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of it all. And then we swept in and pulled them away, explaining to the kids that these women were our friends and that they had to leave for an important appointment.
    We tried to walk them to their cars, but the Bunnies wanted nothing more to do with us. We had to chase them down the street, pleading with them to let us explain.
    “What the fuck was that all about?” one of the women screamed at me, nearly spitting she was so angry.
    “What?” I smiled, feigning ignorance. “It was a convention, just like we said.”
    “You said it was a convention of doctors !”
    “Well…there were some doctors there.”
    It took a while, but they eventually smiled and got the joke.

    I first started coming up to the Catskills when I was still in high school. I’d spend the summers working as a waiter at any of the high-class hotels, like the Concord and Grossinger’s and Green Acres. As I got older and more experienced, I eventually moved up in rank and seniority. I loved the work, but more important, I loved the money. For a young Jewish kid with a limitless supply of energy, the Catskills was like a gold mine.
    But I wasn’t just a miser looking to line his pockets with cash. Some of that money was actually necessary. When I enrolled in Queens College, I needed something besides good looks to pay my tuition. My parents, though not poor by any means, did not have a lot of disposable income, especially after my mom was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease and needed expensive surgeries. I didn’t want to be a burden on them, so I found a way to be financially self-sufficient.
    You could make a small fortune at Grossinger’s if you learned how to work the guests. It wasn’t enough just to be polite and bring out their meals as quickly as possible. You had to play into their expectations. I learned that from watching the Christian waiters. They’d wear yarmulkes and pretend they were med students, and they’d always get the biggest tips. I, like a fucking idiot, who actually was a Jew, didn’t wear a yarmulke. I was a reformed Jew, so it never seemed appropriate. And I was too honest with my customers. They asked me what I wanted to do with my life, and I told them that I was pursuing an acting career. Big mistake.
    “Oh dear,” they’d moan in their thick Jewish accents. “That doesn’t seem like a very wise choice. What are you going to do for a living?”
    When I figured out that honesty wasn’t getting me any tips, I gave myself a full Jewish makeover. I wore yarmulkes. Hell, if I could’ve gotten away with it, I would’ve worn a full prayer shawl and shtreimel. And when a customer asked me about my career choices, I would always— always —claim to be studying medicine.
    “I want to be a dokter ,” I’d say, breaking out the Yiddish. “I want to save people’s lives someday.”
    “What a sweet boy,” they’d say, fawning over me like I was their own flesh and blood. “Good for you, son.”
    Though I was younger than any of the other waiters, I was always the hardest worker. When the Woodstock Music Festival was announced, all of the waiters wanted to attend, and I volunteered to cover their tables for the day. I made $400 in a single weekend, which was a fortune for a kid of sixteen. I wasn’t a big rock fan at the time, but I was at least curious enough about Woodstock to check it out during my break. I jumped on my dirt bike and rode down the mountain into White Lake, Bethel, where Max Yasgur’s farm was. I was there for only maybe a half hour. I saw Grace Slick come out onstage and shout, “Good morning, people!” And then she and Jefferson Airplane started playing “Volunteers.” I listened for a few minutes and then went back to work. Not exactly the quintessential Woodstock experience—there was no LSD or messing around with hippie girls for me—but at least I didn’t skip it entirely. *
    Just because I was such a stubborn workhorse didn’t mean that I avoided fun altogether.