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.
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