Talk Vomit

By Marcia McGreevy Lewis

It was the summer of ’65, before my junior year in college that my sister Molly and I escaped to Ballard’s Resort on Block Island, Rhode Island. We chose Ballard’s since we had been going to school in Washington State, and this was the farthest we could venture without a spaceship to find a job. When we arrived, Molly decorated our “housing” with sea shells to substitute for what our employers deemed housing–peeling white paint, no locks, and only cold water. 

Block Island springs to life in summertime like a sleepy giant awakening in a burst of energy. We reveled in mid- to upper-70s bright, clear days. Yachts circumnavigated the island during Block Island Race Week, and a fireworks display emblazoned the star- packed sky as if the heavens themselves were celebrating on July 3. To get their fill of quirky, visitors could cheer on the Fourth of July Parade, a chaotic,joyous procession that anybody can enter.

Offshore was a siren call for divers who could spot the wreckage of a U-boat wreck 7 miles east lying in 130 ft. of water like a ghost from a bygone era. Bikers can circumnavigate the island in a day, explore lighthouses that stood like ancient sentinels or observe the American burying beetle at the Block Island National Wildlife Refuge. On what other island can visitors vacation with an endangered beetle doing its burying? But we were there to work a little, earn a little and play a lot, not save the environment.

Ballard’s is steps from the ferry landing, so daily we’d paste on expert waitress smiles as vacationers flocked in, hungry, thirsty, and ready for seafood. Often members of their parties straggled in after the orders we sent orders to the kitchen, so we’d add the next round of drinks and chowders. Then a customer would hear someone order lobster, and the kitchen got a third correction to its order. The chefs blamed us, of course.

It was essential to get to more than know the chefs. That’s how you got your orders. If you had a friend who worked the grill, your grilled steaks led to tips. Being friends with chefs sometimes meant an especially tasty cookie or pastry ending up in my pink polyester uniform pocket. That apron was like a magician’s cloak, hiding my secret stash.

The maître d’ had zero chill. Ruby had no concept that we weren’t there as career professionals. Her short, stocky body topped with a cream puff of bleached-blonde hair barreled into the staff room with directives and remonstrations while we lazed about hoping there wouldn’t be customers on the noon ferry. No dice. There were, and they were always cranky-hungry.

Lobster was the highlight of the menu. The chefs boiled it whole, and served it bright red with hot butter for drenching the meat. That’s one scrumptious way. Shelled, chilled and its white, firm meat sliced into chunks for salad was a second way, my choice. 

Bringing lobster to mind leads me to a long-delayed confession. I’d often pass by the bowl of lobster chunks in creamy, seasoned dressing while I was in the kitchen. Sometimes it happened that, like a thief in the night, I’d dip my hand into the mouthwatering bowl and snatch a few pieces. I’d wipe my hand on my apron and weave along, picking up orders. Today’s website for Ballard’s boasts: “Staff required to disinfect surfaces between visits.” Clearly important. They would have needed a lobster trap to clean up my act.

I was never caught pilfering, but that wasn’t enough to keep my sister and me at Ballard’s. Molly and I observed that the maître d’ sent the big tippers to more competent waitresses. We resented getting customers like the old man who bellowed throughout the restaurant that he wanted pork chops. There were none. They asked him to leave, whereas we left on our own.

We headed for Cape Cod where we were sure we’d find better jobs. First, though, we indulged in biking in and out of the circular driveways of the elegant homes when we stopped in Newport, RI. We giggled like the rebellious teenagers we were. 

There were jobs aplenty on the Cape, so we were soon serving seafood along with popovers. All I remember from that restaurant was the popovers. Warm and flaky, these light brown, airy concoctions were gifts from the heavens. And yes, some of those found their way into my uniform pocket. 

But our tenure on Cape Cod was short-lived. The other college kids there were not thrilled about the competition for customers. Their icy reception was colder than a Cape winter, so we hightailed it back to Ballard’s, where they hadn’t seemed to have noticed that we’d left.

We spent the rest of the summer there enjoying the waves of the Atlantic, soaking up the sun and relishing in the carefree days of our youth, especially me because I thrived on lobster.