Shirley, I Jest!: A Storied Life Read Online Free PDF Page A

backstage area. Those girls would serve all members of the bands, plus friends and family. The upstairs was referred to as “The Peanut Gallery” because along with a bar, a small dance floor, and a couple of tables, it consisted mainly of benches similar to bleacher seating. People in the Peanut Gallery were exempt from the standard two-drink minimum, which was imposed in the downstairs area. Kids would head upstairs right away because they knew they could pay the cover charge and get an inexpensive drink to last all night while they listened to incredible music. No one ever tipped up there, and I Do Mean No One!
    To compensate, Mario would always give whoever worked it ten dollars at the end of the night. Most nights before the club opened, as we prepared our trays and lit the red candles on the round tables, Mario would, cigar in-hand, give a little speech regarding the acts, reminding us to enforce the two-drink minimum, and any other tidbit he thought we might need to know. On my first night I’ve been given the VIP section in front of the red leather booths. How lucky could I get? The slide show was beginning with random images of current events, Richard Nixon, Russia, hippies protesting, love-ins. Psychedelic images are underscored by the fabulous music of the day: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Buffalo Springfield, Simon and Garfunkel, Jimi Hendrix, Eric Burdon and the Animals. The doors opened and people flooded into the club. Suddenly I see people sitting at a table in my section. I happily approach, noting three pretty blond girls and a long-haired man sitting with his back to me. I greet them saying, “Hi, what can I get you?”
    Each blond girl says, in turn, “Tom Collins, Tom Collins, Tom Collins,” and I write it down.
    “Tom Collins, Tom Collins, Tom Collins.” I turn to the guy who still has his back to me and ask him the same question.
    “What can I get you to drink, sir?”
    He turns to face me for the first time and that’s when Jim Morrison asks me to bring him a bottle of Jack Daniels to the table. I was stunned by how beautiful he was; everything about him glistened. He took my breath away but I pretended not to notice it was him. After all, I had been a drama major and was trained in the art of pretending. I wrote down “bottle of Jack” and hustled off to the bar to put in my ticket.
    As I started to leave, Tony the bartender shouted at me, “Hey new girl, wait a minute.” He was calling me back.
    “What the hell is this?” he asks me holding up the ticket. “Three Tom Collins and a bottle of Jack? Is Morrison in the club?” he asked.
    I ran back to him trying to conceal my excitement. “Yes, Jim Morrison’s in the club! The bottle of Jack is for him.”
    Tony looked at me and said, “You know perfectly well we can’t serve a bottle of Jack at the table.” Well, I didn’t know perfectly well we couldn’t serve a bottle of Jack at the table. Someone must have left that part out when they trained me. Then Tony says, “You go back there and tell him, I’ll pour him a single or a double but no bottle of Jack at the table.” I hesitate.
    “Go!” he says and I hustle back toward my table with the three blondes and Jim. I notice that the customers at my other table—two tall black gentlemen, one wearing a purple suit; both wearing big hats, and their nicely dressed dates are staring at me. I give them a smile and scurry past them.
    I get back to Jim’s table and deliver the message, “I’m sorry, Mr. Morrison, but I’m not allowed to serve a bottle of Jack at the table. I can bring you a single or a double.”
    He looks at me and asks, “Is Tony tending bar tonight?”
    “Yes, he is,” I answer.
    “Well, you go back there and tell Tony that he’s served me a bottle of Jack at the table before and I want a bottle of Jack at the table tonight.”
    I turn tail and rush back to Tony. The Flying Burrito Brothers are playing “Do Right Woman.” My shoes are killing