Whatever You Say I Am_ The Life and Times of Eminem - Anthony Bozza [95]
chapter 6
we call it amityville that’s the mentality here, that’s the reality here—to live and thrive in detroit
It is squat, with a wide roof that hangs low over synthetic log walls. There are moose aplenty here; horned heads hang from plaques and dark eyes stare from all directions. Chandeliers of antlers cut the headroom in half. The image of one moose, in sunglasses, appears everywhere: on the sign outside, on the staff’s chests, on the menus, on the hats for sale. Gilbert’s Lodge, where “sportsmen, sportswomen, and regular folk alike enjoy delicious home-cooked meals, famous pizza, and bigscreen TV in a rustic lodge setting” is open for business tonight. Gilbert’s Lodge is open 364 days a year.
Inside, worn wood furnishings humid with years of human traffic are lit in the chilly radiation of television and neon. A sign advertises a trophy room, where jerseys remember the past glory of softball games and bowling tournaments.
A few of the wait-staff in green aprons chat at one end of the bar. Near them, two men drink beer and watch football in silence. A party of five, waiting to be seated, goes unnoticed. After a few minutes, one of them walks into the kitchen.
“Yo, Pete, wassup?” he says to a mustached man who is surveying the cooks.
“Hi, Marshall,” he says, with a slight smile. “Coming in to buy the place?”
“Yeah, Pete, you’re fired,” the blond guy says. “Nah. We’re coming in to eat.”
“Well, sit anywhere you like, you know the place. We’ll get ya set up.”
A woman bustles through the door and attaches an order ticket to the line.
“Oh, hi, Marshall, good to see ya!” she says. “I saw your video on MTV.”
“Oh, yeah?” Eminem says. “Thanks.”
The cooks look up and say hello. As Eminem leaves the kitchen, a waitress in her forties stops him.
“Hi, Marshall!” she says, in a cotton-candy Midwestern accent. “You know, I heard you were on MTV all the time, that’s what they’re telling me, but I watch it and I never see you.”
“Oh, yeah?” he replies.
“Yeah,” she says. “I watch it all the time and I never see you. Am I missing it? When is your video on? Is it on late at night when I’m sleeping?”
“You know, I don’t know,” Eminem says, his smile static, his eyes glinting. “It’s on a lot. I don’t know why you haven’t seen it.”
“I don’t know, either. I turn on MTV all the time and I look for you, but I never see you on there. I’m starting to think they’re all joking me about you being on MTV!”
“Well,” he says, “keep watching and you’ll see it. Nice to see you, we’re gonna go sit down.”
“OK, Marshall,” she calls as he’s walking away. “I’ll look for you on MTV, maybe I’ll see you sometime!”
He leads his party past the bar, toward the wide tables and barrel-backed chairs. Televisions box the area, broadcasting sports in visual stereo, while Sugar Ray’s lazy ballad “Every Morning” blares from unseen speakers. We sit, five at a table for six, in silence.
Ten minutes later, our table is still devoid of silverware, water, menus, and conversation. I watch a man and woman dig into a pizza not far away. A waitress refills their water glasses. Eminem stops her as she passes our table.
“Can we get some beers here?”
“Yeah, sure,” she says, “but I need to see some ID.”
“I don’t have my wallet,” he answers flatly. “I used to work here. Ask Pete, I’m over twenty-one.”
“OK, I’ll have to do that,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”
Eminem is a bit wild-eyed but civil, like an unbelieving host whose guests never arrived. He doesn’t look crushed, more ready to crush something.
“Don’t worry about it,” Paul Rosenberg says. “She must be new.”
“Yeah,” Eminem says, leaning back in his chair. The silence is filled by more pop music, now Eagle-Eye Cherry’s “Save Tonight.” The waitress delivers a beer and a shot of Bacardi for Eminem. He swallows it