors d'oeuvres with another underling, so now I'd repeated "carpacio with arugula on toast points" a thousand times and had circled the yard in the other direction to stave off delirium.
In the heat my mind started to wander. I imagined myself throwing my head back with a huge guffaw, throwing the tray of carpacio into the air, grabbing Katzenberg's Diet Coke and chugging it followed by the "AAH" sound, ripping off my tux and jumping into the beautiful in-ground pool. But instead I passed the carpacio. Stone waved me away like a horse fly. Katzenberg's armpits were getting raw from hobbling on the crutches. The chefs were panicking that dinner would be overdone while we waited for Bill, and the underling fetching Diet Cokes was on his last legs.
Just as I was getting into a fantasy involving Jeff Goldblum and crème fraiche, we heard, "HE'S HERE!" with such enthusiasm you'd think Jesus Christ just rolled in. All the hotshot celebs were on tiptoe peering towards the gate with a glint of Christmas morning in their eyes. Katzenberg's limp turned into a semi-gallop. I couldn't understand all the fuss. I mean yeah, it would be kind of cool to see the Prez in person. Especially with all the Monica scandal at the time. I was most curious to see if he'd look ashamed or embarrassed.
I heard rustling behind me. The scary security in the shrubbery was ready for action. And then it dawned on me -- I could die here. I had innocently come to work this event without any information or choice to say I'd rather not. All for the security of Clinton. I guess they couldn't risk any of us underlings leaking that we'd be serving the president on such and such a date at Katzenberg's, in case some psycho got ideas. My thoughts became morbid and I started to get angry knowing that if there was an attack on the president's life, I'd die in my tuxedo at $16 an hour.
The captain was ushering guests to their assigned seats and the underlings were told to take their dinner positions. I was to serve behind the buffet. In all the commotion and the stampeding crowd towards the tables, I hadn't even gotten a good look at Bill. He had entered with an entourage of photographers and the flashes were blinding. Besides, at this point I was still preoccupied with my own death.
Finally everyone was seated and quiet. Bill was sitting at a round table in front of my buffet station, but his back was towards me. Katzenberg gave a speech and welcomed Bill to his home, blah blah blah. I was concentrating on knowing what the hell I was serving; what it was made with, and if any nuts was involved (there is always someone allergic to nuts at every party).
The speech ended and Bill was up and at the far end of my buffet table with the photographers and dealing with the first waiter. Cameras flashed. I kept my head down. I wasn't going to give this two-timer the puppy dog eyes like Stone did. No way. I was going to be totally cool and unmoved. No way would I succumb to the hype, the power, the--
"Hello", he said.
My eyes slowly slid up his chest and locked with those baby blues. "Hi," I said in an unnaturally low register.
"What's your name?" he asked, and suddenly I felt like Cindy Brady staring at the red light on the TV camera. I started to sweat. My pulse quickened.
"Cathy" I said, a little too breathy. He smiled never leaving my eyes for a second. My knees got weak.
"Very nice to meet you. Cathy." And he extended his hand.
In what seemed like slow motion I extended my hand and our fingers intertwined, eye glued to eye. I was a goner. A bolt of electricity coursed through my arm and smacked me in the crotch. Flash! A photographer had caught it on film. I giggled. I giggled like a schoolgirl. "Would you like to try the--"
"Yes," he said, smiling again. I scooped a heap of something onto his plate. I said more, but I have no recollection of it. I'm sure it was no more eloquent than, "Eat food. Food good." You Tarzan, me Jane. I wanted him to throw me over his shoulder and take me to his cave. He thanked me for the food and headed back to his table.
The rest paraded by as I scooped piles of shit onto their ten thousand-dollar plates, barely noticing who they were. I peered over them to look at the back of Bill's head. Wondering if he liked his dinner, and if anyone would mind if I sat on his lap and fed him with my fingers.
Everyone was served and seated. I stood transfixed holding my silver serving spoon -- praying Bill would come back for seconds. I thought about Monica. Now I understood everything. She was forgiven in my book. I thought about Hillary. How could she be so ambitious and preoccupied? They definitely were not doing it.
I imagined Bill telling Hill it was over. We'd get married and I'd be the new First Lady. Our wedding would be the biggest this country's ever known, with more helicopters than Madonna and Sean Penn's. My dress would be huge and white with slutty underwear on underneath. I'd lounge around the white house in beautiful lingerie while we read each other passages from Leaves of Grass, The Kama Sutra, Candy, and Hustler. I'd take an interest in foreign countries and get a Brazilian bikini wax, learn ancient yoga postures for easy penetration. I'd skip around the White House lawn during our annual Easter egg hunt in an " I Ride the Most Powerful Rod in the World" T-shirt. We'd invite Chelsea and her boyfriend over and smoke pot. Magazines would dote on my latest scarf. I'd never leave the house without a pair of stilettos and a Gucci full of erotic creams and oils. I'd belt out "It's a Grand Old Flag" while he did me from be--
"CATHY!" The 6'4" captain / dictator stood over me. "Are you deaf? They're done eating. I don't need you at this station any more. Go to the garage and start bagging up garbage and dumping slop."
Total coitus interruptus of the mind.
I never got to say good-bye to Bill, but four months later, after I had moved back to New York, the catering company sent me the picture of Bill and I at the buffet table. My grandmother got a huge kick out of it. Little does she know what I was thinking at the time...
--Cathy the Cater-Waiter is an actress living in New York City.
By Cathy the Cater Waiter
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