I worked in the mid 60's for the Playboy Club. First in 1966 I was hired as a Room Director at the Club in Boston. I don't remember why, but all the other clubs were the Playboy Club of Chicago, of New York, or wherever, but in Boston it could only be called Playboy of Boston. If I remember correctly I was hired primarily because when I went on the interview I was wearing the only suit I owned which happened to be a black sharkskin suit with a bright red lining (I was quite the fashion plate at an early age). Coincidentally the fellow interviewing me had on a black suit with the same red lining. I pointed this out to him and from that point on we were kindred spirits. I had gone on the interview after moving to Boston about 6 months before. I had quit college, NYU, and had decided that I wanted to move to another big city and since I had gone to school in Boston for a year, I felt comfortable moving there. My mother was a wonderful saver and, thanks to her, I have the letters that I wrote home both from Boston and, later on, from Chicago. Some of the information that I include here comes from those letters. I had found an apartment in the "college" section of Boston and have no idea what I was paying for rent, but it couldn't have been much more than $40 per month. The super of the building in which I lived had a thriving business which was cleaning out apartments after someone moved out and then painting them and getting them ready for the next tenant. I needed to work and he put me on. I was a carrier. I had to schlep all the shit out of the apartment that the former tenant had left behind. If I remember correctly, I was making $1.00 per hour. I was given a tryout as a painter but there were a couple of problems. One was I was a horrible painter,my work was very uneven, and the other was that as with all things involving repair, I was a klutz. I got paint all over. I still refuse to fix anything that breaks and my excuse is always the same. I don't want to hurt myself and if you allow me to use any sort of tool it is just a matter of time until I do. I failed the tryout which was too bad because as a painter I would have made big money. He was paying $1.50 an hour. A king's ransom. I quickly recognized that I had a limited future in the apartment reclamation business and got busy looking for a real job. I remember that as a freshman in college we had had a heated discussion in my dorm about whether it was possible to get a job out of college that would pay $100 per week to start. That was 1963. This was now 1966. I was 21. I looked through the paper for work and answered a couple of the sales help wanted ads and got offered several of them but they were all straight commission, no salary, and I needed money. I came across an ad that said, "Playboy of Boston needs kitchen help". My father had been a Playboy Key Holder ( they never liked to just say Member) and he had taken me to the New York Playboy Club a couple of times. I remembered that there were men working in positions that did not involve the kitchen so I took a chance and went over to the club to check it out. The suit nailed it. It was either that, or the fact that one of the Room Directors had quit two days previously, but regardless of the reason, the job was mine. I was there for about 9 months and then was transferred without being consulted to the home club, The Chicago Playboy Club. It actually took place as follows: I was called into the GM's office on a Thursday night and asked if I would be interested in relocating to Chicago. I said yes and the GM told me that that was good because I was already on the schedule at the Chicago club and that I was due to start on Monday. I was to be promoted and would be an assistant shift manager. That great news was followed by the news that I had to be report for work on Monday (turns out the weekly schedule started on Tuesday) and that since there was an airline strike, the only way I could be assured of arriving on time in Chicago was to take a bus. So I did. It was about a 24 hour ride (that's a guess, but anything over 6 hours might as well be 24) and I all I remember about it was that it was long. I got there on Monday, reported to the club and then went about finding a place to live. I got myself almost completely settled that first day. I started working on Tuesday and although I had additional responsibilities, basically it was the same job that I had in Boston. I was a room director. Luckily for me, I started in Playboy's Penthouse, which was a room that had a show. The shows were always the same. A singer and a comedian. Depending on who was more famous, and usually neither of them were that famous, the lesser known went first. That was where I met Pat Morita (Mr. Miagi, in The Karate Kid) We used to hang out and smoke up. He was a comic on the Playboy circuit. That means he went from Playboy Club to Playboy Club. I met a few other people who would go on to become famous and a big bunch that just kind of faded away. The best part of the Penthouse was the other Room Director, Rudi Arrigoni. Rudi was a legend. He had opened the club in 1960 and had always been there in the same room with the same job. I have always considered myself to be the funniest person that I know. Rudi was funnier. One of his "classics" would take place when a customer would come to the door and ask about the food. Playboy Clubs were famous for only serving one thing in their showrooms, a delicious steak that was the same price as all the drinks, $1.50. Now that I think about it, If I could have gotten the job, which I couldn't, I would have had to have painted an hour just to eat at the club. A customer would come to the door and ask what we served. Rudi would ask what they felt like eating. Usually the customer would express an ambivalence as to what they wanted and tell that to Rudi. That was all he had to hear. "You don't know what you want? You come to a restaurant to eat and you have no idea what you feel like eating? Come on, you gotta be kidding. Chicken, pasta, veal, which is it?" At this point the customer would often say that they really didn't know. Rudi would hit them with, "Are you looking to cause me a problem? You want me to go into the chef to place an order and when he asks what you want I am going to tell him I don't know? I have seen him throw a plate at someone answering him that way, C'mon you have to pick, chicken, pasta, or veal?" As the choice, whatever it was, would start to come out of the customer's mouth Rudi was already saying as sweetly as possible, "I'm sorry, we're out of that."
Tonight someone did that to me, almost. I wanted to by some Thera Flu and tried 4 different pharmacies. Finally I tried the drug store across from where I live. The conversation was in Spanish, but basically, I told the clerk what I wanted, he asked me if I wanted the Thera Flu tea or the Thera Flu tabs and I told him tea. He went and got me two containers and when I looked at them I realized that they were Sinu Tab. I told him that I wanted Thera Flu and he told me that they never carry that. I walked outside and literally screamed. Then I thought of Rudi, and started to laugh.
The milk photo is a story for another day.
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