Nightmare in the Parking Lot, or Catering the Jet-Patriots Tailgate at the Meadowlands

A waiter, a chef and a large group of bond traders from New Jersey. We're at a catered tailgate party in the Meadowlands and I'm the waiter. The first time I did this was for the Jets' home opener against Indianapolis. I was mixing bloody marys under the hot sun and one of the traders said to me, "It's a great way to spend a Sunday." He asked me where I lived and I told him Queens. He made a grand gesture with his arm sweeping across the stadium parking lot as if he were Caesar standing atop the Dolomites: "So I guess you can really appreciate coming out here." He did not seem to know that we have parking lots in Queens.

I returned to the Meadowlands Dec. 2 to work the same party for the Jets-Patriots game. John, the chef, served scrambled eggs and bacon at 9:30, and the day began with stories about Sept. 11. The weather was cooler and the traders themselves more subdued. One man drank only tomato juice and excused himself by saying that he had a hangover. "I had to go out with my wife last night."

The most unpleasant of the guests was nicknamed Salty, and he arrived spewing obscenities. He seemed to be popular. He held sway by being cruder and more aggressive than his friends. He reminded me of a boy I knew at boarding school. Salty was not content with scrambled eggs?he told John to give him fried eggs. He bullied some of the others into making the same request. Salty pointed at John, but without addressing him, and said, "He'll cook 'em to order. That's what he's here for." I got on Salty's bad side by moving his copy of the New York Post. "Don't fucking touch that." The paper was opened to the Vegas lines and Salty was using it to phone in his bets.

Lunch was served at noon. The parking lot was now bursting and our party was in full swing. Pete had arrived. Pete was the friend of somebody's friend and he was a midget. Cameras clicked and a cry went up, "We're partying with a midget!"

John and I were given free tickets to the game, but neither of us was keen on going. I enjoy watching football but I had no interest in sitting next to Salty and company. John was not even tempted. "Sixty-thousand people doing this every weekend," he said. "I just don't get it."

The Patriots beat the Jets by a single point. After the game we served nachos and meat skewers. Everyone was considerably more drunk than they had been before entering the stadium. There was, briefly, a question of someone in our group having been hit by a beer bottle. Five men rushed over to the scene, but it was a simple misunderstanding and there was no fight. Pete the midget returned to the party riding a plastic dumpster. The men pushing the dumpster brought it to a sudden stop next to the beer cooler and Pete fell off and hurt his back. Standing in front of me there was a brawny blond talking about the Patriots' prospects for the rest of the season. He wore a baseball cap to cover his bald spot and as he talked he unzipped his fly and pointed his circumcised penis at the grill. "They're definitely going to the playoffs." His urine arced up and splattered to the ground three feet shy of the burning charcoal. The midget threw up.

Caterers will put up with a great deal if the tip is big enough. On opening day John and I had been given $250 each, and that's what had brought us back to the Meadowlands. It turned out, however, that our first tip had been the result of some confusion. The clients hadn't realized that we would be paid a salary in addition to our tip. Now they understood the rules and we got only $200 to split between us. A tidy sum, but in my eyes not quite enough to watch drunks pee and puke.

Darkness fell and the traders went back to their homes in suburbia. The parking lot was deserted. Trash was everywhere. It was pointless to clean up. John and I packed the van and dumped the leftover baked beans straight onto the asphalt. As we drove away, a vast flock of seagulls flew down to pick through the waste.