They're still singing my song, after more than 20 years.
I receive no royalties for my lyrics. No handsome residual cheques are mailed to me by Capitol Records or EMI. I receive no cash (nor credit) for my work, and I do not expect to be invited for chatty television interviews with Vicki Gabereau or Mike Bullard. Even on days when newspapers are compelled to run front-page stories on whether certain Beatles songs should be credited "Lennon-McCartney" or "McCartney-Lennon," I'm not even mentioned in passing. It seems "McCartney-Lennon-Wilson" just isn't on, although somewhere in Canada every night, it is. But only if you're having a birthday.
I am the author of the lyrics of a song sung by Keg waiters to women on their birthdays, called All My Laundry, sung to the tune of All My Loving by the Beatles.
All my laundry I will send to you; all my laundry -- darlin', I'll be true.
Thank you, yes. Thank you so much. You're too kind.
I heard my All My Laundry performed recently at my office's Christmas lunch. My cries of "That's my song!" were answered by "He's cut off!" from my partners and staff. I was forced to remind them that, once upon a time, when my waistline wasn't "Keg-Size," I had been a singer of birthday songs, and a slinger of steaks. Yes, before whopping mortgages, kids' soccer tournaments, signing paycheques and the inevitable crises of mid-life, I too was a smooth-talking, steak-serving "How do you like me so far" Keg waiter. And yes, I confess I often went down on one knee to introduce myself to the most available-looking woman at the table -- if I wasn't pulling up a chair to explain to her that night's specials.
"Hi, my name's Tony and I'll be your waiter tonight," is more tired now than it was then, and it was mighty tired then. It certainly doesn't go over well in my current occupation, but I must admit, 23 years ago, it was a fairly useful line. It led to a reasonable amount of cash in my jeans each night, instant parties after (and often during) my shift, a taste for Scotch and filet mignon at half-price, and more than a few failed romances. All My Laundry was born sometime in 1980 at the Keg on Fort Street in Victoria and, for some reason, it's still being sung. Go figure.
At the best of times, working as a Keg waiter was the most hedonistic job of my life. I would spend my summer days lying on the beach or going sailing, then proceed to work to meet pleasant tourists in my section who wanted no more than to order a steak, buy me a drink or two and leave a tip when they were done.
At the worst of times, such as the dead of winter when some of my customers might decide to dine-and-dash (without paying) or when there was a mix-up in the order, or when all the dinners in my section came up at one time, or when everyone in my section wanted to leave at the same time and demanded separate cheques -- then, it could be the most stressful dead-end job imaginable. When I compare notes with my former-waiter alumni, the bad nights are still the subject of nightmares or "Kegmares" as they've been dubbed. And no, we are not forming a support group.
But nearly a generation ago, I sang my way through four different Kegs and three university degrees in two provinces. I calculate, roughly, that I served upwards of 13,000 steaks and other beefy meals to customers over the course my illustrious career. I expect there must be a "Wanted -- Dead or Alive" poster with my picture on it nailed to the walls of the pearly gates of Cow Heaven.
I figure I opened at least 3,500 bottles of wine as a waiter, of which at least 2,500 were either Black Tower, Blue Nun or the once inexplicably popular Schloss Leiderheim. I confess to actually serving a bottle of Baby Duck once in the Keg in London, Ont., pouring a splash of the wine in the gentleman's glass for him to savour the fine bouquet and, like a sommelier, presenting him with the plastic cork.
I can still safely carry eight plates filled with food angled up on my right arm, and do it for fun at buffets, barbecues and other occasions if plied with enough drinks. I'll admit it's a skill far less useful than riding a bicycle or making balloon animals, but it's certainly entertaining for my kids. "Oh there goes Daddy and the plates again," they say.
Given that the restaurant chain has been around for 30-odd years, I hazard to guess that there are tens of thousands of us greying, balding, middle-aged ex-Keg waiters out there who have moved on to other things -- like their lives. We're now your doctors, your dentists, your lawyers and your kids' teachers. We're company presidents in institutions where your RRSPs are safely invested. Some of us have become local politicians and famous news-anchors.
Others are members of the police department or are financial advisors. Many of us have problems with our right knees or have become vegetarians in the event there is a Cow Heaven.
Whatever we do now, all of us oncehad to do the "Hi, I'll be your waiter tonight" on bended-knee routine, and sing All My Laundry -- both for your supper and for ours.
Tony Wilson is a Vancouver lawyer.