By way of a little background on our guest, Michael says he has lived in the same rent stabilized apartment in the East Village for 31 years and considers himself a New Yorker, still in love and fascinated with it’s many quirks and idiosyncrasies. After 25 years working in the film industry he says he is currently in search of what to do when he finally grows up, and that finding Nightshift NYC could be the start of a long overdue writing career. Here's Michael's take on "the graveyard shift":
One of the things I loved about working the graveyard shift at the Plaza Hotel in room service during the 1980s was commuting on my bicycle and the great downhill ride on 5th Avenue into The Village. One of the things I hated was the only other waiter with whom I worked during those hours of 11P to 7A: a paranoid schizophrenic from Brazil. At that time the two of us were room service; taking the orders on the phone, setting up the tables, preparing the food and delivering it up to the rooms, which meant we had to work well together. The problem was this fellow didn't trust me and would threaten to kill me on a regular basis. Fortunately I had a couple of friends in security and the hotel later brought on a full time clerk to take the orders.
She was a middle aged African American woman who was so addicted to her soaps that she would set her alarm clock during the day so as not to miss them. Then she would spend the night at work talking about the troubles of the characters, as if they were real people.
There was a young Greek American kid who was brought on from the breakfast shift to help out. He was the drug connection and could supply black beauties, which got us through the shift in a flash. There were a surprising number of guests who would ask for drugs when they put in their orders. For a while, coke was supplied but you can't keep that up and we didn't, fortunately, before anyone caught on. By the time this waiter came on, the Brazilian had left and there were four of us. One was Polish and had landed in NYC with three dollars in his pocket. We are still friends. The other was a young kid who lived with his girlfriend and her mother on Long Island. We were saddened when the news came one night that he'd overdosed on barbiturates.
When business got really slow at three or four, the Greek kid and I would go up to the roof in the service elevator. There was a place on the 58th Street side where you'd look out and see only the intricate maze of buildings, but with no opening whatsoever to view traffic in the streets. We would smoke a joint to come down from the speed and then head back downstairs to an often frustrated Pole, who had just gotten swamped with orders.
When the night ended, we’d head for the local Blarney Stone for a drink. There were always a number of well dressed types who would come in just starting their day, for a couple of shots.
My weekends were Sunday and Monday and I loved having a weekday off because you could get so much done without fighting the crowds. But you always had a sleepy suspicion that you were living an alternate universe.
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