THE BUTTER PEOPLE

“Where are my butter people?! Where are my butter people?”

The hysterical screeching of Rennie, the frantic, high strung catering captain for this event, echoes throughout the hall, - and inside my head. Shooting painfully up my spine.

I am sitting in the toilet stall in the antiseptic men’s room at The Museum Of Natural History in New York. I am not taking a dump, but in fact, still have my tuxedo pants on. Indeed, I am fully dressed in my tuxedo and bow tie, my head in my hands, in full despair mode - trying to make sense of the whole thing. The shrieking continues ‘till I can feel the heart palpitations throbbing in the temples of my forehead. I come to the conclusion that there is no escape. Is this what it all has come down to?

I am a butter person.

What exactly is a ‘butter person’?

A long and torturous tale…but if you must. A butter person is one of the divisions of labor when you are setting up a table for a large event. Each of the waiters are assigned to different teams - which go about a different chore. One team sets down the knives, the other the forks, the other the spoons…and so on. Finally, there are the butter people. The dreaded butter job. People attempt to escape this endeavor, attempting to discover ever more imaginative hiding places. But alas, it is a lesson in futility. There is no permanent escape. The pristine balls of butter must be placed on the bread n’ butter plates, heretofore to be known as b n’b plates. They must be placed correctly - and they will!

Sooner or later, the rogue waiters would be rounded up, much like the way the wild humans were rounded up in the field by the gorillas on horseback with a huge net in the original ‘Planet Of The Apes’ movie. Brought to justice, so to speak.

The same dead look in their eyes. The same calcified manner in which they go about their chores. Especially this particular catering company (Exotic Cuisine), which i refer to as ‘the place where old caterers go to die’. My eyes mist up. Is this my future? Is this what it has all come down to?

Joe Montaperto

Writer, murderer, bon vivant par excellance - I pay the rent as a catering bartender, and sometimes shoot poison darts at white people from trees in Hoboken, while shouting UUUMMMBBAAAAGGGGAAAA!!