…so it’s 1969 and I’m working between staggered Air Force shifts as a dishwasher for a buck an hour in the Sands Restaurant in Key West to supplement my extravagant military salary and to feed my wife and baby daughter. One July night, around 6, Lennie, the alcoholic owner (who would eventually drink away the restaurant’s profits – with help from his wife Alice, whose inherited money bought the restaurant -- and have to sell it) comes to me and points to the open back door of the kitchen where I see a short man, around fifty or so, in a white Mark Twain suit, standing with a tanned guy in his twenties who looks like a tennis instructor, who has a large white dog, maybe a huskie or a Samoyed, on a leash.
“See that man in the white suit?” Lennie asks. I nod. “Well, that’s Tennessee Williams. Tell him he can’t bring a dog into a restaurant in Key West because it’s against the health laws, but tell him nicely, Eddie! Tell him you will tie the dog up by the back door and feed it some of the meat that comes back from people who don’t finish their whole dinners.” (Which will cut into my ability to save some of the huge prime ribs and steaks that customers are constantly returning because they get pretty wasted, waiting at the bar for their tables to be ready…this second job was the only time we really ate well. I would trim off the meat and wrap it in foil and take it back to our ratty two-bedroom trailer on nearby Stock Island. I was also able to take home conch chowder and lobster thermador on some nights. Anyway…)
So I go to the door in my shorts and sweaty white T-shirt (washing dishes was hot work and the kitchen wasn’t air-conditioned against the wonderful Florida Keys’ humidity) and say, “Good evening, Mr. Williams, it is really an honor to meet you. I hope someday to write a novel or a play and have been inspired by your work.”
He stares at me as if I am invisible. The tennis-type sighs in a non-masculine way, as if I’m wasting their time, which I suppose I am. Anyway…I continue, holding out my hand toward the dog’s leash.
“I’ve been asked to inform you that the health department in Key West does not allow animals to be brought into restaurants, but I will personally take your dog and keep an eye on him, as well as offer him some delicious meat from the Sands’ kitchen.”
He stares at me as if I am invisible. The tennis-type sighs another non-masculine sigh, as if I’m wasting their time, which I suppose I am. Finally, Tennessee (may I call him Tennessee?) speaks.
“We came here for dinner and my dog will certainly be coming in with us!” he snaps.
“But sir, the restaurant can be closed down and fined if we allow pets to enter the restaurant,” I explain somewhat lamely, maybe.
“I don’t know why I was told by that hostess to come back here. I shall enter through the front door, and the dog comes in with me!” he asserts. “He will certainly not be tied back here and be fed by you, and if you do not understand that, I will tell him to bite your goddam nuts off!” which causes the tennis-pet to break out a big, white-toothed smile. Then Williams turns away and as I watch, turns the corner of the building and heads toward the parking lot with his two pets.
Minutes later, as I’m feeding more dishes into the washing machine (which will run out of hot water by seven o’clock because Lennie is too cheap to buy a large-enough water heater), I feel Lennie’s hand on my arm.
“What the hell did you say to Tennessee Williams?! He never came in!” Lennie shouts, sending billows of Scotch- and cigarette-scented breath past both sides of my face.
“Nothing! Just what you told me to. I told him, politely and nicely, that the health laws don’t allow pets in the restaurants. He said he’d have his dog bite my nuts off…and he didn’t say it politely or nicely, either, Lennie!” I shout back.
Lennie storms back out of the kitchen…and that’s my one and only encounter with a famous writer…and to show my objectivity, I still taught THE GLASS MENAGERIE to my students for 35 years. I don’t think Tennessee Williams ever bought any of my novels, which makes me the better man…of course, he died in 1983, before I was published…which also makes me still alive. Serves him right.
