A Career in the Arts

Unlike so many of us in our generation, my friend Michael Griswold kept his nerve after graduating from college. He did not slink off to grad school or to study law. In those days, as the war in Vietnam staggered to a close and the churches emptied of skeptics and hedonists such as we prided ourselves on being, the old careers we read about in English novels, of military officer or clergyman, were no longer under consideration by a young man in search of a profession. Business was likewise no option for those of us who wished to believe there was some finer goal in life than the accumulation of wealth. No, Mike would make his way in the world unhindered by one of the safer careers. Instead, he would live by his wits, follow his heart’s desire, pursue his dreams, and in general embody the many aspirational clichés of the day.

He liked music, so he got a job at Stoner, one of the music clubs in Georgetown, popular with teenage suburbanites with fake IDs. Busing tables was how he got in the door. The pay was not adequate, but he lived with friends and friends of friends in a large group house near Dupont Circle, where the rent was low because it was split so many ways and because the house itself, though grand in its day, was close to the crime line of 16th Street. Besides, busboys who were not too picky about eating leftover food never went hungry. The career path for Mike at Stoner did not include waiting tables himself, though, since the owners of the establishment firmly believed that waitresses in tight tops and tighter jeans made for a thirstier clientele. Plus, young women could maneuver more gracefully through the packed-together tables at the club.

Mike played a bit of guitar and harmonica, and although he did not aspire to do that professionally, he lingered in the backstage rooms with members of the bands that passed through, often fetching black coffee or the carbonated form of coke for those struggling with drug-induced catatonia in the minutes before they went onstage. The owners took notice, having dealt too often with musicians who were barely able to perform. Even the stoned teenagers slouching at their tables, having paid a cover charge to hear a real live band, got restive when the piped-in music went on too long. One evening, Jimmy, the balder of the two owners, pulled Mike aside for a little talk. Mike’s first thought was that he was about to be chastised for giving away all that caffeine. But no.

“Hey, it’s cool how you’re handling the talent,” Jimmy told him. “They don’t seem to mind having you around, so keep hanging out with them as they’re waiting to go on. Even more if they’ll let you. Keep ’em happy and keep ’em vertical. And try to stay vertical yourself.” Mike did as he was told, which made him unpopular with the waitresses and other busboys, who had to pick up some of the slack. But it made him more popular with his housemates, since he tucked away the tabs of this and that he was offered by the musicians, sharing the goodies when he got home after work.

Before too long he began to hear from hollow-eyed Simone, who booked the bands for the club, that some of the groups’ managers preferred to do their booking with him, requests that she was all too happy to pass along, since it made less work for her. But it meant that Mike had to show up at the club during regular office hours, and although Jimmy reluctantly agreed to pay him for that time, it was at not much more than the busboy rate. He was also busing less, and the flow of illegal substances increased beyond his capacity to enjoy them or even give them away. “You can’t eat LSD,” Mike would tell his housemates. “Or you can, but you’ll soon starve to death without particularly minding.” Since he was not prepared to sell the handfuls of pills he would dig out of his pockets when he got home at night, and you couldn’t trade them for English muffins or anything else at Safeway, something had to change.

As it happened, one of his friends from William & Mary had gotten a job at an art gallery on Connecticut Avenue. When Mike ran into him on the street one day, he mentioned that the gallery was looking to hire another person. The pay was not great, but it was enough to keep Mike in English muffins, so he applied for the job and got it. When he gave notice at Stoner, Simone was sulky, but Jimmy took it well. Tugging absentmindedly at the ponytail that sprouted behind his bald pate, he leaned toward Mike, saying in a confidential tone, “Hey, man, stay in touch. You never know when we might need a new booker.”