The Cellar
At 5:30pm, Dick Servopoulous and his wiry comb-over, arrived at the comedy cellar below Plato’s Restaurant and Bar. Dick’s appearance and lack of evolution since 1984 made him stick out like a sore thumb in San Francisco, his neanderthal shaped head, big black eyebrows, and wild hair all over except his head caused eyes to widen and women to run. You could smell him from 30 yards away, his Givenchy Gentlemen cologne instantly protruding itself into your nostrils and pores. At 53, Dick had been a stand up comedian throughout the Bay Area for over 20 years, never amounting to any success. His mainstay however was his Thursday appearance here at the cellar below Plato’s restaurant, an old establishment with wet scarlet carpet, poorly lit rooms, and bottom shelf seafood that permeated through the walls. Dickie entered this particular Thursday with his usual confidence, different from when we he wasn’t performing, his stride smoother, his voice changing tone, his shoulders set. He slammed his fist on the bar and said, “The usual”, as he gazed into the horizon of smoke filled by a room of mostly blue collar workers and retired folk, none of whom would be staying for Dickie’s set. They all gave Dickie a stare as he walked in, looking him up and down shaking their heads, smirking at his clothes, and silently stabbing him with insults of his inability to amount to anything. But then again, they weren’t much themselves, sitting and lounging after another day of work without cracking a single smile. Dickie and I called them the pouties.
The usual was a white russian for Dickie, which he almost never finished, and in my opinion doesn’t even enjoy. Dick would do a routine with me behind the bar where he would acknowledge me after about 10 minutes of studying his yellow pad set notes and introduce himself as if we’ve never met. I always gave him back a chuckle to get his night off to a positive start. Other staff hated Dickie because of things like this, and often referred to him as “The talking gyro”.
These little talks before his performances would go a variety of ways usually with Dick dominating the conversation, either about old stories of him growing up in a large Greek family, what he swallowed for lunch or sports gossip. And as always, he would say at some point throughout the conversation, “Big Apples calling my name!” Dickie talked constantly about his big move to New York that was soon coming, and how his routines would kill in a “real city”.
Tonight, a local high school band who went by the name, “The Flu” would be on at 9pm, and Dick was their unofficial opening act at 7:30. As our conversation continued the tide of the crowd ebbed and flowed. The dirty clothed workers and old heads headed home for dinner, a nightcap, for bed, as a younger testosterone filled generation waltzed in awaiting a night of music and freedom from the holds of the society and adults. A vast majority of the kids came early in hopes to miss the 8pm ID check from the bouncer at the top of the spiral staircase as you enter the cellar from Platos. By the time Dick started his set there were over 150 people seated and standing conversing loudly enjoying their food and drink. It was a strange atmosphere, and I could begin to smell unrest, one of the many vexations I learned as a bartender. Dick came out to a standing ovation, grinning ear to ear and throwing a wink over to me as he grabbed his mic.
“Man, this place always treats me right, glad to be back here at the Cellar!”
His gold all boys catholic school pinky ring glowed loudly and his chest hair growing fiercely through his undersized shirt and counterfit jewelry. Dick got a couple laughs early from the young crowd over a joke about being on the toilet during a recent earthquake, but as he continued into the remainder of his set, the crowd began to turn, a raging thirst among them and tired of sitting in silence, the kids became unglued awaiting the real show. Dick completely unaware of what I and the other staff were noticing, pushed onward as usual. The kids began to boo and jeer at anything Dick said, strangley menacing and vulgar comments about Dickie’s shallow, greasy, and depressing appearance started to fly and one young man shielded from the darkness of the unlit corner unleashed a patty from his burger onto the chest of Dickie, causing an eruption of laughter from the crowd. As the bouncer walked the young man out of the cellar, Dick trying to stay within the act shouted, “Gee don’t you know I’m a vegetarian?” and thanked the young man for his action, for it was the loudest reaction he’s ever gotten on stage. I watched painfully as Dickie and his newly greased stained shirt resumed his set. A couple minutes passed as Dicks jokes continued to bomb, and the relentless unrest from the crowd even spread to some of the adults sitting at the bar. There were so many people that Dickie couldnt even see me behind the bar. I stood elevated by the balls of my feet, with my hands gripped on the sticky grained bar top, surgically positioning my head when I heard silence, an unusual thing to hear when Dick Servopolous is on stage good or bad. Looking to get a good view I positioned myself well enough to get a glimpse of Dickie after a company of girls left to use the bathroom together. I looked on and saw Dicks attitude began to change. He bit his bottom lip in angst and chuckled, then after finally making direct eye contact with me he shook his head. His comb over now pushed straight back by sweat, his shoulders fell, and his voice dropped, he quietly thanked the crowd and grabbed his drink, his yellow note set list floating laggardly to the ground. I watched Dickie walk out the door seemingly immune to the boos walking over spilled drinks, crushed cashews, and ripped ticket stubs none with his name on. By now he dropped his warm glass stained by a sweaty hand in front of me and headed up the staircase, patted the bouncer on the back and left.
Next Thursday Dickie wasn’t on the schedule, nor the week after that. I had heard rumblings that Dick came in on Monday for his usual White Russian by himself and watched the Niners Monday Night Football game and left after one quarter. Gossip amongst the staff at Platos and the Cellar spread, some saying that he finally went to New York to pursue comedy, some saying he jumped off the Golden State Bridge after the show. I gave Dickie a call from the work phone and got nothing, I went to his home on Market Street and was told that he had moved out. Other comics came to the cellars and performed, some even got promoted to bigger and better clubs, venues, and theaters. But no one filled Dickie’s weekday slot, and the cellar sat silently vacant on Thursdays for many years.
I eventually got a job managing the floor above the cellar at Platos. I stood most nights watching people eat, watching the steamer pour white clouds of clam and oyster scent throughout the kitchen. I watched dishes be dropped, waiters cursing profusely at the kitchen staff, and every single night I watched people walk through the door, just hoping to get a scent of Givenchy Gentlemen. After rightfully paying my dues to the service industry unendingly, I retired. I now spent my days walking and people watching, and to my dismay and surly Dickies, sat amongst the pouties many a night, drinking and judging. The once red walls were now a shade of grey, and new ownership had switched menus, but a lingering scent of seafood remained if you found the right spot. The occasional overweight loud-mouthed man would walk in, and I’d perk up and search for my old friend, always someone else and never Dickie. My health began to dissipate, and I was advised by my doctor to no longer spend my nights among the pouties, inhaling smoke and callousing my liver. So now, I sit on the steps of my townhouse, inhaling fog and gifting my liver hot tea. On a randomly cold summers day, I made the decision to check out the cellar once more, see some old friends, and maybe see a new hot shot comic. I walked down the staircase, the bouncer smiling and patting me on the back, and as my feet hit the floor a loud cheer welcomed me. Old friends, old smells, but a new energy was alive and well at the cellar. I decided to rebel and get myself a drink, a real one. I quenched the thirst, cold glass in hand, aged bourbon warming my throat and turned at the sound of an audience’s cheer. And the sight of a comedian.
““Man, this place always treats me right, glad to be back here at the Cellar!”
Tag Hilliard is a third-year student at James Madison University studying Film and Cinema with a minor in Creative Writing. Born in Virginia Beach, Virginia, Tag enjoys spending time surfing and spending time with friends and family. Tag is an avid writer with aspirations to be diverse in the entertainment industry with passions of both filmmaking and screenwriting. In his free time he enjoys creative writing through both fiction and nonfiction stories.