As promised. Here is the story of the Ear Licker.
In the last post on the men I conflated a few stories. This is just as it happened, albeit not at my current place of employment, but the one before.
He’d heard this was the new cool place in town and worked just down the street so he figured why not stop by for a drink before heading home to Jersey. He called his friend who’d told him about the place and was also going through a divorce, to meet up with him. They used to work together in banking, or a law firm, or doing something where they wear suits everyday and mumble when girls ask what they do, but pay for all the drinks when the tab comes. His friend had been in the night before and we’d met. He was nice enough, with sadness around the eyes but enough sense to drink within his limit and be perfectly polite as I dipped in and out of conversation with him and his friends. I remembered him when he came in, we don’t get a lot of consistent patrons as we are a rather pricy bar- more of a special occasion place, so it’s nice to see a familiar face. He told me his friend was joining him and after 1 beer his friend arrived, late, after being the one to make the invitation.
The friend was nice enough, but then he did that thing that made me know I was in trouble. He extended his hand for my attention, when I came over, he looked me up and down and then said, “What’s your name sweetie?” I know when someone does that that they will be using my name to call me over all night, like they know me, like we are friends, which they will think we are and which we are not. Then he delivered this, “Oh what a pretty name, can I get a Goose and Redbull?” I really tried to be non judgmental about it until he referred to it as “his drink of choice” to his friend and then I really had no option. I’ve been trying to take a less harsh stance on vodka/mixer drinkers these days, but people are not making it easy for me. At least get something interesting with your vodka or drink it neat. But ball shrinking nasty soda that tastes like sophomore year? That is your drink of CHOICE? Deep breaths. I’m off track. Ok, back on.
Homeslice has 2 drinks to every one his friend has. He talks about his kids, who are very cute, I know this because he shows me photos and a video on his phone. Then he goes in about the ex, maybe not his ex, well yes, his ex, who has been driving him crazy, but they might get back together. I want to ask why men put up with crazy women, I want to ask why she keeps coming back to him, but this is not the conversation to have at this time, or with this person. Instead I have it with myself, in my head as I smile and nod. With every drink his ego inflates, his ability to romance women, to provide for his family, to kick ass at his job increases in lore and greatness. It is superbly unappealing. Because I have no interest in this man, my guard is down, I talk frankly, so obviously, as all things go, 3 drinks in he is convinced he could get with me. He could not.
His friend, the guy I’ve seen before is talking quietly to me when he gets the chance, asking about me, talking about his life and work. We discuss restaurants in the area. We talk about New York. It’s nice, it’s respectful, it’s professional. It’s a quiet night and not a lot is going on. Another couple at the end of the bar has been sitting there for 3 hours, staring into one another’s eyes, barely drinking and making out like teenagers in their parents’ borrowed minivan. Unfortunately for us, the are not in that Windstar, they are here, in Tribeca. Needless to say they aren’t very demanding of me, so I have little more to do but to watch what happens next.
This is when the girls come in. They are cute, they are petite. They are normal cute and normal petite. “Can we sit here?” They ask. I tell them of course and by way of explanation they tell me that the bouncer next door told them that they weren’t hot enough to get in. I pour them 2 glasses of prosecco on the house. These are nice girls out for something fun to do, but mostly to talk to one another, catch up, girl time. I’m that girl most of the time. I get it. They look at the couple making out next to them, oblivious in their little bubble of saliva exchange. “That’s awesome,” one girls says. Without speaking I indicate it had been going on for a while. “But really, when’s the last time you’ve just, like, made out, for hours? That would be so cool.” I agree with a smile and a splash more of prosecco before I walk to the other well.
Maybe he was listening, maybe he wasn’t, I’ll never know, but it made for a perfect entry. From the other end of the bar I see our hero approach the two girls. I wasn’t close enough to hear the opening lines, but it must have been halfway decent because the girls made space for him and all four of them got to chatting. He paid for their next round of drinks and got another for himself. His friend opted out, indicating his half full bottle of beer. The threesome got to laughing and joking, arms were thrown about one another and flashes of cell phone light illuminated their faces as contact info was exchanged. He flagged me down for another round but this time the girls looked less jovial, more annoyed, not to him, but in the looks they threw my way. They refused more drinks and he got a bit incensed. “You’re done already? Should we go somewhere else then?” The girls looked at their phones, tightened grips on bags as if trying to leave without actually leaving.
From a safe difference away his friend leaned over to me, “I’ve never seen him like this, it’s like he’s a different person, I’m really sorry.” “No need to apologize to me,” I say back, “I just feel bad for those girls.” “He’s going though a tough time,” he offered as if to absolve his friend. Aren’t we all? And then that is when it happened. I looked over and Mr. Goose and Redbull pulled one of the girls in close to whisper something in her ear. She laughed awkwardly and then he pulled her again and licked her ear. Let me write that for you again, he LICKED HER EAR. She laughed and squirmed and it was evident for all around that she was, unlike make out kids bar right, super grossed out by having someone else’s slobber on her.
So I did what bar tenders need to do sometimes, I looked at him straight in the eye, while still building a drink in a tin, and said “No, you can’t do that at this bar.” “Can’t do what?” He countered. “You can’t lick girls’ ears here, that’s just not ok.” I used the voice I use with my 12 year old brother when I need him to get dressed for bed immediately and he’s all wired on sugar. The voice I use to get the hidden candy bar out from behind his back. The voice that makes him believe that I have more power than him. My brother is 12 and weighs more than me, he is taller too. There is nothing I can do to stop him from doing anything but I’m dreading the day he realizes that. The voice works on my brother and thankfully worked on this guy. He asked to close his tab I handed him his card which I’d already run. He signed it. I thanked him and took it back to my computer.
He walked over to me on his way out the door. He leaned over the bar and called me to him. “I didn’t do anything she didn’t want me to do,” he offered to me. “It doesn’t matter sir, I’m sorry, you can’t behave that way here.” I replied back, shaking a drink and straining it into a coupe. “Stop stop, listen to me Anne,” he used my name, made sure he had my full attention and said, “I wouldn’t do anything with her anyways. Ha! She wishes! She’s ugly.” Did I mention that these girls were adorable? Did I mention that the last bouncer also told them that they weren’t cute are were seeking refuge in my bar full of normal looking people? Did I mention that I form bonds and relationships with people in about 1.5 seconds, so these girls are my girls now, and you don’t talk trash about my girls. I looked at him blankly, I’m at work, there’s a limit to what I can do, so I blandly wish him a good night, thank you for coming, safe trip home sir and all that customer service speak. He stumbled out into the night and never came again.
I check in with my girls. They thank me. The ear licking victim says she doesn’t quite know what happened but when I confirm that wasn’t what she wanted she wholeheartedly agrees. What saddens me is that she couldn’t push him away herself. I might be totally wrong, but my sense is that many of us women have a fear of being unattractive. Even if we don’t want the man, we want that man to want us. So when that man is buying her drinks all night, even if she’s not feeling it, she felt trapped. So trapped in fact, that that creepy, overly inflated ego of a man, could lick her ear and call her ugly and even then she couldn’t stand up for herself and reject him. Ugh. We need a new system. We need to be able to be ok with stopping the ear licker before he can become the ear licker. Let this be the call to arms.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Take Care
I shouldn’t have eaten the chocolate torte. At least not the whole thing. But once I bit into it the carmel ran down my hands and there was nothing to be done but pop the whole piece into my mouth and keep going. I should pack a power bar or nuts or something, but I never do, so this is second dinner, or fourth meal, or whatever it’s called when eating something at 2am. It’s probably not the best idea for my figure, but I imagine the endless cocktail shaking I’m doing will help a bit to counter balance it and the rest, well, is a sacrifice so I can stay up a little longer. I’m endlessly hungry at work. Shifts run from just before a normal person’s dinner time to the latest hours of the night so even if I’m well behaved and have something at 5, I’m still going to be ready to chew someone’s arm come the end of my shift.
Although I’m legally required or at least allowed to take a break, there is rarely a chance to do so and it’s more the exception than the rule. In LA 6 hour shifts were standard, but here in NYC an 8 hour shift is not uncommon and I’ve gone 12 hours more nights than I would prefer to remember. Not that I remember them really, 12 hour shifts just turn to blurry memories, in the middle of them I lose sense of reality, I stand there wondering if I’ve ever done anything else, if anything exists outside of this moment. Bartending is all about the present, possibly the anticipation of the very immediate future, and little else. Was I rude to you 5 minutes ago? That was the old me, this is the new me, and the new me likes you again, what can I get you? Your last drink was whatever, but that was the last drink, you can be a new person with the next drink, it can be the beginning of a whole new night now. Who do you want to be, where do you want this night to take you?
The job is physically taxing- my body takes a beating every night. Every bar tender has his or her list of complaints, the gripes, and we share a lot of them. Repetative stress is a beast. Give a bartender a back rub and they might just propose to you. Work on the knots on their forearms and you’ll have a friend for life. I haven’t been posting in part due to my nutto life, and in part because I’ve been feeling a bit beaten up. At the moment, my hamstrings are wound like springs, my thighs are stupid tight and my back is all out of whack from pitching 20 degrees over the bar all night due to a poorly designed well. My elbows and wrists write me hate mail in the form of sharp pains every time I crack a tin and my shoulders are considering cessation if I continue to shake my drinks like the boys. Or to be fair to the boys, trying to shake like the boys. I’ve developed solutions to these problems, re-trained my arms and my shake. I am possibly most thankful for the decision not to make drinks that require muddling whenever someone asks if there is anything special I’m working on. This used to be my go to as I love market fresh produce and putting it in anything I drink. Alas, Dear Cucumbers, you are delicious and you are a pain in the ass. I have to quit you.
3 months ago I went for a massage that was so intense the woman ended up damaging my shoulder. I got to work that night and couldn’t lift my right arm more than a foot from my body because the spasm in my shoulder was that intense. It sucked. It also hurt like holy hell. We were busy, music was loud, people were drinking more than usual and I was behind in my tickets because my arm wasn’t working. I went over to my manager, “Yo, just so you know, I’m fine, but I can’t lift my arm more than a foot from my body.” “What did you do?” he asked, “I got an effing massage and she turned off my arm.” I said, knowing what was going to come next, “Well suck it up and learn to use your other arm Marquis.” Yep. There is that man I know and love. I turned and went to return a bottle off the back shelf with my left arm, just as he turned away I lost control of the bottle and dropped it onto the glass shelf, sending at least 12 champagne flutes to their shattered doom. He turned and looked at me, both of us in shock. In fact everyone at the noisy bar stopped a moment. I know that this is only normal so I tend to just keep moving when I make a scene, pretend like nothing happened. All I could think to do was I wave my left hand, “Still need some practice I guess,” I said with a smile. “How many did you break?” he asked, I looked around, “12 at most”, he shrugged and went downstairs to order more glasses. When I was younger and worked in smaller places an accident like that would have had me terrified of being fired. Here, in this madness, it’s just the cost of doing business. Besides, and the man had just told me to use my other hand, not my fault.
Because of that injury I retrained myself how to handle bottles. I hold them from the heaviest point now, not the neck, but the bottom where it is less stress to my shoulder. I pop bottles up in the air and catch them rather than pick them up, I muddle much less, I change my shake all night to keep different muscles engaged. I don’t crack my tins so aggressively, I pour with both arms, I ask customers to push things towards me rather than reach across to get them. I make jokes that the bar was designed by an 8 armed 6 foot tall man when it was really built by someone with no idea about ergonomics or how bars should be built. I want that person to work by my side for a week and understand the repercussions that half an inch on graph paper can have on my neck muscles. I want that person to wake up with my shoulders and my hamstrings.
At my last bar in LA one of my servers would stand outside and stretch before every shift, not like a casual couple seconds, but a full 30 minutes- hitting every muscle group. He would walk into work bouncing like a boxer. He claimed it helped him. He also came in talking about how Stevie Wonder made him cry on his vespa ride over because life is so beautiful. I used to think the two weren’t related but now I’m thinking this stretching thing might be worth my time. When I was in training for my other life as a performer it wasn’t an issue because I was stretching every day into pretzel like shapes, but now I’ve fallen out of the habit because of this shoulder mess.
I could do more to take care of myself. Slow down, stop running everywhere, go to yoga, eat more greens. It always baffles me that in an industry devoted to feeding people there is no concern for the feeding of the staff. In my experience, the nicer the place I work, the worse or non existent the food for the staff is- to the extent that some places wont event make dishes for us, the staff selling the food, to try. My current place gives us breaks to go eat- in theory- so there is no staff meal- which is almost preferable as there are rarely vegetarian friendly chefs. Once in LA when I was opening a new bar/restaurant I went and asked if they had made any vegetarian options for staff meal. The kitchen guys were notorious for putting bacon in everything, including desert. I often walked in to see vats of pig hearts sitting in fat. The large sweaty red faced chef looked up at me while still chopping and said, “We weren’t supposed to hire any vegetarians.” I packed my own food from then on.
At my current place we take care of each other, my barback grabs me sandwiches sometimes, the runner palms me sweets. We make sure to take breaks and cover one another, bring food back and such. Even with that there are nights I eat garnishes to keep my energy up, but cocktail olives have really lost their allure. I often go home and cook at ungodly hours. Last night I could barely keep my eyes open but by the grace of God I made pasta. I have the chopping of vegetables built into muscle memory. The lure of late night China Town lo mein is strong, but knowing that there might be any number of animals in the sauces they use at 2am keeps me motivated towards home. That and my exhaustion.
The thoughts on my mind now are finding new ways to tend bar which don’t wreck my body and don’t compromise my quality. Different shakes, different ways of standing, stretches to do and muscles to strengthen. I need to find solutions to these problems and find a way to make work energizing rather than exhausting. I think a lot of times I’m doing better than most but there are still solutions to make my job work as hard for me as I work for it. There is no reason work should be depleting, even with how demanding it is. Until then I stretch a little, don’t let myself stress and next shift I’ll remember to pack a snack.
Although I’m legally required or at least allowed to take a break, there is rarely a chance to do so and it’s more the exception than the rule. In LA 6 hour shifts were standard, but here in NYC an 8 hour shift is not uncommon and I’ve gone 12 hours more nights than I would prefer to remember. Not that I remember them really, 12 hour shifts just turn to blurry memories, in the middle of them I lose sense of reality, I stand there wondering if I’ve ever done anything else, if anything exists outside of this moment. Bartending is all about the present, possibly the anticipation of the very immediate future, and little else. Was I rude to you 5 minutes ago? That was the old me, this is the new me, and the new me likes you again, what can I get you? Your last drink was whatever, but that was the last drink, you can be a new person with the next drink, it can be the beginning of a whole new night now. Who do you want to be, where do you want this night to take you?
The job is physically taxing- my body takes a beating every night. Every bar tender has his or her list of complaints, the gripes, and we share a lot of them. Repetative stress is a beast. Give a bartender a back rub and they might just propose to you. Work on the knots on their forearms and you’ll have a friend for life. I haven’t been posting in part due to my nutto life, and in part because I’ve been feeling a bit beaten up. At the moment, my hamstrings are wound like springs, my thighs are stupid tight and my back is all out of whack from pitching 20 degrees over the bar all night due to a poorly designed well. My elbows and wrists write me hate mail in the form of sharp pains every time I crack a tin and my shoulders are considering cessation if I continue to shake my drinks like the boys. Or to be fair to the boys, trying to shake like the boys. I’ve developed solutions to these problems, re-trained my arms and my shake. I am possibly most thankful for the decision not to make drinks that require muddling whenever someone asks if there is anything special I’m working on. This used to be my go to as I love market fresh produce and putting it in anything I drink. Alas, Dear Cucumbers, you are delicious and you are a pain in the ass. I have to quit you.
3 months ago I went for a massage that was so intense the woman ended up damaging my shoulder. I got to work that night and couldn’t lift my right arm more than a foot from my body because the spasm in my shoulder was that intense. It sucked. It also hurt like holy hell. We were busy, music was loud, people were drinking more than usual and I was behind in my tickets because my arm wasn’t working. I went over to my manager, “Yo, just so you know, I’m fine, but I can’t lift my arm more than a foot from my body.” “What did you do?” he asked, “I got an effing massage and she turned off my arm.” I said, knowing what was going to come next, “Well suck it up and learn to use your other arm Marquis.” Yep. There is that man I know and love. I turned and went to return a bottle off the back shelf with my left arm, just as he turned away I lost control of the bottle and dropped it onto the glass shelf, sending at least 12 champagne flutes to their shattered doom. He turned and looked at me, both of us in shock. In fact everyone at the noisy bar stopped a moment. I know that this is only normal so I tend to just keep moving when I make a scene, pretend like nothing happened. All I could think to do was I wave my left hand, “Still need some practice I guess,” I said with a smile. “How many did you break?” he asked, I looked around, “12 at most”, he shrugged and went downstairs to order more glasses. When I was younger and worked in smaller places an accident like that would have had me terrified of being fired. Here, in this madness, it’s just the cost of doing business. Besides, and the man had just told me to use my other hand, not my fault.
Because of that injury I retrained myself how to handle bottles. I hold them from the heaviest point now, not the neck, but the bottom where it is less stress to my shoulder. I pop bottles up in the air and catch them rather than pick them up, I muddle much less, I change my shake all night to keep different muscles engaged. I don’t crack my tins so aggressively, I pour with both arms, I ask customers to push things towards me rather than reach across to get them. I make jokes that the bar was designed by an 8 armed 6 foot tall man when it was really built by someone with no idea about ergonomics or how bars should be built. I want that person to work by my side for a week and understand the repercussions that half an inch on graph paper can have on my neck muscles. I want that person to wake up with my shoulders and my hamstrings.
At my last bar in LA one of my servers would stand outside and stretch before every shift, not like a casual couple seconds, but a full 30 minutes- hitting every muscle group. He would walk into work bouncing like a boxer. He claimed it helped him. He also came in talking about how Stevie Wonder made him cry on his vespa ride over because life is so beautiful. I used to think the two weren’t related but now I’m thinking this stretching thing might be worth my time. When I was in training for my other life as a performer it wasn’t an issue because I was stretching every day into pretzel like shapes, but now I’ve fallen out of the habit because of this shoulder mess.
I could do more to take care of myself. Slow down, stop running everywhere, go to yoga, eat more greens. It always baffles me that in an industry devoted to feeding people there is no concern for the feeding of the staff. In my experience, the nicer the place I work, the worse or non existent the food for the staff is- to the extent that some places wont event make dishes for us, the staff selling the food, to try. My current place gives us breaks to go eat- in theory- so there is no staff meal- which is almost preferable as there are rarely vegetarian friendly chefs. Once in LA when I was opening a new bar/restaurant I went and asked if they had made any vegetarian options for staff meal. The kitchen guys were notorious for putting bacon in everything, including desert. I often walked in to see vats of pig hearts sitting in fat. The large sweaty red faced chef looked up at me while still chopping and said, “We weren’t supposed to hire any vegetarians.” I packed my own food from then on.
At my current place we take care of each other, my barback grabs me sandwiches sometimes, the runner palms me sweets. We make sure to take breaks and cover one another, bring food back and such. Even with that there are nights I eat garnishes to keep my energy up, but cocktail olives have really lost their allure. I often go home and cook at ungodly hours. Last night I could barely keep my eyes open but by the grace of God I made pasta. I have the chopping of vegetables built into muscle memory. The lure of late night China Town lo mein is strong, but knowing that there might be any number of animals in the sauces they use at 2am keeps me motivated towards home. That and my exhaustion.
The thoughts on my mind now are finding new ways to tend bar which don’t wreck my body and don’t compromise my quality. Different shakes, different ways of standing, stretches to do and muscles to strengthen. I need to find solutions to these problems and find a way to make work energizing rather than exhausting. I think a lot of times I’m doing better than most but there are still solutions to make my job work as hard for me as I work for it. There is no reason work should be depleting, even with how demanding it is. Until then I stretch a little, don’t let myself stress and next shift I’ll remember to pack a snack.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Irene
Despite the weather, the odds and the massive shut down of New York City I am going to California. I don’t care. This has been the summer of travel hell but it’s going to work damn it. It has to. I’ve planned it out. I have the time off and food purchased, the outfits decided on and the tent and water arranged. It’s all packed and ready to go. The only thing standing in between me and California is this bitch named Irene, they call her a hurricane but I know what’s what. If we need to have a show down so be it. In the end she will be downgraded to a tropical storm, one point for me, and then she will still jack all my travel plans, so point for her. I will outsmart her, cancel tickets, buy new ones, fly out of Philly instead of JFK, and make it to the Golden State just a few hours off my expected schedule. 24 hours later I’ll be wearing ruffled hot pants and pasties, standing in the center of a circle of beautiful dancing men, and being asked if I’d like a birthday kiss from any one of several volunteers. It will be the perfect way to turn 27. But I’m getting ahead of myself. This is the story of a half crazed girl during the biggest hoopla over nothing NYC has seen in recent years.
Let’s go back to late August. There has been rumbling for a few days about a storm coming up the east coast. I don’t watch the news so I’m not clued in but I start to see the chatter on Facebook. It’s lovely in New York, no clouds, nada, and I’m thinking how bad can this be? They name her Hurricane Irene and I start to pay attention, although it’s still just swirls on a screen that don’t seem to correspond with the lovely day happening outside my window. My parent’s start to request updates via text and I’m laughing, but they are watching the news in California are and starting to freak out. I tell them I’ll be fine. Then I see the latest news- the city of New York announces they will be shutting down the subways and the bridges starting at 12pm the following day. Shut down the subways and you shut down the city, those major arteries that bring the people that cook and serve the food and the people who eat it. Shut down the bridges and no one is getting home at the end of the night, so no one is going out in the first place. So, this might be kind of serious after all.
In my workaholic brain all I can think of is how on earth am I going to get everything done before 12pm tomorrow at one job, and then how will I get to the hotel for my shift? Never mind that I’m moving into a new apartment that day, signing a lease, getting cashiers checks in between errands for my job- never mind that my new place has leaks or that my stuff is in storage and that I have not yet arranged where to sleep that night since my new place has no power and I have nothing to sleep on. Never mind that I’ve been house hopping, skipping showers and haven’t had a meal I made myself in over a month. Never mind that I’m meant to be flying out to the Nevada desert in 2 days where I’ll be sleeping in a tent and facing extreme weather and wind storms and have done little to nothing to prepare for that besides buy some goggles on Ebay.com. What’s on my mind is getting curtains installed at my day job and then making sure I’m on the Q before noon the next morning. I don’t even realize that calling out is an option. It’s a sickness. I am sick.
The storm is set to hit on Saturday night. The trains will shut down that afternoon. On Friday the bar calls and asks me to come in before the trains stop running the next day. The idea is that I’ll work the mid shift and then stay at the hotel and open in the morning. I say yes, of course. Then one co-worker calls, “Hey, are they trying to get you to work? because everyone else called out but I’ll do it if you do it, I just don’t want to get stuck there alone.” He says with a sigh. We are somehow bonded, him and I. He’s my security blanket at work and as it seems, I am his. If it is really just him and me I’ll be working mid shift to closing- a 12 hour shift- and then sleeping a little and getting up and opening again. I’ll have 12 hours after work at the bar to finish up stuff for the other job, pack my bags for California and get some rest before my flight.
Of course this night before the storm is meant to hit, this night of all nights, my dearest, oldest friends are visiting from out of town with no warning. They talk me into coming over after work. I love my friends. I show up after my shift on Friday, wasted tired and a little anxious about everything. They make fun of me, they make fun of each other, we drink beer, I beg for back rubs and we snuggle on the couch. We catch up on the entertaining details of all our lives, they are doing fun and funny things, they are all in love with beautiful people. I want to take 1000 pictures. They beg me to cancel on work the next day and go up with them to the roof to yell at the storm like Lieutenant Dan. They are brilliant and make me laugh harder than anyone else ever has. My sides get sore. We pass out. I wake up in a puppy pile of warm bodies I’ve known for over a decade. Faces I would know in a pitch black cave. It is so hard to leave that, knowing what I’m heading to.
I have to catch the train to work before New York shuts down. I force myself out of bed and to the subway. When I get to Manhattan, the city is empty. It is eerie. I walk to work on Canal and barely see a soul. Most times I’m tripping over tourists from Texas, but today men are boarding up storefronts and piling up sandbags in anticipation of the worst storm in 100 years. I get a bottle of water and a bagel at the corner deli and watch the line form as people buying provisions as they prepare to bunker down for a few days. I show up at work with my suitcase. “What’s that for?” my manager asks, “I’m leaving for Burning Man after this.” I reply. Without looking at me my manager says, “Well we will have plenty of glow sticks left over for you to take with you.” He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I look at him. This is not the man I would assume would know about Burning Man, or glow sticks. He smiles at me. “I wasn’t always like this you know.” He says referring to his clean cut, well dressed, fatherly and composed appearance. I laugh and I know that this guy is great, that this will be a fun night, that people have so many layers to them.
Whatever your critiques on the city’s handling of Irene, at least now we know what the hotels will do in a crisis: stay open and hire a DJ. We have to stay open as we are a hotel bar. I keep joking that I’m bartending the apocalypse. It’s all hands on deck. The one manager is waiting tables and making jokes that although he hasn’t done it in ages but he’s still got the knack. “How you doing?” he asks, “This is insane!” I shout over the music, handing him 2 beers and a martini. “Oh you’re fine, anyways in 48 hours you’ll be running around the desert half naked and tripping balls.” We look at eachother again, I see his eyes light up with a sly smile. How does he know of these things of which he speaks? “My friends go every year, I hear stories,” he says as way of explanation. Sure. Friends.
I was not psychologically prepared for how we got hit. Before my shift I couldn’t get it into my head that we would be busy, I whined that it would be dead, that all my co-workers called out. At preshift we were warned that we are at 70% capacity and will be busy. I didn’t take the storm so seriously, but I take the shutting down of mass transit to mean that I’ll be working hard, as we are running bare bones. No bar back, no bussers, just two bartenders. Our manager got stuck washing glassware in the back. While outside the night was silent awaiting the storm I was working the bar like I haven’t done in ages. All seats were taken and mostly diners to boot. As it turns out they are right about being busy, the kitchen is meant to close at 9 and doesn’t close until 11. Everyone looks like they’ve had a good ass kicking and is wearing thin. The sous chef is running plates and sweating, slamming dishes on the bar with barely a look to me before heading back down for more. I run out of plates, and forks, then knives and napkins. The night concierge makes me roll ups. Outside it is still dry, the storm isn’t due for another 4 hours.
The rain starts to fall and the music is bumping, almost too loud at times for what seems like the eve of a potential disaster. My co-worker is hitting his wall, I think I hit mine a while back and then just powered through until I hit the next one. The hotel bought us dinner, a rare delicacy. I am handed a room key to the 19th floor. Advisories are telling people not to go above the 12th floor or so, but I’m just grateful to know that there is a bed for me, somewhere, even if I might blow away in my sleep as the news seems to swear I will. The night dies down finally and I sneak off to bed. I stare out the window of the 19th floor and watch the rain pound the streets. I fall asleep in luxury sheets. I don’t blow away with the night.
In the morning it’s packed for breakfast. I do my shift and the next guy comes on at 4pm. I race out of work to my other job, the taxis are charging by zone, not distance, because the subway is still down. At this point it is just the cost of doing business. I get the last touch of the curtains installed. It’s at that moment that I realize my flight to California has been canceled, so I spend 2 hours on the phone with 2 different airlines figuring out how to fix this. I cancel my flight out of JFK, I book a new flight out of Philly and get a bus ticket to there in the morning. I crash at my best friend’s house. Pack my bags with the necessary bustiers and booty shorts and sleep for 4 hours before heading for the bus. I feel like I’m on drugs but it’s just the lack of sleep, the odd hours and the eerie-ness of New York in the aftermath of a storm that didn’t really cause the damage everyone was expecting. In other areas it was bad, but for me in Brooklyn and Soho, we were just fine. Thankfully.
In the end I make it to Burning Man in time for my birthday. It took a bus ride, 2 plane flights and an 8 hour drive but we did it. We dance till dawn that night and for the next 4 days in a temporary city on an ancient lakebed in the middle of the desert. It’s perfect, and, yes, those glow sticks really came in handy.
Let’s go back to late August. There has been rumbling for a few days about a storm coming up the east coast. I don’t watch the news so I’m not clued in but I start to see the chatter on Facebook. It’s lovely in New York, no clouds, nada, and I’m thinking how bad can this be? They name her Hurricane Irene and I start to pay attention, although it’s still just swirls on a screen that don’t seem to correspond with the lovely day happening outside my window. My parent’s start to request updates via text and I’m laughing, but they are watching the news in California are and starting to freak out. I tell them I’ll be fine. Then I see the latest news- the city of New York announces they will be shutting down the subways and the bridges starting at 12pm the following day. Shut down the subways and you shut down the city, those major arteries that bring the people that cook and serve the food and the people who eat it. Shut down the bridges and no one is getting home at the end of the night, so no one is going out in the first place. So, this might be kind of serious after all.
In my workaholic brain all I can think of is how on earth am I going to get everything done before 12pm tomorrow at one job, and then how will I get to the hotel for my shift? Never mind that I’m moving into a new apartment that day, signing a lease, getting cashiers checks in between errands for my job- never mind that my new place has leaks or that my stuff is in storage and that I have not yet arranged where to sleep that night since my new place has no power and I have nothing to sleep on. Never mind that I’ve been house hopping, skipping showers and haven’t had a meal I made myself in over a month. Never mind that I’m meant to be flying out to the Nevada desert in 2 days where I’ll be sleeping in a tent and facing extreme weather and wind storms and have done little to nothing to prepare for that besides buy some goggles on Ebay.com. What’s on my mind is getting curtains installed at my day job and then making sure I’m on the Q before noon the next morning. I don’t even realize that calling out is an option. It’s a sickness. I am sick.
The storm is set to hit on Saturday night. The trains will shut down that afternoon. On Friday the bar calls and asks me to come in before the trains stop running the next day. The idea is that I’ll work the mid shift and then stay at the hotel and open in the morning. I say yes, of course. Then one co-worker calls, “Hey, are they trying to get you to work? because everyone else called out but I’ll do it if you do it, I just don’t want to get stuck there alone.” He says with a sigh. We are somehow bonded, him and I. He’s my security blanket at work and as it seems, I am his. If it is really just him and me I’ll be working mid shift to closing- a 12 hour shift- and then sleeping a little and getting up and opening again. I’ll have 12 hours after work at the bar to finish up stuff for the other job, pack my bags for California and get some rest before my flight.
Of course this night before the storm is meant to hit, this night of all nights, my dearest, oldest friends are visiting from out of town with no warning. They talk me into coming over after work. I love my friends. I show up after my shift on Friday, wasted tired and a little anxious about everything. They make fun of me, they make fun of each other, we drink beer, I beg for back rubs and we snuggle on the couch. We catch up on the entertaining details of all our lives, they are doing fun and funny things, they are all in love with beautiful people. I want to take 1000 pictures. They beg me to cancel on work the next day and go up with them to the roof to yell at the storm like Lieutenant Dan. They are brilliant and make me laugh harder than anyone else ever has. My sides get sore. We pass out. I wake up in a puppy pile of warm bodies I’ve known for over a decade. Faces I would know in a pitch black cave. It is so hard to leave that, knowing what I’m heading to.
I have to catch the train to work before New York shuts down. I force myself out of bed and to the subway. When I get to Manhattan, the city is empty. It is eerie. I walk to work on Canal and barely see a soul. Most times I’m tripping over tourists from Texas, but today men are boarding up storefronts and piling up sandbags in anticipation of the worst storm in 100 years. I get a bottle of water and a bagel at the corner deli and watch the line form as people buying provisions as they prepare to bunker down for a few days. I show up at work with my suitcase. “What’s that for?” my manager asks, “I’m leaving for Burning Man after this.” I reply. Without looking at me my manager says, “Well we will have plenty of glow sticks left over for you to take with you.” He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I look at him. This is not the man I would assume would know about Burning Man, or glow sticks. He smiles at me. “I wasn’t always like this you know.” He says referring to his clean cut, well dressed, fatherly and composed appearance. I laugh and I know that this guy is great, that this will be a fun night, that people have so many layers to them.
Whatever your critiques on the city’s handling of Irene, at least now we know what the hotels will do in a crisis: stay open and hire a DJ. We have to stay open as we are a hotel bar. I keep joking that I’m bartending the apocalypse. It’s all hands on deck. The one manager is waiting tables and making jokes that although he hasn’t done it in ages but he’s still got the knack. “How you doing?” he asks, “This is insane!” I shout over the music, handing him 2 beers and a martini. “Oh you’re fine, anyways in 48 hours you’ll be running around the desert half naked and tripping balls.” We look at eachother again, I see his eyes light up with a sly smile. How does he know of these things of which he speaks? “My friends go every year, I hear stories,” he says as way of explanation. Sure. Friends.
I was not psychologically prepared for how we got hit. Before my shift I couldn’t get it into my head that we would be busy, I whined that it would be dead, that all my co-workers called out. At preshift we were warned that we are at 70% capacity and will be busy. I didn’t take the storm so seriously, but I take the shutting down of mass transit to mean that I’ll be working hard, as we are running bare bones. No bar back, no bussers, just two bartenders. Our manager got stuck washing glassware in the back. While outside the night was silent awaiting the storm I was working the bar like I haven’t done in ages. All seats were taken and mostly diners to boot. As it turns out they are right about being busy, the kitchen is meant to close at 9 and doesn’t close until 11. Everyone looks like they’ve had a good ass kicking and is wearing thin. The sous chef is running plates and sweating, slamming dishes on the bar with barely a look to me before heading back down for more. I run out of plates, and forks, then knives and napkins. The night concierge makes me roll ups. Outside it is still dry, the storm isn’t due for another 4 hours.
The rain starts to fall and the music is bumping, almost too loud at times for what seems like the eve of a potential disaster. My co-worker is hitting his wall, I think I hit mine a while back and then just powered through until I hit the next one. The hotel bought us dinner, a rare delicacy. I am handed a room key to the 19th floor. Advisories are telling people not to go above the 12th floor or so, but I’m just grateful to know that there is a bed for me, somewhere, even if I might blow away in my sleep as the news seems to swear I will. The night dies down finally and I sneak off to bed. I stare out the window of the 19th floor and watch the rain pound the streets. I fall asleep in luxury sheets. I don’t blow away with the night.
In the morning it’s packed for breakfast. I do my shift and the next guy comes on at 4pm. I race out of work to my other job, the taxis are charging by zone, not distance, because the subway is still down. At this point it is just the cost of doing business. I get the last touch of the curtains installed. It’s at that moment that I realize my flight to California has been canceled, so I spend 2 hours on the phone with 2 different airlines figuring out how to fix this. I cancel my flight out of JFK, I book a new flight out of Philly and get a bus ticket to there in the morning. I crash at my best friend’s house. Pack my bags with the necessary bustiers and booty shorts and sleep for 4 hours before heading for the bus. I feel like I’m on drugs but it’s just the lack of sleep, the odd hours and the eerie-ness of New York in the aftermath of a storm that didn’t really cause the damage everyone was expecting. In other areas it was bad, but for me in Brooklyn and Soho, we were just fine. Thankfully.
In the end I make it to Burning Man in time for my birthday. It took a bus ride, 2 plane flights and an 8 hour drive but we did it. We dance till dawn that night and for the next 4 days in a temporary city on an ancient lakebed in the middle of the desert. It’s perfect, and, yes, those glow sticks really came in handy.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
The Barback. Story 1.
My bar back Gustavo has wild golden hair. Most night he pulls it back in 2 pony tails, one low behind and one on the top of his head. On nights he doesn’t tie it, it waves around his face like a lion’s mane giving the effect that he’s underwater, and a bit surprised. Compared to my 5’5” frame he is massive, with muscles and hair, tan skin and a rugged face that must wreck the beautiful girls back home. I don’t know much about him, past or present. He works quietly for the most part. As he’s gotten used to me, he’s warmed.
Yesterday as we stood about in a slow moment he looked down his strong nose at me, “Kin I ask you a queestion?” he posed, his eyes unblinking. “Sure,” I say with a smile, wondering what is coming. “Queestion,” he begins in his low beautiful accent, “Do you think there are robots living among us? Pretending to be real people?” “No,” I reply quickly. He looks at me as if to see my soul, or to see if I am perhaps one of those same robots. “Really…” he finally says, not as a question, and that is that. We were distracted, someone needed me at the end of the bar, he saw a bottle that needed replacing.
He is from Argentina. He is here studying to be an actor. He says it proudly. He isn’t afraid or shy to say that that is his dream, his passion. As he cuts lemons he says his lines to himself. Today when it was empty at the bar, he recited Miller for me. The text seemed to come out of nowhere and it took me several lines to pinpoint it. The lilt of his accent as he spoke the words of John Proctor were so beautiful and rare; so precious in a way. His version of this American classic, spoken through his accent, gave it all new life. It brought back a memory of sitting in the wings of a dark theater, hearing those lines night after night; watching John beg Elizabeth for forgiveness. His version made me re-imagine the play. It made me see his classroom, the chairs and his teacher watching. This teacher who had known to give him this text as it was such good casting.
It was enchanting and also painful. Theater is such a painful thing to love and a heartbreaking dream to have at times. These dreams we all have of speaking this kind of text, of being on stage, of bringing plays to life and yet so rarely get the chance. Almost every waiter and bartender and manager here dreams of another life where they are making art, not tips. It seems a little indecent to bring the theater into here; to have her see us like this. I call theater the insatiable mistress, a cruel one at that who left me pretty battered after our last fight. It’s raw for me, so as Gusto cuts lemons and speaks his memorized lines, for a moment I feel magic beneath my skin and in the next I am plunged into myself, lost in a sea of sorrows.
Gustavo shows me pictures of paintings he makes on the tiny screen of his flip phone. They are squiggly lines and bright colors that find themselves into almost distinguishable shapes, a face in one, a hand in another. He shows me one of a man and a woman facing each other. It is looks angry and beautiful and passionate. We both look at the glowing screen for an extra moment. “You know what that ees?” he asks, “It is theeese.” He reaches in his wallet and pulls out a picture of him and a beautiful girl from a black and white photos booth. They are in the same position that the man and women in the painting are in, but in this their open mouths look happy, celebrating. He looks at me the same way he’d done before when he’d asked about the robots, looking for an answer in my eyes. The action has the effect that for a moment I get lost in his and I can tell that there is a story with this blonde beauty. He shrugs and sighs. I don’t ask any more questions. The picture goes back safely in the wallet. We turn our attentions to the bar again.
Yesterday as we stood about in a slow moment he looked down his strong nose at me, “Kin I ask you a queestion?” he posed, his eyes unblinking. “Sure,” I say with a smile, wondering what is coming. “Queestion,” he begins in his low beautiful accent, “Do you think there are robots living among us? Pretending to be real people?” “No,” I reply quickly. He looks at me as if to see my soul, or to see if I am perhaps one of those same robots. “Really…” he finally says, not as a question, and that is that. We were distracted, someone needed me at the end of the bar, he saw a bottle that needed replacing.
He is from Argentina. He is here studying to be an actor. He says it proudly. He isn’t afraid or shy to say that that is his dream, his passion. As he cuts lemons he says his lines to himself. Today when it was empty at the bar, he recited Miller for me. The text seemed to come out of nowhere and it took me several lines to pinpoint it. The lilt of his accent as he spoke the words of John Proctor were so beautiful and rare; so precious in a way. His version of this American classic, spoken through his accent, gave it all new life. It brought back a memory of sitting in the wings of a dark theater, hearing those lines night after night; watching John beg Elizabeth for forgiveness. His version made me re-imagine the play. It made me see his classroom, the chairs and his teacher watching. This teacher who had known to give him this text as it was such good casting.
It was enchanting and also painful. Theater is such a painful thing to love and a heartbreaking dream to have at times. These dreams we all have of speaking this kind of text, of being on stage, of bringing plays to life and yet so rarely get the chance. Almost every waiter and bartender and manager here dreams of another life where they are making art, not tips. It seems a little indecent to bring the theater into here; to have her see us like this. I call theater the insatiable mistress, a cruel one at that who left me pretty battered after our last fight. It’s raw for me, so as Gusto cuts lemons and speaks his memorized lines, for a moment I feel magic beneath my skin and in the next I am plunged into myself, lost in a sea of sorrows.
Gustavo shows me pictures of paintings he makes on the tiny screen of his flip phone. They are squiggly lines and bright colors that find themselves into almost distinguishable shapes, a face in one, a hand in another. He shows me one of a man and a woman facing each other. It is looks angry and beautiful and passionate. We both look at the glowing screen for an extra moment. “You know what that ees?” he asks, “It is theeese.” He reaches in his wallet and pulls out a picture of him and a beautiful girl from a black and white photos booth. They are in the same position that the man and women in the painting are in, but in this their open mouths look happy, celebrating. He looks at me the same way he’d done before when he’d asked about the robots, looking for an answer in my eyes. The action has the effect that for a moment I get lost in his and I can tell that there is a story with this blonde beauty. He shrugs and sighs. I don’t ask any more questions. The picture goes back safely in the wallet. We turn our attentions to the bar again.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
A day in the life. Version 1.0
I wake up with the dawn in a strange house far from home.
I’m wearing what I’d worn out the night before. The feel of the sheets reminds me I’m in DC. The light of dawn outside reminds me I must get up. I reach for the glass of what I think is water only to realize just in time it is maple vodka. I must to go home today, this morning, right now- my whole life is waiting for me and impatiently so at that. It is the deal I’d made to come at all.
Doug comes down to get me, in full morning mode. Zoë ambles down the stairs, no voice left, she hugs me and still smells like sleep. She’s thin but sturdy and perfectly soft, such a lovely thing she is. She hugs me like family, with no restraint or boundary, and I’m reminded again why I love her so much. Why everyone who gets close to her loves her so much, and I am thankful for her. “Come again soon,” she says and hesitates to let me go. I’ve known her since preschool. Since before I can remember. She is the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister my age.
Doug and I step out into the morning- DC is already beginning to sweat. It is 6:30am. I have sunglasses on, tights on under my romper and in lieu of brushing my teeth I am just chewing gum. If Zoë is the most elegant, put together, thoughtfully groomed person I know, then I am her opposite- unplanned, overexposed, unkempt and unmatched. Her boyfriend Doug adores me and I think it is all these ways I am not like her that let us be good friends of our own accord. A lot of men with partners push me away; he hugs me and celebrates me. As we spoke last night I heard his respect for me in a way that nearly made me cry into my beer. I did introduce them. I guess he has to love me. He’s so good. The man drives me to Union Station at 6:30 am on a Saturday. Saint Doug I will call him: The future father of my nieces and nephews. I decide they are the people I’d call if I ended up in jail: my grownup friends.
Now it’s a morning bus ride into the city. By the time I get to work at the bar at 5 pm it’s already a full day. The moment I arrive at Penn I start running errands for my other job, dealing with decorators and a contractor who barely speaks English yet shouts it a breakneck speed. I’ve picked up shoes at one place, returned jeans at another and have been to three artisan cheese shops looking for this one damn vinegar that no one seems to carry. All the while I’m facebook messaging with my friend in the cab and checkout lines to organize a party we are throwing next week. When I put the phone down for a second to look out the window my brain jumps to trying to figure out when I’ll be able to sew 3 bustiers to look like the French flag, when to meet the girls to rehearse and where to source some flesh toned crystals before a show on Friday. One boss calls to ask if I’ve found the shoes yet because she needs them before her flight, the other boss calls to see if I can come in an hour earlier because someone is sick. I say yes to both, sacrifice the shower and the stop for food I’d factored into my day, drop the shoes at her place and bolt for the train to make it to work on time. I’ve taken to wearing sneakers in the morning because I know that I’m certain to do some amount of running if I hope to get it all packed into a single day.
It’s draining. The chef at work says I look skinnier, I tell him I eat stress for breakfast. I remind myself that my life is entirely “me” time. I just choose to use it this way. I endlessly fantasize about vacation. I write job descriptions for an intern that I’d love to hire and then imagine needing to clean up some 18 year old’s mess all the time and go back to texting whomever about whatever and send it when the train goes above ground to cross the river. The one minute between when the Q goes back underground from the bridge and when it pulls up to Canal street station is the time I take to close my eyes and transition to the next thing. I look at all the other faces on the train; I wonder if they have this much spinning in their heads as well. I doubt that cute little Dominican man is thinking about sequins, but what do I know. It’s all relative. I just let myself be quiet for a moment. Then I wait at the door in order to run off the train.
It’s no use; the Canal stations are all a mess. There are a million confused people trying to get up one narrow flight of smelly stairs. On more than one occasion I’ve helped aging Chinese grandparents carry strollers of sleeping children up the 2 flights it takes to escape this stomach of the city. It’s partly because I’m nice and mostly because it’s faster and less painful than watching them try and do it themselves. One time it was so packed and I was so late, I just picked up the entire stroller with the kid in it and carried it by myself with the surprised grandpa following behind. The kid’s head rolled to my shoulder and that peacefulness of his sleepy baby skin was in such contrast to my late for work hustle it was startling. I made a point to spend more time around babies. Where can I find a baby? I need more friends with babies. I miss my baby sister, I need to call my brother, ugh did I miss his birthday? All this in a split second. The grandmother was waiting at the top of the stairs and gave me a toothy smile. I set the kid down, smiled at the family, and kept running.
I call Canal my parcour course. It’s a sea of tourists who’s favorite thing to do is walk in huge gaggles and then just stop at unpredictable moments in the middle of the sidewalk for no reason. There is nothing to see on Canal. It’s a swamp of bad t-shirts and seafood stands. Why are all these people here? On either side of these walking and stopping cows are big beautiful men asking if I want a handbag or a wallet. Real. Designer. I see the same ones every day. This is their life. It’s depressing. It’s hot. It smells like garbage. I’m so late that speed walking won’t do, I run and dodge them all to keep this momentum. I sprint into the street and run along the oncoming traffic sitting at a standstill. I bound over muddy summer rain puddles and endless pieces of garbage. I’m wearing next to nothing as it’s summer and I hear the catcalls as I bound along. I’m so hungry. I need coffee. I should quit caffeine again. I should quit wheat. Ugh. I’m so out of shape. Catching my reflection in the bank window I’m appalled by how haggard I look. I relax my face, I commit to eating better, remind myself to go to yoga. Next week, I tell myself. I’ll get on all that next week.
I push through the staff entrance door- my managers are standing in the hallway. “You’re late” one says, “No, I have 3 minutes,” I shout over my shoulder as I run past. “But you won’t be on the floor in 3 minutes,” he taunts back, “Watch me,” I grin back at him and catch his smile. I can get dressed in 1 minute flat. Makeup takes 2 minutes. I’m working on new ways to make my messy hair look cool by making it look like I don’t care, which I guess is cool. I’m not cool. I really care. I’m my mother’s daughter. I want to look nice, present well, to look like I care, but there is just no effing time.
When I’d interviewed for the job I’d requested to work 3 nights at this bar, maybe 4, and this is my 5th in a row. It’s been like that for the last 5 of my 6 weeks of employment. We are short staffed, a manager just left and there’s a party on the roof so I’m not bringing it up tonight, but holy hell, I’m nothing if not a bit rundown. It’s starting to rain. I haven’t eaten. My bar isn’t set up entirely; things are missing here and there in an unusually odd way, like missing one shoelace or the towel not being there when I get out of the shower. Stuff that should be places aren’t in those places and don’t seem to be anywhere else either. I love my barback but he’s over extended and the other bar just got slammed. He had to go buy ice because the ice machine is down and the guy last night didn’t cut enough limes so he’s got to do that for the party upstairs before he can deal with my lack of fresh mint. He hands me the bag and runs off.
My dining room is dead. Not a guest to be seen. I pick the mint leaves and enjoy the smell on my hands. It’s so delightfully quiet. Someone comes in drenched from the rain asking for water. Perfect, a Saturday night in the summer in New York. This should be a slow night. No one will be going out and if they do they won’t be coming here. Usually I like to be busy, but right now, my adrenals are stoked for a little down time. 4 hours pass like this. I work with the new guy; get him adjusted to the bar. I notice how we all bring our habits with us. I have compassion for how much training sucks and I still remind him to fill the jigger to the top, to ice his tin after he’s built his round, to clap the mint rather than pulverize it. It’s good I’m not the boss. People would hate me.
The new guy is half listening but mostly focusing on the specs for the drinks. He’s bored; there is no action in my bar. I send him down to the other room with my co-worker so he can work in the service well and get the drinks into his muscle memory. My barback reappears- sees that we are down to one bartender and asks if we can close up one well. “Sure, it’s dead in here anyways,” I say and he closes the well in record time. Now, if you’ve read my stories before you now know what is about to happen. I tempted fate, I taunted the gods, I asked for it. After 4 hours of nothing, the Garden room is all full and people have no choice to be sat in my main dining space.
It’s 9pm and I get slammed. The next 2 hours I see nothing but ice and the blur of faces coming and going, the glow of my computer screen. My servers are double and triple sat and the tickets start pouring in. At the same time my bar fills and to add insult to injury, it seems that tonight is amateur night. Someone asks for a shot that tastes like a smoothie, like with banana. Someone wants a lychee martini because the other bartender said we made them. I’ve never made a lychee martini. I find creative solutions. Both girls, and I am not kidding, squeal when they taste their drinks. Someone asks if I’ve really poured her vodka because it tastes like gin and she doesn’t like gin. I assure her it is vodka. I pour 6 shots of chilled Patron at $15 a piece, the guys drink them and the girls say they don’t like shots so the guys take theirs as well. A woman sits for 3 hours with a death grip warming her dirty martini as she chews gum and endlessly touches her hair as she leans into the man beside her. I can tell he wants to kiss her. She knows she’ll need to drink more to get there with him. She’s drinking very slowly. A man asks me 3 times what kind of light beer I have. I tell him I don’t have any. I hand him the menu. He looks at it and then asks me again what kind of light beer I have. I point again to my list and tell him that this is all I have. It’s a broken record, a comedy act, and I want to laugh and then realize that this is all sort of really happening.
These people act as if they’ve never been to a bar. It’s the most maddening thing and right now I just need to be nice to them. That’s my job. I just decide to enjoy myself. What else is there to do? A waiter orders a sidecar with Maker’s Mark. Hilarious! I ask if that is what he wants, he says yes. He brings it back 2 minutes later. “They want a sidecar, not this,” I dump the drink, “A sidecar has brandy, cognac most often, love, that is why I asked,” I’m talking clearly and quickly but just don’t have time for this tonight. “Ya, sorry,” he replies and then stares at me while I get to work remaking his drink. I don’t even really get annoyed, I have other drinks to make now, but I just get to his and make a mental note to go over basic cocktails with them later. It’s kind of funny actually.
My manager pops his head in, asks what I need, I have 5 free seconds, “Better ice, proper glassware, another bottle of Black Label, a bar I can function in, the fridge to work, the computer not to crash, maybe advance notice of this onslaught of people, oh, and a ban on mojitos,” He smiles, “I can get you the Black Label, I’ll ask engineering to see about the fridge, nothing I can do about the people, this always happens, and we can talk about the rest later. Want me to send someone to help you?” “No,” I whine, “I already closed the other well.” “Cool, well then keep on keeping on, you’re doing great,” He’s almost annoyingly cheery, but I it makes me smile. He knows I’m in hell, he knows I’ll do fine, of all the places I’ve ever worked, this management is the best at dealing with the bartenders. I’m trusted to hold it down, to ask for help when I need it, and we all respect how hard everyone works. It’s lovely.
I get a ticket for Oban 14 with a splash of lemonade. I have a sinking suspicion it’s the woman who’d asked her server for something fruity but not sweet about 15 minutes earlier. I’d given him 3 options for her to get what she was going for. None of those options included scotch or lemonade. Turns out she wanted a $28 cocktail of blasphemy. Who am I to judge? I give up; rather, I pour the Oban, and put the lemonade on the side. It’s my last plea for some sort of sanity in the world. Her server comes back 5 minutes later, “She dumped all the lemonade in, tasted it and didn’t like it” he reports, she ordered a vodka soda instead. I can’t win them all.
Nearly as fast as the rush hit, the crowd dies down. Almost as if on cue they all go home. A fascinating regular with the lovely accent gives me his card and slyly asks me to dinner as he makes his way out. I give a non-commital reply. I'll Google stalk him later. I close down my bar. The barback gets busy putting everything away. My room is mostly empty now. The engineer is messing with the lighting. All the lights in the room drop at once except for 2 spots on the chandeliers making them look like a million shining stars. I miss home for an instant and wonder when I’ll sleep under those stars again for good. I wonder about the arms that will hold me, I imagine the tiny baby fingers wrapped around my bigger ones. I can almost feel the Big Sur air on my skin. I imagine being there and missing here. The lights come back to normal and I’m still in New York, in this hotel bar, just about to turn 27 years old, with an odd feeling that I was just sent into the future for a moment, or what I imagine the future to be, hypnotized by all those gently swaying crystals so decadent in this garden room against the bottles and me.
My shift is done, to home and to bed. Right now, three hours earlier, my friends are getting married in California, maybe cutting the cake or have snuck off to kiss like teenagers in their beautiful clothes. My DC friends are fast asleep with their arms around one another. My boys Tim and Ben are just getting started over at Gold Bar and the music is still in its ramp up phase. Somewhere in some loft a group of girls are putting on shoes, grabbing umbrellas. It begins to rain on the roof as the night moves on her unstoppable path towards morning.
It’s impossible to get a cab until I’m so wet and so pathetic that the driver takes pity on me. As we zoom over the Manhattan bridge he keep saying over and over, “Oh you got lucky,” because he’d agreed to take me, a downing rat of a girl in a one piece outfit and waterlogged shoes, home to what is not really my home in the rain after midnight when there is traffic on the bridge. I am grateful. To him and my friends and my life. I am couch hopping at the moment and am staying at my friend’s place while she’s out of town the next few days. I barely brush my teeth or wash my face, I drink a glass of water. I climb into her massive bed. Outside the most beautiful storm of the summer is lighting up the river and Manhattan skyline. A magical night.
As the rain falls, as it will for the next two days, I curl up and drift off within moments into a sleep so deep no dreams can find me.
I wake up with the dawn in a strange house far from home.
I’m wearing what I’d worn out the night before. The feel of the sheets reminds me I’m in DC. The light of dawn outside reminds me I must get up. I reach for the glass of what I think is water only to realize just in time it is maple vodka. I must to go home today, this morning, right now- my whole life is waiting for me and impatiently so at that. It is the deal I’d made to come at all.
Doug comes down to get me, in full morning mode. Zoë ambles down the stairs, no voice left, she hugs me and still smells like sleep. She’s thin but sturdy and perfectly soft, such a lovely thing she is. She hugs me like family, with no restraint or boundary, and I’m reminded again why I love her so much. Why everyone who gets close to her loves her so much, and I am thankful for her. “Come again soon,” she says and hesitates to let me go. I’ve known her since preschool. Since before I can remember. She is the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister my age.
Doug and I step out into the morning- DC is already beginning to sweat. It is 6:30am. I have sunglasses on, tights on under my romper and in lieu of brushing my teeth I am just chewing gum. If Zoë is the most elegant, put together, thoughtfully groomed person I know, then I am her opposite- unplanned, overexposed, unkempt and unmatched. Her boyfriend Doug adores me and I think it is all these ways I am not like her that let us be good friends of our own accord. A lot of men with partners push me away; he hugs me and celebrates me. As we spoke last night I heard his respect for me in a way that nearly made me cry into my beer. I did introduce them. I guess he has to love me. He’s so good. The man drives me to Union Station at 6:30 am on a Saturday. Saint Doug I will call him: The future father of my nieces and nephews. I decide they are the people I’d call if I ended up in jail: my grownup friends.
Now it’s a morning bus ride into the city. By the time I get to work at the bar at 5 pm it’s already a full day. The moment I arrive at Penn I start running errands for my other job, dealing with decorators and a contractor who barely speaks English yet shouts it a breakneck speed. I’ve picked up shoes at one place, returned jeans at another and have been to three artisan cheese shops looking for this one damn vinegar that no one seems to carry. All the while I’m facebook messaging with my friend in the cab and checkout lines to organize a party we are throwing next week. When I put the phone down for a second to look out the window my brain jumps to trying to figure out when I’ll be able to sew 3 bustiers to look like the French flag, when to meet the girls to rehearse and where to source some flesh toned crystals before a show on Friday. One boss calls to ask if I’ve found the shoes yet because she needs them before her flight, the other boss calls to see if I can come in an hour earlier because someone is sick. I say yes to both, sacrifice the shower and the stop for food I’d factored into my day, drop the shoes at her place and bolt for the train to make it to work on time. I’ve taken to wearing sneakers in the morning because I know that I’m certain to do some amount of running if I hope to get it all packed into a single day.
It’s draining. The chef at work says I look skinnier, I tell him I eat stress for breakfast. I remind myself that my life is entirely “me” time. I just choose to use it this way. I endlessly fantasize about vacation. I write job descriptions for an intern that I’d love to hire and then imagine needing to clean up some 18 year old’s mess all the time and go back to texting whomever about whatever and send it when the train goes above ground to cross the river. The one minute between when the Q goes back underground from the bridge and when it pulls up to Canal street station is the time I take to close my eyes and transition to the next thing. I look at all the other faces on the train; I wonder if they have this much spinning in their heads as well. I doubt that cute little Dominican man is thinking about sequins, but what do I know. It’s all relative. I just let myself be quiet for a moment. Then I wait at the door in order to run off the train.
It’s no use; the Canal stations are all a mess. There are a million confused people trying to get up one narrow flight of smelly stairs. On more than one occasion I’ve helped aging Chinese grandparents carry strollers of sleeping children up the 2 flights it takes to escape this stomach of the city. It’s partly because I’m nice and mostly because it’s faster and less painful than watching them try and do it themselves. One time it was so packed and I was so late, I just picked up the entire stroller with the kid in it and carried it by myself with the surprised grandpa following behind. The kid’s head rolled to my shoulder and that peacefulness of his sleepy baby skin was in such contrast to my late for work hustle it was startling. I made a point to spend more time around babies. Where can I find a baby? I need more friends with babies. I miss my baby sister, I need to call my brother, ugh did I miss his birthday? All this in a split second. The grandmother was waiting at the top of the stairs and gave me a toothy smile. I set the kid down, smiled at the family, and kept running.
I call Canal my parcour course. It’s a sea of tourists who’s favorite thing to do is walk in huge gaggles and then just stop at unpredictable moments in the middle of the sidewalk for no reason. There is nothing to see on Canal. It’s a swamp of bad t-shirts and seafood stands. Why are all these people here? On either side of these walking and stopping cows are big beautiful men asking if I want a handbag or a wallet. Real. Designer. I see the same ones every day. This is their life. It’s depressing. It’s hot. It smells like garbage. I’m so late that speed walking won’t do, I run and dodge them all to keep this momentum. I sprint into the street and run along the oncoming traffic sitting at a standstill. I bound over muddy summer rain puddles and endless pieces of garbage. I’m wearing next to nothing as it’s summer and I hear the catcalls as I bound along. I’m so hungry. I need coffee. I should quit caffeine again. I should quit wheat. Ugh. I’m so out of shape. Catching my reflection in the bank window I’m appalled by how haggard I look. I relax my face, I commit to eating better, remind myself to go to yoga. Next week, I tell myself. I’ll get on all that next week.
I push through the staff entrance door- my managers are standing in the hallway. “You’re late” one says, “No, I have 3 minutes,” I shout over my shoulder as I run past. “But you won’t be on the floor in 3 minutes,” he taunts back, “Watch me,” I grin back at him and catch his smile. I can get dressed in 1 minute flat. Makeup takes 2 minutes. I’m working on new ways to make my messy hair look cool by making it look like I don’t care, which I guess is cool. I’m not cool. I really care. I’m my mother’s daughter. I want to look nice, present well, to look like I care, but there is just no effing time.
When I’d interviewed for the job I’d requested to work 3 nights at this bar, maybe 4, and this is my 5th in a row. It’s been like that for the last 5 of my 6 weeks of employment. We are short staffed, a manager just left and there’s a party on the roof so I’m not bringing it up tonight, but holy hell, I’m nothing if not a bit rundown. It’s starting to rain. I haven’t eaten. My bar isn’t set up entirely; things are missing here and there in an unusually odd way, like missing one shoelace or the towel not being there when I get out of the shower. Stuff that should be places aren’t in those places and don’t seem to be anywhere else either. I love my barback but he’s over extended and the other bar just got slammed. He had to go buy ice because the ice machine is down and the guy last night didn’t cut enough limes so he’s got to do that for the party upstairs before he can deal with my lack of fresh mint. He hands me the bag and runs off.
My dining room is dead. Not a guest to be seen. I pick the mint leaves and enjoy the smell on my hands. It’s so delightfully quiet. Someone comes in drenched from the rain asking for water. Perfect, a Saturday night in the summer in New York. This should be a slow night. No one will be going out and if they do they won’t be coming here. Usually I like to be busy, but right now, my adrenals are stoked for a little down time. 4 hours pass like this. I work with the new guy; get him adjusted to the bar. I notice how we all bring our habits with us. I have compassion for how much training sucks and I still remind him to fill the jigger to the top, to ice his tin after he’s built his round, to clap the mint rather than pulverize it. It’s good I’m not the boss. People would hate me.
The new guy is half listening but mostly focusing on the specs for the drinks. He’s bored; there is no action in my bar. I send him down to the other room with my co-worker so he can work in the service well and get the drinks into his muscle memory. My barback reappears- sees that we are down to one bartender and asks if we can close up one well. “Sure, it’s dead in here anyways,” I say and he closes the well in record time. Now, if you’ve read my stories before you now know what is about to happen. I tempted fate, I taunted the gods, I asked for it. After 4 hours of nothing, the Garden room is all full and people have no choice to be sat in my main dining space.
It’s 9pm and I get slammed. The next 2 hours I see nothing but ice and the blur of faces coming and going, the glow of my computer screen. My servers are double and triple sat and the tickets start pouring in. At the same time my bar fills and to add insult to injury, it seems that tonight is amateur night. Someone asks for a shot that tastes like a smoothie, like with banana. Someone wants a lychee martini because the other bartender said we made them. I’ve never made a lychee martini. I find creative solutions. Both girls, and I am not kidding, squeal when they taste their drinks. Someone asks if I’ve really poured her vodka because it tastes like gin and she doesn’t like gin. I assure her it is vodka. I pour 6 shots of chilled Patron at $15 a piece, the guys drink them and the girls say they don’t like shots so the guys take theirs as well. A woman sits for 3 hours with a death grip warming her dirty martini as she chews gum and endlessly touches her hair as she leans into the man beside her. I can tell he wants to kiss her. She knows she’ll need to drink more to get there with him. She’s drinking very slowly. A man asks me 3 times what kind of light beer I have. I tell him I don’t have any. I hand him the menu. He looks at it and then asks me again what kind of light beer I have. I point again to my list and tell him that this is all I have. It’s a broken record, a comedy act, and I want to laugh and then realize that this is all sort of really happening.
These people act as if they’ve never been to a bar. It’s the most maddening thing and right now I just need to be nice to them. That’s my job. I just decide to enjoy myself. What else is there to do? A waiter orders a sidecar with Maker’s Mark. Hilarious! I ask if that is what he wants, he says yes. He brings it back 2 minutes later. “They want a sidecar, not this,” I dump the drink, “A sidecar has brandy, cognac most often, love, that is why I asked,” I’m talking clearly and quickly but just don’t have time for this tonight. “Ya, sorry,” he replies and then stares at me while I get to work remaking his drink. I don’t even really get annoyed, I have other drinks to make now, but I just get to his and make a mental note to go over basic cocktails with them later. It’s kind of funny actually.
My manager pops his head in, asks what I need, I have 5 free seconds, “Better ice, proper glassware, another bottle of Black Label, a bar I can function in, the fridge to work, the computer not to crash, maybe advance notice of this onslaught of people, oh, and a ban on mojitos,” He smiles, “I can get you the Black Label, I’ll ask engineering to see about the fridge, nothing I can do about the people, this always happens, and we can talk about the rest later. Want me to send someone to help you?” “No,” I whine, “I already closed the other well.” “Cool, well then keep on keeping on, you’re doing great,” He’s almost annoyingly cheery, but I it makes me smile. He knows I’m in hell, he knows I’ll do fine, of all the places I’ve ever worked, this management is the best at dealing with the bartenders. I’m trusted to hold it down, to ask for help when I need it, and we all respect how hard everyone works. It’s lovely.
I get a ticket for Oban 14 with a splash of lemonade. I have a sinking suspicion it’s the woman who’d asked her server for something fruity but not sweet about 15 minutes earlier. I’d given him 3 options for her to get what she was going for. None of those options included scotch or lemonade. Turns out she wanted a $28 cocktail of blasphemy. Who am I to judge? I give up; rather, I pour the Oban, and put the lemonade on the side. It’s my last plea for some sort of sanity in the world. Her server comes back 5 minutes later, “She dumped all the lemonade in, tasted it and didn’t like it” he reports, she ordered a vodka soda instead. I can’t win them all.
Nearly as fast as the rush hit, the crowd dies down. Almost as if on cue they all go home. A fascinating regular with the lovely accent gives me his card and slyly asks me to dinner as he makes his way out. I give a non-commital reply. I'll Google stalk him later. I close down my bar. The barback gets busy putting everything away. My room is mostly empty now. The engineer is messing with the lighting. All the lights in the room drop at once except for 2 spots on the chandeliers making them look like a million shining stars. I miss home for an instant and wonder when I’ll sleep under those stars again for good. I wonder about the arms that will hold me, I imagine the tiny baby fingers wrapped around my bigger ones. I can almost feel the Big Sur air on my skin. I imagine being there and missing here. The lights come back to normal and I’m still in New York, in this hotel bar, just about to turn 27 years old, with an odd feeling that I was just sent into the future for a moment, or what I imagine the future to be, hypnotized by all those gently swaying crystals so decadent in this garden room against the bottles and me.
My shift is done, to home and to bed. Right now, three hours earlier, my friends are getting married in California, maybe cutting the cake or have snuck off to kiss like teenagers in their beautiful clothes. My DC friends are fast asleep with their arms around one another. My boys Tim and Ben are just getting started over at Gold Bar and the music is still in its ramp up phase. Somewhere in some loft a group of girls are putting on shoes, grabbing umbrellas. It begins to rain on the roof as the night moves on her unstoppable path towards morning.
It’s impossible to get a cab until I’m so wet and so pathetic that the driver takes pity on me. As we zoom over the Manhattan bridge he keep saying over and over, “Oh you got lucky,” because he’d agreed to take me, a downing rat of a girl in a one piece outfit and waterlogged shoes, home to what is not really my home in the rain after midnight when there is traffic on the bridge. I am grateful. To him and my friends and my life. I am couch hopping at the moment and am staying at my friend’s place while she’s out of town the next few days. I barely brush my teeth or wash my face, I drink a glass of water. I climb into her massive bed. Outside the most beautiful storm of the summer is lighting up the river and Manhattan skyline. A magical night.
As the rain falls, as it will for the next two days, I curl up and drift off within moments into a sleep so deep no dreams can find me.
I wake up with the dawn in a strange house far from home.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Notes on the Men. Part One.
I’ve been mulling over this idea for a while now, thinking of how to frame the story I want to tell about this part of life as a female bartender. For the simplicity of story telling I’ve made this about one man. The bulk of the story is taken from a recent event but I’ve added moments from other nights, other men. It’s a collage. It’s all real, if not totally linear. And some things are universal. I’m going to break this down into installments as there is just so much to write on the subject.
NOTES ON THE MEN
It's ten p.m.
I've been at work 7 hours- just passed on taking a break because my manager said he'd rather send me home instead. Before I can stop myself I say “Ya, it seems like it will stay a mellow night”. He looks at me and we both know that I’ve just done it. “Now it’s all on you” he laughs as he walks away. I’ve just jinxed myself. Big time.
He finished dinner and came to the bar to meet friends who are meeting other friends. He knows everyone but everyone else knows everyone else better. He’s the first one there and comes in alone. He sits at the bar, calls me over and barely looks at me as he makes sure I have a rum of the quality that will work for him. Once he tries a sample or two he chooses one and then asks for it on the rocks with a splash of soda and a lime. Ya. I’m in whatever they want mode because I know what is about to happen. I know because I jinxed myself.
The rush hits. The bar swells. Post dinner, post theater, post concert, part two or three to the night. Gaggles of girls walk in wearing short skirts, expensive hair and monster heels the look in their eyes says they are not sure where they are. Men have loosened their ties. A couple on a first date, if it can be called that because they met at the bar before this one are hanging all over each other and giggling like children. He orders shots of Patron, she whispers her order in his ear but he doesn’t like this, “Tell her yourself” he directs her, “Macawen” she requests. I look at her, desperate to understand, I need to keep moving to manage the crowd. “It’s whiskey” he says, “Macawen,” she says again nodding. “Ma-ca-wen?” I say, “No” he clarifies, “Macallen”. Dear lord this night is already longer than I wanted it to be. Macallen. Rocks. Patron. Shots. Fine. I pour the drinks. The next couple wants Hennesy and cranberry. It’s that point in the night. Decency is gone. Just give them what they want. The bottle is too high on the shelf, I put one shoe on the ice well and monkey up the wall to grab the bottle. It’s a necessary move, but flashy, and I forget most people don’t spend a considerable amount of time climbing things. I hop down, destroy the cognac with the cran and apologize to it a little. I take their money, point them to a seat and look up for the next order.
As the bar fills, the lights go down, the music goes up and it hits me like a wave. This is when I realize I'll be here all night, that I won't eat, that I won’t go out after work, so I just turn work into something more personally enjoyable. This is the point in the shift when I get silly. I lighten up, and stop caring just enough to let me start dancing like a muppet, play with my coworker, climb up the walls and hand people samples of drinks they didn't order. It’s not that I’m drinking, because I’m not, it’s just a switch flips in my brain and I can no longer take any of this seriously.
This is when the man notices me. Partly because he's 3 drinks in, partly because he has no one to talk to, and partly because I’m in fun mode and just climbed up the wall of my bar. It’s a perfect storm. His friend and him call me over and he looks at me as if he’s seeing me in a totally different light. I’m no longer the girl who is pouring him drinks. I’ve become something different. “Where are you from?” he asks and as I say the name of my hometown he shakes his head in disbelief. In his defense I’m from a really beautiful place, but I can see this has much more meaning for him, meaning I can’t even begin to guess at but I can see it come over him. He’s decided in his mind that I am his perfect but unattainable dream girl. I don’t say this to flatter myself because it’s not about me. This is about him and whatever his lonely boy issues are. I watch the gaze come over his eyes. He’s done-zo and can’t do much to stop him.
A group of girls show up to meet his friends and he calls me over to help them. He apologizes as he orders their vodka sodas. He leans over and whispers "These girls are so lame," to let me know that we are both on the cool kids team. Mind you, he is drinking rum with a splash of soda. It's kind of an odd order. I don't mind it but I'm just sayin’. It doesn’t necessarily put him on the cool cocktail kids team. He distances himself from the girls by leaning closer to me at the bar, drinking more to order more and I while it’s a tad bit flattering, I mostly feel bad for the guy. It’s all around an unfortunate situation. It's unfortunate that he needs to drink more to get the courage to ask me out because it does nothing but count against him. It's unfortunate that the girl he is taken with is the version of me that doesn't fuck around. She doesn't have time to flirt, doesn't find drunk dudes appealing and she knows that based on this setup- whatever happens next won't end well.
And here is why-
The bar is a fantasy. It's an imaginary power dynamic. The bar frames me in a way, gives me an authority and focus that does not carry over into my real life. Behind the bar I am there to serve, and also take on the role of the gatekeeper- the booze controller- and my shake isn't that bad either. I wear skin tight jeans and a top that “accidentally” rides up to my waist if I don’t secure it down with my apron. I am there to make him happy, to entertain, to laugh and tell silly stories and be interested in him. On the flip side I’m intimidating and tough- he watches me kick a guy out for licking a girl’s ear (more on that later I promise) and make another guy go up to his room to get me his ID before I’ll serve him. That is my bartender persona. That is me doing my job. In real life I can be quiet and selfish. I can be an emotional jellyfish, incredible fragile and incredibly dangerous. In my head I’m convinced everyone dislikes me, I’m a stressed out wreck who seems to only like unavailable men who find me fascinating but just want to be friends. I’m cute but not untouchable. In real life he might not talk to me if he met me on the other side of the bar. It's why even ugly rockstars have superhot girlfriends. There is an inherent charisma in the role. It’s not me he’s taken with. It’s the girl I’m playing against the backdrop of my beautiful bar.
There's always been something off when I've gone out with men I've met at work. I couldn’t put my finger on it for a long time and then one day it hit me. They wanted to be going out with that girl they met at the bar. They wanted that outgoing, interested, shit talking girl in the tank top. They want the girl they invented in their mind and and here they are talking to this very nice albeit really sensitive girl who doesn’t want to be objectified and isn’t fascinated in every work he is saying because honestly, she is not getting paid. And just to say, just because I took the number and called doesn’t mean I want to jump your bones. You might be a cool dude, but especially if I met you at work, I am on high alert. There is no more bar, this next meeting is optional for us both. Please don’t assume I’ll act the way I did at when I you met me at the bar. Please please don’t be going out with me cause you think it’s a sure thing. It’s not.
So he doesn’t know any of this. There he is;. 6 ounces of rum, a shot of vodka and a beer in- that tipping point for him when his inner life is no longer private. In his mind he wants to be close to me so he's literally leaning as far across the bar as he can be, watching my every movement. This is really, really annoying. It is my job to catch these indications- to look up, to notice someone and get an order. There are no orderly lines at a bar, I go off animal instinct, so this watching is throwing me off. I keep looking up and he motions that he's okay, no drink needed, so I go back to whatever it is I'm doing- which is hard when I'm feeling watched and waited for. It takes energy to ignore someone.
I do him a favor and hand him a glass of water but he doesn’t know it’s a favor. He acts offended. Here’s the deal, if a bartender is handing you water they are trying to help you stay on your game. It is act of generosity. Please do not refuse water by calling me over and asking why I gave it to you as he does. “Well then what would you like?”, I ask, my head looking left and right because as I mentioned I am slammed at the moment. “I don’t know, what do you like to make?” he asks. I don’t have time for this,“I like to make you happy,” I reply “so what do you want?” when he falters I offer my go to, “How about a beer?” He considers it-“No no,” he says, “I’ll just have another one of these rums.” Fine.
And now I pause to offer this: when your bartender is busy- please don't slow her down- please be prepared with your entire order. Please be prepared to pay. Please don't want to have a conversation. On a personal note- if you want to impress me- seriously- and you see I'm busy- order beer. It's the easiest thing to serve- it's not physically demanding- it’s what I drink- and it won't get you drunk as fast. Yay beer. Bartenders love when you get beer.
Moving on.
The night draws to a close. He is about to leave. He is summoning his courage. I can tell. I hand him the bill. He holds my gaze. “Let me take you to dinner” he begs. I look him over. It’s an incredibly awkward moment for several reasons. It’s happened so many times now that I can’t help but get a little angry. I’m angry because I have just handed him his bill, he is about to tip me, but before he does he wants to know if I’ll go out with him. He wants to know that this was all real, that I was flirting with him because I like him, not because it’s my job to be outgoing. If I say yes he’ll be stoked. If I say no his ego will be shattered. Either way he is making me answer BEFORE he tips me. It might not be intentional, but over here in sober land it’s an infuriating thing. Men of the world: please don’t make it personal. Please don’t ask me for my number until after you’ve paid me. There’s a tip from me to you.
I don’t give out my number. Please don't ask for it. You could be Brad Pitt, James Franco, whoever, I won’t give you my number, but I will take yours. If you want this is the best solution. I probably won’t call, but I might. I might go home and stalk you online, which I totally did and got no where with this guy although it was frightening to learn the odd things that show up when I start digging for info on someone. So here is my second tip, which I offered him and he was too drunk to understand. You know where I work. It’s not like we met on the subway and if you don’t speak now you’ll never have your chance. You can always come back.
I would like to offer this to the men of the world who like to hit on the cute bartenders they meet. If you are serious, if you have crush, might I suggest that the first visit you play it cool. If the girl is that rad, ask when she works and make a note of it. Tell her she was awesome and you’ll be back next week. Don’t put her on the spot by asking her for her number, instead flatter her drink making skills and show you have some follow through by actually coming back. Build a relationship. Bring a friend with you, hang out, have a few drinks. Come alone one time to say hello and have a drink before heading to whatever else you are doing. Then, on the second, third, fourth visit, after you’ve talked some more, then you can suggest you go do something not at work. Maybe bring up something you’ve been wanting to do, or ask about a restaurant she’s been wanting to try. Suggest you try it together. That’s how you build friendships and trust that can actually turn into something more interesting than an awkward first date that doesn’t go anywhere. I have some amazing friends who were regulars at my restaurants over the years. On the flip side I’ve never gone on more than one date with a customer who gave me his number.
This concludes part one. Stay tuned for part two which will include the ear licking story as promised along with other creepy stories and lessons of what not to do at a bar.
NOTES ON THE MEN
It's ten p.m.
I've been at work 7 hours- just passed on taking a break because my manager said he'd rather send me home instead. Before I can stop myself I say “Ya, it seems like it will stay a mellow night”. He looks at me and we both know that I’ve just done it. “Now it’s all on you” he laughs as he walks away. I’ve just jinxed myself. Big time.
He finished dinner and came to the bar to meet friends who are meeting other friends. He knows everyone but everyone else knows everyone else better. He’s the first one there and comes in alone. He sits at the bar, calls me over and barely looks at me as he makes sure I have a rum of the quality that will work for him. Once he tries a sample or two he chooses one and then asks for it on the rocks with a splash of soda and a lime. Ya. I’m in whatever they want mode because I know what is about to happen. I know because I jinxed myself.
The rush hits. The bar swells. Post dinner, post theater, post concert, part two or three to the night. Gaggles of girls walk in wearing short skirts, expensive hair and monster heels the look in their eyes says they are not sure where they are. Men have loosened their ties. A couple on a first date, if it can be called that because they met at the bar before this one are hanging all over each other and giggling like children. He orders shots of Patron, she whispers her order in his ear but he doesn’t like this, “Tell her yourself” he directs her, “Macawen” she requests. I look at her, desperate to understand, I need to keep moving to manage the crowd. “It’s whiskey” he says, “Macawen,” she says again nodding. “Ma-ca-wen?” I say, “No” he clarifies, “Macallen”. Dear lord this night is already longer than I wanted it to be. Macallen. Rocks. Patron. Shots. Fine. I pour the drinks. The next couple wants Hennesy and cranberry. It’s that point in the night. Decency is gone. Just give them what they want. The bottle is too high on the shelf, I put one shoe on the ice well and monkey up the wall to grab the bottle. It’s a necessary move, but flashy, and I forget most people don’t spend a considerable amount of time climbing things. I hop down, destroy the cognac with the cran and apologize to it a little. I take their money, point them to a seat and look up for the next order.
As the bar fills, the lights go down, the music goes up and it hits me like a wave. This is when I realize I'll be here all night, that I won't eat, that I won’t go out after work, so I just turn work into something more personally enjoyable. This is the point in the shift when I get silly. I lighten up, and stop caring just enough to let me start dancing like a muppet, play with my coworker, climb up the walls and hand people samples of drinks they didn't order. It’s not that I’m drinking, because I’m not, it’s just a switch flips in my brain and I can no longer take any of this seriously.
This is when the man notices me. Partly because he's 3 drinks in, partly because he has no one to talk to, and partly because I’m in fun mode and just climbed up the wall of my bar. It’s a perfect storm. His friend and him call me over and he looks at me as if he’s seeing me in a totally different light. I’m no longer the girl who is pouring him drinks. I’ve become something different. “Where are you from?” he asks and as I say the name of my hometown he shakes his head in disbelief. In his defense I’m from a really beautiful place, but I can see this has much more meaning for him, meaning I can’t even begin to guess at but I can see it come over him. He’s decided in his mind that I am his perfect but unattainable dream girl. I don’t say this to flatter myself because it’s not about me. This is about him and whatever his lonely boy issues are. I watch the gaze come over his eyes. He’s done-zo and can’t do much to stop him.
A group of girls show up to meet his friends and he calls me over to help them. He apologizes as he orders their vodka sodas. He leans over and whispers "These girls are so lame," to let me know that we are both on the cool kids team. Mind you, he is drinking rum with a splash of soda. It's kind of an odd order. I don't mind it but I'm just sayin’. It doesn’t necessarily put him on the cool cocktail kids team. He distances himself from the girls by leaning closer to me at the bar, drinking more to order more and I while it’s a tad bit flattering, I mostly feel bad for the guy. It’s all around an unfortunate situation. It's unfortunate that he needs to drink more to get the courage to ask me out because it does nothing but count against him. It's unfortunate that the girl he is taken with is the version of me that doesn't fuck around. She doesn't have time to flirt, doesn't find drunk dudes appealing and she knows that based on this setup- whatever happens next won't end well.
And here is why-
The bar is a fantasy. It's an imaginary power dynamic. The bar frames me in a way, gives me an authority and focus that does not carry over into my real life. Behind the bar I am there to serve, and also take on the role of the gatekeeper- the booze controller- and my shake isn't that bad either. I wear skin tight jeans and a top that “accidentally” rides up to my waist if I don’t secure it down with my apron. I am there to make him happy, to entertain, to laugh and tell silly stories and be interested in him. On the flip side I’m intimidating and tough- he watches me kick a guy out for licking a girl’s ear (more on that later I promise) and make another guy go up to his room to get me his ID before I’ll serve him. That is my bartender persona. That is me doing my job. In real life I can be quiet and selfish. I can be an emotional jellyfish, incredible fragile and incredibly dangerous. In my head I’m convinced everyone dislikes me, I’m a stressed out wreck who seems to only like unavailable men who find me fascinating but just want to be friends. I’m cute but not untouchable. In real life he might not talk to me if he met me on the other side of the bar. It's why even ugly rockstars have superhot girlfriends. There is an inherent charisma in the role. It’s not me he’s taken with. It’s the girl I’m playing against the backdrop of my beautiful bar.
There's always been something off when I've gone out with men I've met at work. I couldn’t put my finger on it for a long time and then one day it hit me. They wanted to be going out with that girl they met at the bar. They wanted that outgoing, interested, shit talking girl in the tank top. They want the girl they invented in their mind and and here they are talking to this very nice albeit really sensitive girl who doesn’t want to be objectified and isn’t fascinated in every work he is saying because honestly, she is not getting paid. And just to say, just because I took the number and called doesn’t mean I want to jump your bones. You might be a cool dude, but especially if I met you at work, I am on high alert. There is no more bar, this next meeting is optional for us both. Please don’t assume I’ll act the way I did at when I you met me at the bar. Please please don’t be going out with me cause you think it’s a sure thing. It’s not.
So he doesn’t know any of this. There he is;. 6 ounces of rum, a shot of vodka and a beer in- that tipping point for him when his inner life is no longer private. In his mind he wants to be close to me so he's literally leaning as far across the bar as he can be, watching my every movement. This is really, really annoying. It is my job to catch these indications- to look up, to notice someone and get an order. There are no orderly lines at a bar, I go off animal instinct, so this watching is throwing me off. I keep looking up and he motions that he's okay, no drink needed, so I go back to whatever it is I'm doing- which is hard when I'm feeling watched and waited for. It takes energy to ignore someone.
I do him a favor and hand him a glass of water but he doesn’t know it’s a favor. He acts offended. Here’s the deal, if a bartender is handing you water they are trying to help you stay on your game. It is act of generosity. Please do not refuse water by calling me over and asking why I gave it to you as he does. “Well then what would you like?”, I ask, my head looking left and right because as I mentioned I am slammed at the moment. “I don’t know, what do you like to make?” he asks. I don’t have time for this,“I like to make you happy,” I reply “so what do you want?” when he falters I offer my go to, “How about a beer?” He considers it-“No no,” he says, “I’ll just have another one of these rums.” Fine.
And now I pause to offer this: when your bartender is busy- please don't slow her down- please be prepared with your entire order. Please be prepared to pay. Please don't want to have a conversation. On a personal note- if you want to impress me- seriously- and you see I'm busy- order beer. It's the easiest thing to serve- it's not physically demanding- it’s what I drink- and it won't get you drunk as fast. Yay beer. Bartenders love when you get beer.
Moving on.
The night draws to a close. He is about to leave. He is summoning his courage. I can tell. I hand him the bill. He holds my gaze. “Let me take you to dinner” he begs. I look him over. It’s an incredibly awkward moment for several reasons. It’s happened so many times now that I can’t help but get a little angry. I’m angry because I have just handed him his bill, he is about to tip me, but before he does he wants to know if I’ll go out with him. He wants to know that this was all real, that I was flirting with him because I like him, not because it’s my job to be outgoing. If I say yes he’ll be stoked. If I say no his ego will be shattered. Either way he is making me answer BEFORE he tips me. It might not be intentional, but over here in sober land it’s an infuriating thing. Men of the world: please don’t make it personal. Please don’t ask me for my number until after you’ve paid me. There’s a tip from me to you.
I don’t give out my number. Please don't ask for it. You could be Brad Pitt, James Franco, whoever, I won’t give you my number, but I will take yours. If you want this is the best solution. I probably won’t call, but I might. I might go home and stalk you online, which I totally did and got no where with this guy although it was frightening to learn the odd things that show up when I start digging for info on someone. So here is my second tip, which I offered him and he was too drunk to understand. You know where I work. It’s not like we met on the subway and if you don’t speak now you’ll never have your chance. You can always come back.
I would like to offer this to the men of the world who like to hit on the cute bartenders they meet. If you are serious, if you have crush, might I suggest that the first visit you play it cool. If the girl is that rad, ask when she works and make a note of it. Tell her she was awesome and you’ll be back next week. Don’t put her on the spot by asking her for her number, instead flatter her drink making skills and show you have some follow through by actually coming back. Build a relationship. Bring a friend with you, hang out, have a few drinks. Come alone one time to say hello and have a drink before heading to whatever else you are doing. Then, on the second, third, fourth visit, after you’ve talked some more, then you can suggest you go do something not at work. Maybe bring up something you’ve been wanting to do, or ask about a restaurant she’s been wanting to try. Suggest you try it together. That’s how you build friendships and trust that can actually turn into something more interesting than an awkward first date that doesn’t go anywhere. I have some amazing friends who were regulars at my restaurants over the years. On the flip side I’ve never gone on more than one date with a customer who gave me his number.
This concludes part one. Stay tuned for part two which will include the ear licking story as promised along with other creepy stories and lessons of what not to do at a bar.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Recovered Notes from 2010
This post is taken from a note I typed on my phone one night in November or December of last year. I had been in a the city only a few months. I was working at the Royalton Hotel in Midtown and the distance to home was too far to justify a cab ride. Every night after work I would take the subway- it was just getting cold- and I'll never forget those transitions from bar into winter into steamy subway. I always found it amazing that the streets of midtown would be empty and yet the subways would be full of people. So many people at such odd hours of the night going about their daily lives as I was.
My friend Ashley had died a month earlier in a tragic, horrible accident. Even writing that now feels strange, I'm still very much wrapping my head around her absence. She was a dear friend, someone I felt cosmically tied to, I had always felt it was important that I know her, that we be in each other's lives. I have so many memories of moments with her and am so thankful for them all, thankful for her and her life, thankful to her husband Adam, thankful thankful and still so sad. I only mention this as she was on my mind and in my writing in this piece.
Re reading these notes I think of how far I've come, how much can change, how much I can grow in such a short amount of time. And how much stays the same. Dealing with this endless push and pull and my fear of not changing- which works so well with the work I've found.
Here are the notes from 2010:
Train home to Brooklyn at 12am.
Peace on the train
People on their phones
Others with heads resting against the wall
Passed out or sleeping for the night. Their bags tucked beneath their feet
Headphones in ears on the kids my age in sweatshirts and sneakers
A look of waiting waiting waiting on these others faces.
Cuts on my fingers again
Nails ragged
At least at last no dishes to wash
Now the house hires us helpers
I've finally moved up or along or whatever
In the grand scheme I still feel small time
Although I entertained a crew of girls accustomed to apple martinis with drinks that contained no high fructose syrup
No green dye number blah
Who still orders apple martinis?
Jack and coke
Vodka soda
My fingers taste like metal and lime
You can dry lime and make black lime dust
It looks like dirt and melts sour in your mouth like magic
I want to thank every one for being so kind
And I wonder what else I could expect them to be
Although it's still surprising
At every turn
I remember looking at Ashley's tattoo and thinking, that girl isn't at all afraid of forever. No need for impermanence, no call for change, whatever changes, could change around her, her love, at least, would remain.
I've only been that confident when I had the cheat sheet to the test, and even still I doubted, and could never bring myself to go through with it. I'd fold up the answer card into my pocket and go the honest route.
So I wonder if she knew, if she was cheating, if she had had the answers to the test all along. And what were they? Could I steal them from her. Call her up and look for clues in her voice mail that's still turned on? I keep accidentally calling her and jump when I hear her voice. Or her facebook wall, did she leave instructions? How to live like Ashley? Or how to live so you'll be proud to die tomorrow? Or die today? She would be proud. I guess. It feels awful to write it to think it, to suppose I could know her angel thoughts. At least she was right. Right to fall in love, right to get married, right to get the tattoo, the day on the helicopter, the zipline, right to celebrate her love every day to a nauseating, baffling, awe inspiring doing Cupid one better kind of way.
I don't believe in heaven. I wish I did. Not god or angels nor hell. At least not in the traditional sense of the words. I think we make them in our minds, like imaginary diaramas or dollhouses for the dead. Video games we can dream.
I can only really deal in the lives of the living. But I miss my friend
My friend Ashley had died a month earlier in a tragic, horrible accident. Even writing that now feels strange, I'm still very much wrapping my head around her absence. She was a dear friend, someone I felt cosmically tied to, I had always felt it was important that I know her, that we be in each other's lives. I have so many memories of moments with her and am so thankful for them all, thankful for her and her life, thankful to her husband Adam, thankful thankful and still so sad. I only mention this as she was on my mind and in my writing in this piece.
Re reading these notes I think of how far I've come, how much can change, how much I can grow in such a short amount of time. And how much stays the same. Dealing with this endless push and pull and my fear of not changing- which works so well with the work I've found.
Here are the notes from 2010:
Train home to Brooklyn at 12am.
Peace on the train
People on their phones
Others with heads resting against the wall
Passed out or sleeping for the night. Their bags tucked beneath their feet
Headphones in ears on the kids my age in sweatshirts and sneakers
A look of waiting waiting waiting on these others faces.
Cuts on my fingers again
Nails ragged
At least at last no dishes to wash
Now the house hires us helpers
I've finally moved up or along or whatever
In the grand scheme I still feel small time
Although I entertained a crew of girls accustomed to apple martinis with drinks that contained no high fructose syrup
No green dye number blah
Who still orders apple martinis?
Jack and coke
Vodka soda
My fingers taste like metal and lime
You can dry lime and make black lime dust
It looks like dirt and melts sour in your mouth like magic
I want to thank every one for being so kind
And I wonder what else I could expect them to be
Although it's still surprising
At every turn
I remember looking at Ashley's tattoo and thinking, that girl isn't at all afraid of forever. No need for impermanence, no call for change, whatever changes, could change around her, her love, at least, would remain.
I've only been that confident when I had the cheat sheet to the test, and even still I doubted, and could never bring myself to go through with it. I'd fold up the answer card into my pocket and go the honest route.
So I wonder if she knew, if she was cheating, if she had had the answers to the test all along. And what were they? Could I steal them from her. Call her up and look for clues in her voice mail that's still turned on? I keep accidentally calling her and jump when I hear her voice. Or her facebook wall, did she leave instructions? How to live like Ashley? Or how to live so you'll be proud to die tomorrow? Or die today? She would be proud. I guess. It feels awful to write it to think it, to suppose I could know her angel thoughts. At least she was right. Right to fall in love, right to get married, right to get the tattoo, the day on the helicopter, the zipline, right to celebrate her love every day to a nauseating, baffling, awe inspiring doing Cupid one better kind of way.
I don't believe in heaven. I wish I did. Not god or angels nor hell. At least not in the traditional sense of the words. I think we make them in our minds, like imaginary diaramas or dollhouses for the dead. Video games we can dream.
I can only really deal in the lives of the living. But I miss my friend
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
9 Months
It’s been 9 months in New York City. I've worked behind 7 bars since I arrived. 7 bars for some amount of time: a night or two, a month or more. Lucky breaks, mistakes, one or two I thought might be home and a couple to pass the time till the next place opened.
I've been hired and laid off, I've been discovered, mentored, passed along, passed over, called back, reconsidered, offered more than I wanted and earned less than I was worth. I've quit, I've come on board, I've moved on, I've moved up, I've lobbied and networked. I've fought for people and had them fight for me. I've worked hard, learned fast and had dumb luck. I was fortunate that people liked me and I liked them back. I was lucky that those people were the best people in the whole world.
I’ve been told I was good for a girl, good for a hotel bartender, and just plain good. I’ve been told I made the best thing someone has ever tasted, I’ve bussed whole trays of unfinished drinks, dumping an hour’s worth of stirring and ice cracking down the drain. I've made delicious drinks and smart choices, I've made bad drinks and dumb choices. I've been good and drunk and sad and sick and have learned to stop when it was too much but not before some painful mornings. I’ve made more money in a night than my friends with desk jobs make in a week. I’ve been so broke I’ve had to call my parents to bail me out.
I've been punch drunk with love for the people I know, so high on this industry that I didn’t want to leave the party until dawn. I’ve been so sick of it all I’ve wanted to never talk to another bartender ever again and stayed in for nights on end. I've stayed out until 6 am and couldn’t get to sleep once I was in bed. I've crashed at 10pm and woken up at noon the next day wondering how people do it.
My muscles have no idea if we are working out or just working. I run stairs in a corset. I lift boxes of booze like it ain’t no thing. I palm three to four glasses at a time. I can free pour a perfect 1.5 ounces. I test myself for fun and do a mini fist pump when it hits that meniscus.
I've worn uniforms, button downs, loafers, black pants, petticoats, high heels, bustiers and combat boots. I've gone to work hung over, sleep deprived, broken hearted, stuffed, starving, exhausted and vibrating from caffine. I've danced and sung, been lifted and twisted, crawled across bar tops and thought I might all together lose my hearing or my mind or both from the repetitive whomp of overamplified music.
I learned to do crazy math in my head. I calculate percentages in under 2 seconds. Without ever meeting them I know if someone is an asshole, a saint, just from France or two out of the three. I over tip at bars and coffee shops, I consider it karma, but I also get most of everything I drink for free.
I’ve worked for gentlemen, businessmen and charismatic crooks. I would do anything for some and not lift a finger for others. I’ve laughed and drank and fought with them. I screamed at one in a basement at 3 am as house music threatened the foundation of the building and the party tried impossibly to move ahead without glassware. I spent the night on one’s couch after we stayed out so late it wasn’t worth going home before heading back to work again.
At times it’s felt like war when facing 40 drunk Nigerians demanding more palm wine or 200 kids from Long Island shouting for their home town’s namesake beverage like broken records. Nights have passed in a blur of drag queens or the downtown hip kids shelling out fifteen bucks a beverage and asking over and over how one might get to the VIP area.
I've kissed and crushed and wondered if he’d call. I’ve collected numbers and thrown them all away. I’ve declared dating in this world impossible and then watched friends and co-workers meet, fall in love and plan their weddings. I’ve been lonely in a sea of people. I’ve shown up at odd places at odd hours and found comfort and company.
I've watched dawn rise over Tribeca after a 12 hour shift, sitting on the front steps of the bar with a body too tired to hail a cab and an extra hundred dollar bill slipped into my worn out hand for being a good sport. I walked off in the rain and decided to quit. Fuck being a good sport.
Here all this happens in 9 months.
Here this is not just a means to an end. Here there are bartenders who carry encyclopedias of recipes in their heads. Men with arm garders, moustaches, tattoos and muscles and men who roll their eyes at all that. Here there are girls who drink tequila from the bottle, who could model, but like this life instead. Here there are competitions that feel more like fight clubs- loud rooms full of rum drinking, shit talking pirates with nothing less than their pride on the line. Men and women who boast they bartend better drunk, who dance as they work, who make 12 drinks in 4 minutes or less.
All this in New York. Only New York. This city of contradictions and contrasts. This city of blurry borders where nothing is quite just personal or professional, private or public. We are still breaking eachother in. Finding eachother’s rythmns. I am feeling out a way to be a bartender, a friend, and a functioning member of society.
Here the cab drivers know hole in the wall places in Chinatown where the servers take such pride in their work and smile past stained uniforms and dirty hair. They serve all night- refilling my glass with luke warm tea I gulp as I sit and stare and listen and write. It’s cash only and the walls are lined with headshots of actors who probably never made it. Outside the street smells like rotting fish while inside drunk girls with heavy neurosis and painful pasts sit and talk loudly over lo mein of questionable origin about the men who broke their hearts.
I scratch notes in messy writing- looking at all the bleary eyed people stumbling in- thinking- I did that. I scribble thoughts about the new job. I write about the chandeliers and the drinks and my co-worker with sweat that smells comfortingly of booze. I pay and leave. Outside I almost slip on a storm drain slick with animal fat and find a stray cab home to Brooklyn on an empty unlit street. It’s 3am and I have a flight to catch in a couple of hours. I won’t sleep tonight.
The bridges appear over the water like beautiful women in the night. Like mast-heads, like mothers of mercy, so profoundly feminine and I can almost hear them singing me home. “Leave?” I write on the back of my training paperwork, “Leave this magic and misery?” and then I think, but do not dare write, as I fear the mountains of California might overhear my thoughts, I write the word that is both a question and an answer as Brooklyn breathes into my view, “home”.
I've been hired and laid off, I've been discovered, mentored, passed along, passed over, called back, reconsidered, offered more than I wanted and earned less than I was worth. I've quit, I've come on board, I've moved on, I've moved up, I've lobbied and networked. I've fought for people and had them fight for me. I've worked hard, learned fast and had dumb luck. I was fortunate that people liked me and I liked them back. I was lucky that those people were the best people in the whole world.
I’ve been told I was good for a girl, good for a hotel bartender, and just plain good. I’ve been told I made the best thing someone has ever tasted, I’ve bussed whole trays of unfinished drinks, dumping an hour’s worth of stirring and ice cracking down the drain. I've made delicious drinks and smart choices, I've made bad drinks and dumb choices. I've been good and drunk and sad and sick and have learned to stop when it was too much but not before some painful mornings. I’ve made more money in a night than my friends with desk jobs make in a week. I’ve been so broke I’ve had to call my parents to bail me out.
I've been punch drunk with love for the people I know, so high on this industry that I didn’t want to leave the party until dawn. I’ve been so sick of it all I’ve wanted to never talk to another bartender ever again and stayed in for nights on end. I've stayed out until 6 am and couldn’t get to sleep once I was in bed. I've crashed at 10pm and woken up at noon the next day wondering how people do it.
My muscles have no idea if we are working out or just working. I run stairs in a corset. I lift boxes of booze like it ain’t no thing. I palm three to four glasses at a time. I can free pour a perfect 1.5 ounces. I test myself for fun and do a mini fist pump when it hits that meniscus.
I've worn uniforms, button downs, loafers, black pants, petticoats, high heels, bustiers and combat boots. I've gone to work hung over, sleep deprived, broken hearted, stuffed, starving, exhausted and vibrating from caffine. I've danced and sung, been lifted and twisted, crawled across bar tops and thought I might all together lose my hearing or my mind or both from the repetitive whomp of overamplified music.
I learned to do crazy math in my head. I calculate percentages in under 2 seconds. Without ever meeting them I know if someone is an asshole, a saint, just from France or two out of the three. I over tip at bars and coffee shops, I consider it karma, but I also get most of everything I drink for free.
I’ve worked for gentlemen, businessmen and charismatic crooks. I would do anything for some and not lift a finger for others. I’ve laughed and drank and fought with them. I screamed at one in a basement at 3 am as house music threatened the foundation of the building and the party tried impossibly to move ahead without glassware. I spent the night on one’s couch after we stayed out so late it wasn’t worth going home before heading back to work again.
At times it’s felt like war when facing 40 drunk Nigerians demanding more palm wine or 200 kids from Long Island shouting for their home town’s namesake beverage like broken records. Nights have passed in a blur of drag queens or the downtown hip kids shelling out fifteen bucks a beverage and asking over and over how one might get to the VIP area.
I've kissed and crushed and wondered if he’d call. I’ve collected numbers and thrown them all away. I’ve declared dating in this world impossible and then watched friends and co-workers meet, fall in love and plan their weddings. I’ve been lonely in a sea of people. I’ve shown up at odd places at odd hours and found comfort and company.
I've watched dawn rise over Tribeca after a 12 hour shift, sitting on the front steps of the bar with a body too tired to hail a cab and an extra hundred dollar bill slipped into my worn out hand for being a good sport. I walked off in the rain and decided to quit. Fuck being a good sport.
Here all this happens in 9 months.
Here this is not just a means to an end. Here there are bartenders who carry encyclopedias of recipes in their heads. Men with arm garders, moustaches, tattoos and muscles and men who roll their eyes at all that. Here there are girls who drink tequila from the bottle, who could model, but like this life instead. Here there are competitions that feel more like fight clubs- loud rooms full of rum drinking, shit talking pirates with nothing less than their pride on the line. Men and women who boast they bartend better drunk, who dance as they work, who make 12 drinks in 4 minutes or less.
All this in New York. Only New York. This city of contradictions and contrasts. This city of blurry borders where nothing is quite just personal or professional, private or public. We are still breaking eachother in. Finding eachother’s rythmns. I am feeling out a way to be a bartender, a friend, and a functioning member of society.
Here the cab drivers know hole in the wall places in Chinatown where the servers take such pride in their work and smile past stained uniforms and dirty hair. They serve all night- refilling my glass with luke warm tea I gulp as I sit and stare and listen and write. It’s cash only and the walls are lined with headshots of actors who probably never made it. Outside the street smells like rotting fish while inside drunk girls with heavy neurosis and painful pasts sit and talk loudly over lo mein of questionable origin about the men who broke their hearts.
I scratch notes in messy writing- looking at all the bleary eyed people stumbling in- thinking- I did that. I scribble thoughts about the new job. I write about the chandeliers and the drinks and my co-worker with sweat that smells comfortingly of booze. I pay and leave. Outside I almost slip on a storm drain slick with animal fat and find a stray cab home to Brooklyn on an empty unlit street. It’s 3am and I have a flight to catch in a couple of hours. I won’t sleep tonight.
The bridges appear over the water like beautiful women in the night. Like mast-heads, like mothers of mercy, so profoundly feminine and I can almost hear them singing me home. “Leave?” I write on the back of my training paperwork, “Leave this magic and misery?” and then I think, but do not dare write, as I fear the mountains of California might overhear my thoughts, I write the word that is both a question and an answer as Brooklyn breathes into my view, “home”.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
New Job. Week Three.
I woke up with eyelash glue still on and there are sparkles everywhere. I don't think I was dreaming that I saw Dita Von Tease and 30 drag queens last night. My boss calls shots of benedictine "medicine" and offers it to cure every ailment- at 5pm, at 5am, it's all the same to him. The music is so loud I crawl across the bar to get orders and sometimes I imagine the DJs are upstairs fighting over the ipod, one winning a song until the other prys it out of his hands and plays the next. I have not confirmed if this is what is actually happening, but the image works. When things get too serious we take a dance break and if I put on just the right smile WIll the 6'5" bartender will throw me up in the air as if I were a doll. Sometimes he shakes his drinks by handing me the tins and lifting me up and down. I wear a bustier, a tutu and combat boots to work. I wear feathers in my hair. There is a magician wearing a suit in the back room you can only get to through a secret passageway and you have to know someone with the code. I know the code, but I'll need your credit card first. There are 5-8 people tending bar at any moment and on any given night I will dodge camera crews, mariachi bands, and girls in pasties to get you your drink. We really only have what's on the menu. Stick to the menu. Seriously. This is an opportunity to try something new. Do not try and impress me with the list of brands you usually drink. We won't have them and I won't have the time to be impressed. We don't serve beer or have the ingredients for a jack and ginger; we can't do a dirty martini and I won't really have time to talk about it with you. What I know is that what you get you will like and who you meet you will love. Come on down to Theater Bar y'all. It's a wild ride.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
The first day
Seems like everyone is getting hitched these days
but not me
my life as inconstant as the sea
what I want now more than to be loved
is to be free
I like my bar
And my boots
And my bag
All rough and used and torn along the edges
Things I could leave tomorrow if the road opened that way and ushered me on
To parts unknown
It would not be a painful parting
But a see you soon
And a be well in the in between
The in between the here and now
And who we will be then when it is different
After time does her trick
Her alchemy
I know people who can’t sleep for fear of change
I feel no pain for the in between
For it must happen as it happens
This miracle of the unfolding poetry
I am naming these the fallow years
When my truth is sleeping
Warm in brown dirt and blankets of bright green overcrop
With the knowledge that the future is coming
To make something
Of my potential energy
My big smile the most expensive piece about me
No jewels or gems
Just plastic trifles
Feathers
And sparkles
My life is dress up
And feel real
Sleep hard
And learn to love myself again
Because it is spring
And always a good time to learn
To love myself again
but not me
my life as inconstant as the sea
what I want now more than to be loved
is to be free
I like my bar
And my boots
And my bag
All rough and used and torn along the edges
Things I could leave tomorrow if the road opened that way and ushered me on
To parts unknown
It would not be a painful parting
But a see you soon
And a be well in the in between
The in between the here and now
And who we will be then when it is different
After time does her trick
Her alchemy
I know people who can’t sleep for fear of change
I feel no pain for the in between
For it must happen as it happens
This miracle of the unfolding poetry
I am naming these the fallow years
When my truth is sleeping
Warm in brown dirt and blankets of bright green overcrop
With the knowledge that the future is coming
To make something
Of my potential energy
My big smile the most expensive piece about me
No jewels or gems
Just plastic trifles
Feathers
And sparkles
My life is dress up
And feel real
Sleep hard
And learn to love myself again
Because it is spring
And always a good time to learn
To love myself again
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