Chapter One: Rock
I grew up on “the rock,” otherwise known as Jamestown, RI. A place of roughly the same geographical spread as Manhattan, but far fewer people per square mile. I calculated the ratio of people per square mile when I moved from one to the other at about 140 : 1.1
Conanicut Island been regarded as quiet and privileged in natural beauty, water access, historical spots, and a few winding paths through open spaces. It’s also been a runaway zone for the newly enriched trying to get back to a simpler time. And they chose wisely.
At the turn of the 20th century the island had served as a quieter alternative to the gilded mansions of Bellevue Avenue, and Jamestown entertained the next class “down” from the oldest, showiest, most socialized money on the East Coast.
Jamestown also housed the fishermen, farmers, artists, loners, and ordinary merchants, and was visited by upper middle class socialite aspirants who wanted proximity to the sailing capital of the world, but needed to wait around for those gilded invitations that rarely came.
This was to their credit. Jamestown had much more happening, and it rarely made the newspaper.
Aiding and Abetting
My very first office was in Jamestown, smack dab in the middle of a historic Casino. This windowless room had two bathroom doors straight across and a dark heavy desk, said to belong to the VP of some national insurance company in Connecticut. One of the doors facing my desk went to a toilet, and the other to a bona fide powder-room. These rooms had the closest proximity to the adjacent ballroom and were colored inside a perky white and bright green.
We were all instructed while at The Casino that when the tide-by-toilet hit one inch below the rim, then it was time to “plunge like crazy.” Good to know how to do it, because every bit of business meant having to clean up a sh!tstorm in a historical building yourself, or else ask someone to help you.
I respected the housekeeper Jeanne far too much to ever do that to her. She was a “real” Jamestowner and kind of co-owned the joint in a way. She told me how to fold towels like in a spa we smoked together like two chimneys. It was an addict’s paradise. But more about that later.
My boss lived in the Casino, make no mistake, it was her home and it had a spectacular water view of Newport. Better than toilet tides would occasionally surge and wash the front porch and window is sea spray on stormy days, dumping seaweed and plastic on the Casino lawn. But her home was generally safe, and Narragansett Bay had a big mouth to the Atlantic, so storms first hit Beavertail hardest, then surged up and side swiped the denizens on what’s known as lower Shoreby Hill.
Jeanne the housekeeper lived up the hill, up the street in more affordable apartments, and raised several kick-ass kids, who I never messed with in public school because, well, playground fights, and I know my strength. But more on that another time.
In my dark office I smoked like crazy, dealing in cigarette butts and coffee cups, playing Earth Wind and Fire on death repeat, learning computer MS DOS commands, while renting her Caribbean properties to well-to-do vacationers by fax machine, snail mail, and push-button phone. AirBnB, week by week, magazine ad by magazine ad, and “regulars.”
My lower-island friends-by-fax (as I’m now calling them) included a Anguillian-native maid who put up with zero bullshit, but would definitely get the orange juice into the refrigerator prior to good guests arriving from Michigan. You know, people paying top dollar need the extra high-touch stuff. Am I right?
Iris did not suffer fools and I loved her. She told me where to get real baked goods in Anguilla. She was always right.
Iris would occasionally put her foot down and go on Caribbean pace and basically tell my boss to F herself. Then, she’d take excellent care of the house, take her paycheck, and carry on. My boss would laugh, smile and carry on too. Sometimes you need people around to speak to you true. And Iris saw it all and spoke to it all sassy. Madeline didn’t always like it, but the respect was mutual.
I loved Madeline too. More on her here.
With my central location, I fancied myself a dealer of sorts and I could hear the racket: shouting and reverie of the stories from owner and staff. I was quiet and tended the books. The numbers were big and the deals were personal.
It was magical. I also tended her airline frequent flier miles and helped her max free tickets too. Once she was awarded two ’round the world flights from a single missed connection. She had complained ‘just so,’ and so got taken care of mightily. Gotta love a strong woman who takes care of business.
Counting Cards
Jamestown, by the 1970s, had become a home to hundreds of dozens more drunks, low key sailing aficionados, salty townsfolk, long time residents who later self-printed counterfeit J-bucks to hand out at Newport boat shows. In the 1980s we started seeing former hedge funders “retiring,” there, a uptick in servant-styled sweeties from across the water, and loving, sexy women running the free world from old casinos, salons, gift shops, and rough and ready restaurants.
I returned twice to Jamestown after moving away, including for a stint quite literally overseeing the restaurant I worked at for 13 years. That job was a fantastical ride through something perhaps like Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential meets Front of House Drama on soft-lit, small town steroids. That place was dark, storied, quirky, dangerous, and full of love. More on these claims later.
Tratt, as some staff called it occasionally functioned like a raft of semi-poisonous mushrooms and prostitutes funking under gas lantern heaters, with white paper globes and little white lights strung under a 300 year old Copper Beech tree on hot summer nights. Under that tree we all saw some things, and by “all” I mean customers, townies, celebrities, staff, and skunks.
Even that time some folks had lapsex at a street-side table. And this was a high-end restaurant. Or so I heard from my friend who had an infectious laugh and teeth like the Lady of Bath2.
I loved Simpatico (the restaurant’s second name). My boss was a lady who named the place all Italian-style, despite being French and being born on Bastille Day. She had a background in human services and social work, and man, she lost a few tears and stressors over the dramas non-stop at hand. She didn’t need to though – we knew she loved people and we loved her – and her people – too.
Wildlife
Flower the skunk used to run under our outdoor customer’s tables, helping to explain how the garden room and outdoor seating smell included something “other than” the mostly spectacular food we also served. The wide-eyed surprise by the out of town visitors when Flower would run across their feet made for memories I will not soon forget, nor should you.
“Yes, that’s Flower. Her babies live under the porch.”
Next Door: Upper Floor
My apartment was next to Tratt, one floor up, over a gift and frame shop. From my home, I could see much of what went on at the restaurant – the comings and goings anyway. When I looked, which mostly I didn’t.
Whenever I walked near a window, I was privy to sights like the boat yard prince and bookkeepers’ boyfriend peeing against the property line because it was fresher than the restaurant bathroom.
The bookkeeper was great at making buildings look good and crafting no-risk loans. When the owner was “done,” the waitress-turned-bookkeeper swept in, made some improvements and resold the joint at a huge profit a few years later. Now she farts around the artsy scene under an alias.
Afterall, it’s fun to buy the castle of a queen.
Information went mostly one-way between my apartment and my work buildings, and I kept my shades drawn most of the time so I didn’t have to see everyone’s funky stuff. This kept me in the dark, watching my ancient console-sized wooden television, and kept my rent paid. Discretion ran deep in my family, but more about that another time.
Only once did I post a message to co-workers by my kitchen window: a message of thanks.
Only once did I scream for police: no charges were filed.
…
If you’d like to read more, please subscribe for stories. A girl’s gotta work, eat, and pay her debt to the house. Afterall, in a historic world of casinos, the house always wins.
A teaser of what’s to be explored by connected truths with literary liberties (if you donate):
- In 1985, a local bartender and Aruba-loving, shorts-wearing, side-hip thrusting handsome man, hired me to paint the sign “Jamestown Christmas” across the front window. I provided a stock of hand painted abstract t-shirts to sell there.
- In 2000 or so, a former porn star, who now dressed like Sherlock Holmes and called himself a Private Dick, came to hang around us. He reported that the building was a former brothel and smoked a gloriously smelling pipe.
- The owner called her staff “good will ambassadors” but we barely traveled even for our side gigs. My side gig was Casino, followed by the World Wide Web (a digital Wild Wild West). She’s now traveling the world with a pilot quite likely helping America’s International Standing by just being herself.
