The Singing Waiter remembers drinks, not names.

There’s Burgundy and Miller. (The Singing Waiter knows them by name now, Mr. and Mrs. Goike – he thinks Mrs. Goike is an assemblywoman.) There’s two Diet Pepsis for the Welchs, Laura and Roy. (The Singing Waiter always brings Laura her drink first on other days when she’s with her boss.) An iced tea for the lady who’s a musician that performed once in Schine. (The Singing Waiter can’t remember a name or why he feels like he recognizes her.)

But he knows the iced tea. With lemon.

Some of the customers at the Goldstein Alumni and Faculty Center know George Easton as The Singing Waiter. Most call him George. Those are the ones for which George can put drinks to names.

‘People just come in and they know. ‘Oh, where’s what’s-his-name, The Singing Waiter?” said Kathy McConnell, a kitchen worker at Goldstein and friend of George. Those are two labels distinctly interchangeable at Goldstein: Co-worker and George’s friend.

After all, The Singing Waiter is an institution. It’s been so since 1980.

‘This is what he enjoys doing,’ said Grace Easton, George’s mother. ‘It’s like being on stage. It’s a game to show people, to try to get people feeling good. If they come in and they’re down or depressed, then he can pick them up. This is what warms his heart.’

‘I know I’ve got to find some peace of mind’

George doesn’t know when it started.

‘It took years; I didn’t even know I was singing,’ George said. ‘It helps me keep my thoughts in order. It cuts out the background noise. It’s just me.’

In the 27 years George has worked at the faculty dining center, he’s developed a reputation as The Singing Waiter. He sings. A lot.

‘It’s almost like I’m on a stage, and they’re expecting me to perform,’ George said. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

He sings when he’s standing around waiting for customers. He sings as he dashes from the bar to a table. He sings oldies. He sings his own lyrics. He sings loud, and he sings mumbled.

He even sings as he pours drinks.

‘Tell me please – oh, more iced tea for that lady – la la la la.’

Lisa Maffiore, assistant director at Goldstein, can even use George’s singing as an indicator of how he’s feeling on any given day.

‘It’s interesting because I can tell sometimes his stressful days because he sings louder,’ Maffiore said. ‘He’ll be down in the basement putting something away, singing at the top of his lungs.’

George has no favorite song or band. He says he is usually two songs behind whatever was playing on the radio.

‘He’s just a wacky person,’ said Kaja Newman, co-worker and a graduate with a degree in policy studies and international relations. ‘But even on the most dismal days, he’ll brighten you up. He makes up the words. That’s the best part.’

He sings at home, too. Grace Easton can’t even remember when it started, it’s been that long. (‘A lot of times he’s way off-key.’) George moved back to Camillus in with his parents in 1990 and has been happily driving them crazy ever since.

‘When he’s down there shaving, fixing his hair or getting dressed for work, his singing is awful,’ Grace said. ‘He sings songs about shoes. I think he has a shoe fetish. ‘Oh, I love my shoes. Those are the best shoes.’ I would wonder about his sanity, but it doesn’t carry over into his life.’

She laughs.

‘He’s just memorable.’

‘Play the game’

George turned 54 in July. He works 50 hours a week and has no intention of slowing down, probably because he knows nothing better.

His parents, Bob and Grace, both in their 80s, volunteer at the hospital, golf, bowl (twice a week) and are active church goers.

‘You don’t just sit around just because you’re retired,’ Grace said.

Bob worked 46 years at Western Electric and never missed a day. George misses very few, only when he’s really sick, Grace said. That’s not to say his mother completely approves of the career path George chose when he was 14 and started bussing tables after fourth period at What’s Your Beef in Camillus Plaza.

Two years ago, George fell at work and was sidelined with a foot injury. That’s when Grace tried convincing George maybe there was something better for him, with less strain and fewer hours. In addition to Goldstein and the Inn Between restaurant in Camillus, George’s other place of employment, he bartends at the Carrier Dome, serves the football players breakfast three times a week at Manley and fills in at Campus Catering.

‘When he injured his foot, he was out for three months, and there was no money coming in really,’ Grace said. ‘It was really tough. And I said to him, ‘You’re getting on a little bit, maybe there’s something else you would rather do.’ And he looked at me and I said, ‘I know.”

So much for that.

George gardens at home – that’s his first love, Grace says. He graduated from State University of New York Farmingdale with a degree in horticulture. He became a nursery manager after school. (‘He always loved working in the yard,’ Grace said.) But that required 6 a.m. wake-ups, not exactly George’s forte. That’s also why he never entered the service, like his father, two sisters and both brothers did.

Instead, he has the kind of job that makes anyone (including George) stop and think, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone was as happy as George is with his job?’

It’s a game. A stage. He’s the actor.

‘It’s not like work,’ George said. ‘That’s why I still like it. I tried normal jobs, working 8-to-5, working factories at night. I lasted a week there. All the people there are talking like, ‘I can’t wait to get a better job.’ I left a better job. I was having fun.’

‘I love you inside and out’

Now it’s 1:30 p.m. on a Tuesday, and George slips down the back stairs with Jackie Giddins, the cook.

Time for the daily smoke break, the proverbial breath of fresh air, always around the same time every day. The lunch rush is effectively over, and the rest of the day is a breeze from here.

Today, a student co-worker is walking down the alley between Goldstein and Watson Hall – a popular path for students to and from classes. George, no taller than 5-foot-7, with a graying mustache and slightly balding head, spots the friend and jokingly yells at him for not coming to work. Then he turns to Jackie.

‘I don’t think that was his girlfriend he was with,’ George says.

Jackie gasps. ‘That’s why he was a little shy!’

George and Jackie share a laugh and finish the cigarettes. Jackie reminisces about the one time George’s car broke down during a snowstorm on his way home from work in the middle of a blizzard. And about the time George broke the ice during an important meeting with management by walking around like an ape.

His co-workers at Goldstein and the Inn Between are his best friends.

‘With waitresses and waiters, there seems to be a camaraderie that maybe you don’t find in some other jobs,’ Grace said.

Grace is right. Jackie and Kathy don’t have earth-shattering stories to tell about George. They share silly memories from here and there.

Maffiore best remembers Halloween 1987 when she was a student at SU and worked with George. He dressed as a girl scout that year.

‘I almost died,’ Maffiore said. ‘I didn’t know what to make of that.’

One time, for Christmas, everyone bought George a box of Debbie Cakes packaged in different sizes. Kathy remembers it well. By the time George got to the fourth or fifth box, he knew the challenge was on.

‘He ate every one of them!’ Kathy said, laughing. ‘Well, OK, maybe Jackie had a box herself.’

Because of work, George doesn’t have many friends outside of his co-workers. He’s not married; he never has been and doesn’t plan on it. Too much to do. Too much to see.

‘There was a girl years ago that he brought home quite a bit, but then she moved,’ Grace said. ‘He doesn’t really have time for a good buddy he goes to see every weekend or spend all his time with.’

‘What am I going to do when I lose that fire?’

David Rubin doesn’t even need to order.

Rubin, the dean of the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications, has been going to Goldstein for 17 years. He strolls in, hangs up his coat, takes his seat and just waits.

First it’s the club soda, with lemon. Next comes his customary omelet, even though it isn’t on the menu. Finally, to top it off, a piece of key lime pie with lemon.

‘George has a terrific memory,’ Rubin said. ‘He knows what you want before you order it. He often brings it even before you’ve ordered it, and he’s always right. He has my needs down to a ‘T.’ It’s if he’s my own personal waiter who knows everything that’s on my mind.’

George takes the order (he writes it down only sometimes), runs back to the bar (singing), inputs the request into the register (complete with two pictures of George taped to the wall behind it) and dashes to the kitchen. He estimates a 99 percent accuracy rate. (‘Yeah, but what about that other one percent of the time?’ Kaja asked. ‘They just eat it and don’t say anything,’ George responded.)

‘He’s always cheerful,’ Rubin said. ‘It doesn’t really matter what kind of day you’ve had. He’s always a breath of fresh air.’

‘I’m nicer than they think I should be, I think,’ George said. ‘It throws them off. Even when they’re not having a good day, I’m having a good day.’

George has the answer, but others don’t.

‘I think it is willpower. I think he goes on adrenaline,’ Grace said.

‘He’s … he’s George,’ Maffiore said.

‘He’s impossible not to like. I mean, come on. I come here for lunch and … he’s singing,’ Laura Welch said.

Now Welch laughs. She can’t help it.

‘It’s the perfect break in the middle of the day – come spend an hour with George.’

George has been the perfect break in the middle of the day for 27 years. He sees familiar faces each day, maybe for 50 minutes or so, and then it’s goodbye until Wednesday, or maybe Tuesday. Until then, it’s more drink pouring, more singing, more laughing and plenty more silly stories.

That’s all George wants in life. Who can fault him?

Oh, by the way, The Singing Waiter will take a Kahla on the rocks.

Published on August 29, 2007 at 12:00 pm