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.