The Secret Life of Penguins

I don't tend bar these days. Not saying I won't go back to it, but presently, I don't have the time. I can always use the money. Monday, October 30, 2006

At some point in the life of every young man born since, say, 1959, he will be required to wear a tuxedo. And on this ocassion, each and every gentleman of that and succeeding generations will steal a solitary moment in front of a mirror to say:

"Bond. James Bond."

That young man's days pass, and he'll have to put on a tuxedo again. And this time, if sufficient years have elapsed, he'll say:

"Christ. You look like a waiter."

I have, in recent days, been required to wear a tuxedo on a semi-regular basis. I like to call myself a filmmaker, and on my tax return I list my occupation as free-lance video professional. But video jobs have been few and far between of late (last one was early last week, out at Valero, a half-day conference, and that was the first new one in awhile that paid anything), so I've taken up some part time work with a temp agency for the food service industry.

Not your hair-net and double-knit variety food service, no fry-o-laters or happy meals for me, I'm not that desperate. But this is not a major step up from there -- they supply staff for banquets and private parties. At first, I told them they could put me down for serving food as well as tending bar, but I've since limited myself to the only-slightly-less-soul-sucking bar work. It at least pays better, and is easier. And is less humiliating.

But just as I don't generally wear my glasses in public, I've been reluctant to tell others about this work. I'd rather you all believe I'm a prosperous and hard-working filmmaker. If I'm not available for your shoot or screening or shindig, it's because I'm busy meeting with Clooney and Soderbergh about that script of mine they're interested in, not because I'm slinging hash at an overdressed barbecue.

It couldn't be hidden forever, though, could it?

Because they know me to be a sophisticate with sparkling repartee, the company likes to send me to arty parties where the fartsy set admire one another. I can talk that game. And at last Friday's opening at Galleria Ortiz, my cover was blown. Two of the professors from Northwest Vista College, once my colleagues, showed up. I probably could've kept my mouth shut and they'd never have quite remembered the name of that handsome fellow in the monkey suit cracking the caps off the Coronitas. But I said howdy, and we chatted. It wasn't as horrible as I'd feared, being discovered. They kind of assumed that I was volunteering my time for a friend, I gather. I didn't disabuse them of that notion, but neither did I encourage it. A blue collar hero in a tuxedo, that's me.

The night after, I was at the Daughters of the Texas Revolution dinner, slinging Chardonnay for the chi-chi. The tipping was easy; I do well with prosperous souses. I played one fellow in a tux and matching Stetson for about half a bottle of Dewar's White Label. It got where I was turning down his money after awhile, he was tipping so egregiously.

But when Randy Beemer showed, local TV personality, I bit my tongue. I think he might've recognized me, I'm not quite sure. He had that look, but maybe he has that for everyone, mirroring the faces of those he meets ("wait, don't I know you...?"). I didn't remind him that I was his producer on a local PBS show that wasn't. There's a limit to the humiliation I'll accept.

Beemer's not a great tipper, by the way.