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Grossinger’s had some incredible discotheques and nightclubs, and I always visited them after my shifts, shaking my butt on the dance floor and flirting with the female guests. It was a dangerous game, because, at least in theory, the hotel’s clubs were off-limits to employees. Remember the movie Dirty Dancing ? It was exactly like that, although not as highly choreographed. The staff wasn’t allowed to socialize with the guests, and doing so was grounds for dismissal.
    But unlike Patrick Swayze’s character, I was a little more cunning.
    I had very long hair at the time, which was prohibited in the restaurants because of the possibility that a loose strand of hair might fall into the food. But rather than cut it, I bought a nylon skullcap and short-hair wig, which I wore whenever I was waiting tables. After a while, the staff forgot that I actually had long hair under that wig. When I clocked out at night, I’d just have to take off the wig and, presto , I was a completely different person. Nobody recognized me. For all they knew, I was just another rich Jewish kid, out for a good time on his parents’ dime.
    I thought it was the perfect scam, but one day I was caught. And not by my boss or one of my fellow waiters. No, that would’ve been too easy. I was caught by none other than Mark Etess, the son of the owner and the heir to the Etess-Grossinger family fortune.
    I was out on the dance floor, making pretty good time with a young girl who was staying at the hotel, when I saw Etess standing nearby, studying me like he could’ve sworn he knew me from somewhere but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Thinking fast, I pulled my date toward me and kissed her, hoping it would obscure my face just long enough to distract Etess.
    It was too late. Etess recognized me. The jig was up.
    “Oh my fucking God!” he screamed. “You’re Ron Hyatt!”
    “Excuse me?” I said, deepening my voice and assuming a regal pose that I hoped might make me seem like one of the Grossinger’s regular clientele. “I think you have me mistaken with somebody else.”
    “Fuck you, Ronnie. I know it’s you!”
    I could feel sweat beginning to trickle down my forehead. I was busted! All that remained was for Etess to fire me and send me packing. But he didn’t. Instead, he just laughed and hugged me like we were old friends.
    “Unbelievable,” he said. “That’s pure genius, Ronnie! I can’t believe you had the balls to pull it off.” *
    We partied together for most of the night, flirting with girls and dancing until our legs felt like rubber. I was a bit more careful after that, visiting the hotel’s clubs only when I was sure that none of the higher-ups might be there. But when the owner’s son himself lets you get away with bending the company rules, it’s hard not to feel like you’re untouchable. **
    The restaurant managers weren’t quite so generous with me. They had no sympathy when I’d arrive late for my shift, especially when my puffy eyes and bleary expression made it painfully obvious that I’d spent another all-nighter at the discos.
    “You’re fucking late!” they’d scream at me. “I know you had a fucking date last night! Any other guy, I’d let it go. But not you , Hyatt!”
    I probably deserved the abuse. Even for a kid with little use for sleep, I was burning the candle at both ends, working all day and chasing the girls all night. All around me were vacationing women, walking around in their skimpy bikinis, looking for a fling with the first teenage boy with a big penis to walk up and buy them a drink.
    Not all of the flirtation between the staff and guests was frowned upon in some of the smaller hotels. When it came to the Borscht Bunnies, sometimes we were expected to “date.” Though we couldn’t socialize in their nightclubs or discos, there was an unspoken understanding that we were allowed to “take care of the women” if they needed company.
    Sometimes it was taken further. Sometimes