I West Side Walk It Out

So, yesterday, I noticed that the other bartender was wearing jeans, flats and a casual shirt.  If I don't have to dress sexy, I'm not going to.  Plus, bartending in heels?  No.  I think not.

I'm wearing a tee shirt, shorts and flip flops when I arrive at the bar Friday night.  Boss man (el jefe) says to me: "you bring something?" pointing to my bag, meaning: "did you bring a change of clothes?"

"No... I noticed yesterday that the other bartender was dressed casually, so I thought that's what I should wear," I answered.

He spoke to the cocktail waitress and told her to fix me.

We went in the bathroom and she pulled out a bra with a lace halter overlayed on top of it and a black knit mesh top with silver rhinestones.  "Which one you wanna wear, mama?"

Uh... is neither an option?

Both options were trashy, but under no circumstances will I ever do rhinestones or glitter on clothing, so bra-top it was.  

"You look like you're going to the beach.  That's fucked up.  Yesterday, you were good; what happened, mama?"

"Well, I saw how the other bartender was dressed..."

"No no.  You do you.  You saw she got less tips than you.  You gotta stay sexy."

She then did my makeup.  I looked vampy.  Not feelin it.

Everyone who knows me and how I usually dress knows that I have absolutely no problems showing skin, being sexy, wearing provocative clothing... however, there's always an element of the playful, cute, fashionable or classy to everything sexy I wear.  And it's always my choice how I present myself.  No one tells me when to "sex it up"; I do that myself.

After the cocktail waitress left the bathroom I looked at myself in the mirror, wearing the lacy bra and my shorts, my eyes loaded with lavender and black eyeshadow.  I shook my head at my reflection.

"Nope.  Nuh-uh.  Not comfortable.  I'm not doing this."

I wasn't going to spend from 9 pm to 4 am behind a bar wearing next to nothing in a room full of men I can barely understand as they ogle my ta-tas.  It would be one thing if I were working at a bikini bar where ALL the bartenders are scantily clad... but I wasn't about to be the only one.  Hell no.  And it just looked... trashy.

I took off the bra top, put my own clothes back on, and washed the makeup off.  

I went over to El Jefe and said, "I'm not comfortable like that.  I can't wear that."

He said he understood and told me to have a seat and wait for him to talk to me.  I took a seat, but he didn't come over for about 20 minutes, and then only to say, "I'll be with you in 2 minutes."

As I waited, I texted my sister and my friends about the bra.  I watched men's heads turn to look at me as I sat in the window: sans makeup and casually, comfortably clothed.  Man, I'm cute.  I don't need to be damn near naked and wearing pounds of makeup to attract appreciative stares.  And if my smile and conversation don't do enough to bring me tips, then I'm in the wrong profession-- which I know I'm not.  This isn't the place for me.  I thought all this as I was sitting there.

I looked at my watch.  I looked at El Jefe, who was tinkering around on his computer although there was no one at the bar.

"Fuck this shit," I said under my breath and walked out.

...And then I went home and listed my day behind the bar as "guest bartender" experience.

Hustle, baby, hustle.

Lo Que Paso, Paso

Despite the premise of this blog, it's not always cocktails and crazy circumstances over here.  There is life beyond the bar.  

Michael Jackson died yesterday, which I'm still having trouble processing.  That cliche is true: you don't appreciate what you have until it's gone.  MJ had turned into the butt of so many jokes over the past... well... decade, really; and then, suddenly: he's dead.  Not like career dead, but... dead-dead, like "no coming back" dead.  I heard the news over Twitter, and then checked to make sure it wasn't some horrible rumor.  It was still sinking in when I opened up iTunes and put it on "You Are Not Alone".  And then I just start crying; like... CRYING.  

I remembered dancing to "Thriller" and "Remember the Time" in front of my best friend's TV when I was a little kid, memorizing the entire video.  I remembered bouncing around like a maniac with all the other kids when the "Mama-se, mama-sa, mama-coo-sa" (well, we said "Mama say, mama say, ma-mongoose-a") part in "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'" came on.  I remembered being in love and listening to "Break of Dawn" and "Butterflies" non-stop.  I remembered singing (horribly) "You Are Not Alone" over the phone to my boyfriend who was 200 miles away at the time.  I remembered blasting "Just Leave Me Alone" and "Privacy" during some of the angriest moments of my life thus far.

Michael Jackson's music; Michael Jackson the icon has seen me through a lot.  With his death felt like a part of me died.  So yes, I cried until I was red in the face, listening to his inimitable voice... but then "Bad" came on... and as I got dressed for work, I faced the mirror (still red in the face with eyelashes made inky black from tears) and started to dance like I was Badd.  And then "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" cued up and it was over.  

It struck me then that while lives may end; inspiration never dies.  I walked to the subway snapping my fingers and strutting my stuff with the iPod on MJ repeats.

Lo siento... solamente hablo un poquito de español...

So, dude called me Wednesday night (after I'd just left the set of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon and The Roots [OMG, so much fun.  I got a friggin free concert, standing RIGHT ABOVE the band]) and asked me if I could come in the next night as a cocktail waitress.  The place is all the way Uptown, like in Harlem, so I was like "eh, I'll call you tomorrow and let you know."  I was going to check around with more places in Brooklyn and Lower Manhattan and see if they were hiring before I committed to coming in.  They weren't, so I came in.

"What should I wear?" I asked.

"Sexy, he replied.

"I'm sorry?" I thought I'd heard him wrong.

"Eh... like a girl.  Heels, heels."

"Uh, kay," I said.  I put on a black racerback tank top, satin and cotton black shorts, a black and silver waist belt, layered pearls, and black heels.  I'm lookin' pretty damn hot... so I cover it all up with sweatpants.  Just in case, I text everyone I know in New York and let them know where I'm going to be and when I'm supposed to be home, just incase I someone abducts me as I'm walking to or from the train in the early hours of the morning.

I get there and it's like, a total Latin club.  I only look Hispanic, and I only speak enough Spanish to tell someone that I don't speak Spanish very well and my comprehension is slow.  

The dude gives me a little pre-cursory interview or whatever and tells me about how he was short staffed and his business was suffering because he had a problem with one of the really popular cocktail waitresses who quit, taking customers and the other cocktail waitress with her.  After mulling over the fact that I didn't speak much Spanish, but had bartending experience, he gave me my interview sitting in the front window of the place and he noticed how many men slowed down to ogle me as I was sitting there.  He put me behind the bar.

I'm proud to say that I made $25 off of like four people on an incredibly slow night and I couldn't even hold a conversation with half of them.  This one dude even bought me 3 glasses of "wine."  I also learned how to bachata and merengue, dancing with this older guy from Panama.

However, I'm not going to stay at this bar.  I'm staying long enough to put NY "guest bartender" experience on my resume and that's it.  The other bartender, who's only been there for 2 weeks and is leaving 2 weeks from now, is going to try to hook me up with a Brooklyn bar job.  (It's funny: she actually is Domincan, but I look more Hispanic than she does; she was really surprised when I said I was, "black, white and Native American," but she went on to say, "well, that's what we are, though.  If you're black, you're some kinda mix... wherever those slave ships took you...").  

Butchea...  It's an hour commute for me and the hours are from 9pm - 4am, which leaves me staggering home at 5 am, hating my life.  Plus, the language barrier is probably going to become a problem.  I'm surprised I was able to flirt without being able to converse that much.  So... still on the hunt.  In the meantime, I've got work at 8 pm until 4 am today.  Lovely.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

As I step back behind the bar after dancing the bachata with an older gentleman from Panama, he leans against the bar to say:

"I'm fucked up.  You make me feel 18 again."

I laugh and smile broadly.  "That's what I'm supposed to do."

Tales from the Hunt

I spent the entirety of last night on Craigslist, responding to postings.

I got one hit back from this Latin club within an hour of sending them my shizzle.  They wanted an interview today.

Between my "of indeterminate and curiously mixed heritage" looks and the general pretty-hot-and-tempting nature of my bartending photos, I think that's what got me such a rapid hit back... because it definitely couldn't have been my skimp resume.

I woke this morning (later than I meant to) and did more Craigslist stuff, and then I got ready to skiddadle and go to my interview.  An hour away.

I would prefer to work somewhere closer to my apartment or my school, but beggars can't be choosy.  And although I'm currently living off of money from my trust fund, I don't want to keep doing that.  I'd like it to remain there as a cushion.  So!  Off I went into the pouring rain to hop on a train in hope of the gain... of a job.  (I never was that good at rhyming.).  

Smart Nikki remembered to bring her resume and photo selection as well as my mixology certificate (not that it actually means much).

Stupid Nikki forgot to bring the number I was supposed to call to be let into the building.  Luckily, Stupid Nikki has great friends whom I can trust to go into my email account for me and find vital information.  Lucky Nikki.

So, I go into the club and there's like 6 young Latina women practicing for a beauty pageant or something.  The guy directing them across the floor is SO flamboyant.  Cross-culturally, the dynamic of the small-town beauty pageant/fashion show/hair show is the same.  Lots of young women with stars and dollar signs in their eyes and some guy in some combination of silk, leather and spandex with a slight lisp showing them how to strut in heels.  I love universality.

I'm met by the bar manager, who gives me a rapid interview.

As she scanned over my resume, her eyebrows rose, "Oh, you went to bartending school, good good.  ...So how much experience you have?"

I thought about lying on my resume, but you can't lie about years of behind-the-bar experience when you're OBVIOUSLY only 21.  And I wasn't about to say 6 months; hell no!  "Well, I've been bartending unofficially since I was seventeen," I laughed easily.

"Well, I'll put down 5 years then," she smiled back.

Score!

She took a look at my photo selection.  "Wow.  Beautiful.  Very nice.  Yeah, I remember these pictures."

Yep.  I look pretty killa-killa in a bikini, yo!

Score!  I took a memorable photo!

We talked a little more about the club and what my requirements would be.  I made sure to tell her I speak Spanish.  (I wasn't lying.  I speak enough Spanish to get by.  We just have to keep it to the present or past tense.  And speak mas despacio and use simple words and phrases, por favor.).  

It's all the way uptown (or I'll be in the Bronx location), but l don't mind that right now.  I just want to make money.  Plus!  If I get hired by this club I'll get to practice my Spanish (and probably learn some creative phrases, lol) and learn some new dances.  I can sacrifice an hour of time for cultural enlightenment.  If they want to train me, I'll find out by the end of the week.

In the meantime:

Going for another interview in Queens tomorrow.  Randomly stopping by two Brooklyn bars as well.  Still all over Craigslist.

hustleBABYhustle.

And The Hunt Commences.

Ah-giggidy-giggidy-alright!

I'm all moved in to my New York apartment (mostly).  The only furniture I've got in my bedroom is... a bed and a lamp.  The fridge is skimp and we've got two ottomans as chairs for our beautiful dining room table... but other than that =)  Even though the move-in process was SO whack!  I swear, my life HAS to take some kind of random turn on a daily basis...  Otherwise it just wouldn't be my life.

FROM THE BEGINNING:

My father was supposed to come with me to pick up my U-Haul on Thursday (otherwise how was I going to bring my car back home?), but he had a meeting, so I called my friend DjG, who always, always comes through in a pinch.  Seriously, no matter what I've needed from him, if he can find a way to make it happen, he makes it happen.  Unfortunately, U-Haul is not so reliable.  The computer system went down at the dealer I picked the U-Haul up from, so it took the man an HOUR to give me my U-Haul.  I feel like I should've gotten an emotional hardship discount, but whatever.  I was patient and well-mannered despite the serious fuckery to my evening plans.  DjG drove the U-Haul to my house for me (because I'm a punk) and I drove him to his afterwards in my smaller, more manageable Honda.  Then I had to pick my dad up from the Metro station.  Then I arrived an hour and a half late to dinner with the BFBFs.

You know what true friends do after you arrive an hour and a half late to dinner the day before you move 200 miles away?  They have your plate of food sitting there for you, buy you a drink, and promise to come over and help you pack.  Thus making the stress from your day completely melt away.  So the-en, after helping me pack and load in the cold, dark 1 am rain, (while doing crazy things like turning my chain belt into a leash...) they left and I went to sleep, only to wake up a 7 am so I could be on my way at 9.

Another friend of mine drove the U-Haul to NY for me (because again, I am a punk when it comes to driving large vehicles; I think I've been scarred by driving the herky-jerky bucket that was my dad's Rodeo [think: driving a mechanical bull]) and on the way we got a ticket for driving too slow in the left lane.  The cop got all aggressive and started spouting nonsense like, "you said you're coming from Maryland and those are Arizona tags, do you know why those are there?"  (Uh... no... this is a RENTED U-Haul).  "You're causing a traffic hazard driving that slow in the left lane.  And then when I tried to signal you over to the right, you slowed down even more."  (Wouldn't you slow down if you thought a cop was trying to pull you over?  And are U-Hauls supposed to speed down the freeway in the rain?  It's a speed LIMIT, not a speed MINIMUM).  And he wouldn't let my friend get an word in edgewise.  And when he wasn't talking, he wasn't listening; he was scanning the interior of the U-Haul with his soulless gray-blue eyes trying to gauge whether or not he could write another ticket for anything.  Ugh... but after that, we made it to NY in pretty good time.

SO THEN:

I proudly go to open the door to my apartment and I find that it's already open.  I hear voices inside.  What the...?  I walk in and the place is a complete and utter mess!  The place is covered in drywall powder and there are food cartons and cups just sitting out.  There's even a chair just sitting in the middle of my room!  Excuse me; I thought my lease started June 1.  We signed a contract saying all the work needed to make the apartment ready for move-in would be done by JUNE 1.

Bewildered, I walked towards where the voices were coming from and found the super and the landlord.

"Er... hi; I'm the new tenant here.  I was supposed to move into the apartment today..." I began.

"Which apartment?" the landlord asked.

"This one."

"So what the problem is?"

I blinked.  "Well, the place is a mess!"

"What you mean 'mess'?"

THAT is only the beginning of what I mean "mess," Sir.

So then, I asked him what to do about it and he told me to call the super.

"Wasn't that the super standing next to you?" I asked.

"No, no.  It's another one."  

So he gives me the other super's number and leaves.  I call it and the guy is like, "I'll call you back."  Never does.  The super I know comes upstairs and is like, "yeah, we're closed.  The Jewish Sabbath starts at 2 pm on Friday, and when he's shut down, we're all shut down.  You won't be able to reach him until 9 am on Sunday."

My eyes bugged out.  "So I can't get anyone to clean this place until then?  What am I supposed to do with a full U-Haul full of stuff sitting outside?"

He was sympathetic, but his hands were tied.  The cute guys (mmm, dreads) from across the hall witnessed my struggle and helped me bring my things into the ONLY untarnished room in the apartment.

I called my father, described the situation, and he called my landlord and subtly threatened legal action if the place weren't cleaned and ready for me to move into by the end of the day.

I texted my ex (who lives down the street... great, right?) about my problems; he called and I vented about the state of my apartment.  He offered to come by and take pictures of its hellish condition, giving me documented evidence that any nicks and scratches upon my move-in were not caused by me and my boxes.  So, there I am, about to see my ex for the first time since November when I drunkenly railed at him (actually I think every time I've railed at him, I've been drunk...), dressed in beat-up old lime green sneakers, ratty old sweats and a figure-obscuring tee with my hair pulled back in a bun, emphasizing my generally angry/stressed/helpless appearance.  Not that he cares what I look like, but I'm a pretty darn attractive female and I do have some pride, meaning: I hate looking busted.

He arrives, takes pictures.  

A clean-up crew arrives.  Ha!  Sabbath my ass... threaten legal action and I get a clean up crew in my place; office closed until Sunday at 9 am or not!

My friend has to catch the bus back to B'More, and since again, I'm a punk, my ex drives the U-Haul to the nearest drop-off for me and permits me to change and take a shower at his place since there's a crew of guys in my apartment and I have to be at my orientation at Parsons (I'm a fashion design student) in thirty minutes.  Obviously, that's not going to happen, but I go anyway.  And once I'm there and hear everything the students and professors are saying...

I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.  I couldn't be happier with my decision to go to business school first and THEN fashion school.  I couldn't be happier that I got into Parsons.  I couldn't be happier that I'm living in New York (although I really miss the sweet smell of the air in Maryland because the air up here is wreaking havoc on my respiratory system and is making my hair do some CRAZY things).  I just feel like things in my life are falling into place exactly the way they should and I'm excited to see #whatcomesnext.  (Follow me on Twitter @MixmasterNikki).  I'm anxious for Life.

So What DOES Come Next?

Well, I've finished revamping my bartending resume, I've designed and printed my business cards myself, and someone is coming by on Monday to take pictures of me for my photo selection.  I've done internet research and asked my friends about the hot spots in New York (but not too hot... things that are trendy really annoy me.  If I have to work the "hipster" crowd, I think I might shoot myself in the face from pretentious asshat overload).  I'll be responding to Craigslist gigs and job postings.  I will make at least $2,000 a month.  (Yes, that's living pretty close to the edge, but once I've got some experience and such, I expect I'll be able to pull in between $3K and $4K).  Not that I saw much of it because I was paying bills, but working in the hood in DC, I pulled in roughly $1 - $1.5K, taking home only $75 - $100 a week and between $80 and $160 home a night.  

I'll make it.  

I'm gonna be your favorite NYC bartender and, eventually, an amazing, award-winning fashion designer.  =)

Back in a Flash! (No Pun Intended)

I was out with one of my best friends, eating at Olive Garden, shopping at Victoria's Secret, when I got The Call/Text.  I thought Sunday was my last official day of work at The Club, but, because my boss had a family emergency, I got called in to work on Monday as well.  Most people would probably be beyond annoyed that their place of work called them after business hours while they were out enjoying themselves to see if they could come into work on a day that's not on your schedule, the day after you had your "last day."  ...But my job is kinda different.

For one, I really feel like I'm a part of a family, and even though I'm one of those people that will always, always answer, "yes," when someone asks me for help if I can, I'd do it anyway just because I feel like I'm part of something bigger than me.  (OR I just get emotionally attached to people and places really easily.).  So anyway, I rolled to work and got there at about 11 pm wearing my favorite day dress, and let me just say... I wish I'd been working Mondays all year because Amateur Night is effing HILARIOUS!

Stage Virgins

It's really easy to tell who's an amateur and who isn't.  No matter how bold a woman is, it's one thing to be mentally ready to dance around and take off your clothes; it's quite another to actually do it.  You've got to be completely comfortable and confident.  You've got to believe that everyone in that room wants you, will do anything for you, and thinks you look amazing no matter what you're doing.  Any little insecurity results in hesitation, stiffness and indecision.

These two amateurs tried to do a routine together, but it was so horribly timed and disorganized.  Afterwards, my boss told one of them:

"You and your friend's little routine was a little awkward, but you looked good up there.  Just work on it a little bit.  You got the job."

He took a harder look at her.  "Are you pregnant?"  She shook her head.  "Just had a baby... about... 3 months ago?"  She nodded.  "Get started doing some sit ups; you gotta lose that baby fat.  And we'll talk about some breast implants."  

Also... costume choice.   Lingerie is not an appropriate stripping costume.  It just looks weird for you to be wearing Victoria's Secret on the stage; Frederick's of Hollywood, maybe.  And if you're going to wear lingerie, don't wear church shoes with it!  Strip club = stripper shoes.  Church = church shoes.  Ecclesiastes 3... there's a time and place for everything.  ...I guess I did get kinda hypocritical there by bringing the Bible into my blog about stripping and alcohol... =)

As my boss got on the mic, hyping up the crowd, introducing the dancers, he was sure to throw in:

"I stand outside of high schools, recruiting.  If your daughter's over the age of 18, I'll be outside of her high school."  

He said he was just joking later.

...And Then There Was She-Rah.

We all looked up as she took the stage.  She was wearing a red PVC body suit and a lot of honey blonde weave and a lot of fire-engine red lipstick matching her costume.  She looked at the crowd mischievously, with a playfully cocky tilt of her head; playful like rough games without any rules.

"She looks like a dominatrix," my manager pointed.

And when the music dropped, she proved her right.  I thought I'd seen it all when she did a handstand into backbend into a split on top of the other girl...  But then she PICKED the other girl up, FLIPPED her over (spread eagled, in the air), SPANKED her, LICKED her ass and simulated various other sexual acts on her body.

"What the hell!?" I covered my mouth.

Most of the men in the crowd, in stead of being turned on, seemed to be a little scared.  

"I told you she was crazy," my manager shook her head.

Later on that night as my boss was changing out people's singles, we joked about what we'd seen.

"Crazy people strong as a mothafucka," he laughed.

Final Words

I wish the bar sat up higher so I could've seen everything going on on stage because even with the little bit I did manage to see, it kept me laughing all night long.  If you're able to go to amateur night at a strip club, I would highly recommend it.  Even if the dancing is bad, you'll be highly entertained.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

My boss to a customer:

"Yeah!  Beat that ass with that money!"

LMAO.

Until We Meet Again

So, yesterday was my last day (kind of) at work.  I say "kind of" because I'll be back.  I have to come back to DC every 6 weeks for my braces, and I'll be back some random weekends, so whenever I'm back, I'm going to work on either Friday or Saturday.  I made out pretty good on my last day: $131 with no one in the club and a business card I will actually use!  It was a pretty slow night, but I appreciated it... it's nice to have a lazy Sunday evening.  But accompanying lazy music is not necessary...

Heartbreak at the Strip Club

Before the DJ gets to the club, customers must feed the jukebox in order to keep the music going.  Customers usually pick a mix of 2Pac, Biggie, Luda, Jay-Z, Beyonce, Gucci Mane and Three 6 Mafia with some others thrown in.  Today, I guess someone was feeling the pain because their woman left them or something because they definitely selected some slow, dragging, depressing ballad, "What Have I Done With My Life."  My manager and I looked at each other and cracked up.  

"This is just depressing," I shook my head.

"Turn that mess off!" she hollered over to the doorman.

How are you supposed to enjoy yourself to depressing music?  How are the strippers supposed to dance to that?  The song was promptly turned off and Gorilla Zoe was promptly turned on.

 Lookin' Good Can Get You in Trouble

As I'm engaged in the process of packing for my Big Move, I've got very little of my clothing available to wear, so I had to leave the house in my little red dress I've had since high school.  My father looked at me as I was leaving and said, "that's kind of short, isn't it?"

"It's the last red thing I have in my closet," I shrugged.

"You have to wear red?"

I nodded.

"Be careful," he sighed.

Truth.  It wasn't my customers who couldn't handle it, though, it was Dallas, the barback.  As I sat on the stool behind the bar, texting away on my phone, setting up my plans to move my stuff, he came over to me shaking his head.

"You look so good, I'm gonna have to take you home with me."

Ew.  Double Ew.  I smiled thinly and shook my head.  "No, sir."

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle.  I'll treat you like the queen you are."

Ew!  EW!!!  I shook my head again.  Then, later, he actually touched my knee and said, "I'll give those nice legs a good massage."

GET AWAY FROM ME!  GROSSGROSSGROSS!!!

What is it with nasty old men?  Why do they think young, pretty girls want anything to do with them?  Why do they let such nastiness come out of their mouths?  Speaking of which...

Nasty Old Man Strikes Again

So, Nasty Old Man came back around today.  He had a long conversation with me about my move to New York, asking if I was going to be living with my (imaginary) boyfriend.  I told him no, but that we wouldn't be living that far off from one another.

"That's good, you got your own thing going.  He has his own thing, you got your own thing.  Ooh, you're gonna be somethin' to see in about five, ten years.  You're a ripe little peach right now, but New York is gonna turn you out.  You'll learn; see, you're loyal to your man now because you're living by the code that's been instilled in you.  I'm gonna come find you in a couple of years."

He then asked me my name, which I gave.  He told me his full name as well, and coincidentally his last name is an old family name of mine.

"That's a family name," I told him.  "My grandmother hails from that family."

He blinked.  "Well, there's a lot of us around.  Were you trying to tell me something."

"Only that I might be your cousin, so you might not want to mess around with me."

We got on the topic of my family from the South and how prominent they've been in the area since the late 1800s, and he said, "oh.  So I've been pickin' with a daughter of the upper crust?  I just thought about some of the things I've said to you.  I was comin' at you real..."

"Yeah," I said.  "I'm a suburban girl.  I'm not used to that."

"No, no.  It's you suburban girls and Catholic school girls that are the nastiest, 'cause ya'll have been repressed.  Once you get on your own, you go wild."

He then advised me to be sexually liberated, but to have safe sex, and to never allow a man to dictate my decisions and to be open-minded about life.  All good advice; none of which I needed.  He has no idea who he's dealing with.  I look innocent.

"I'm gonna find you and come after you," he promised.  "You'll have to let me taste it; you owe me."

"I owe you?" I arched an eyebrow.

"Well... not owe... just... for old times' sake."

"I don't owe anyone anything," I gave my half-smile and slid him his Heineken.  

A Calling Card I WILL Use

As the next customer came up to the bar, Nasty Old Man passed behind him.  "When are you leaving?" he shouted in my direction.

"This is my last day," I replied.

He pantomimed crying and grabbed at his heart.

I rolled my eyes and shooed him away.  "He'll live," I told my next customer.

"You'll live," he corrected me.  "I don't know about him."

I laughed.

"Where are you moving to?" he asked.

"New York."

"Oh really?  My family's from Brooklyn.  I'm a Marylander, but that's where my family's from.  I'm up there all the time."

"Oh?  Know any nice clubs and such?  I'll be looking for a job soon."

"I don't, but my cousins probably do.  Here's my card, feel free to email me."

"Definitely," I nodded.  I think I actually will be using that card.  He's a visual artist, for one.  I may need his services sometime in the near future, and trust... I need to know which club areas to gravitate towards and stay away from.  

After he walked away from the bar he came back a couple of minutes later, shaking his head.  "I was so distracted by your beauty I forgot to tip you.  I was raised better than that... you are really beautiful, though."

Aw!  Smiles =)

Getting Hit On by Women as Opposed to Men

It's been my experience that, typically, women are a lot more direct and aggressive than men when they go after other women.  There was this one girl that had class with me that licked her ice cream really suggestively when she saw me in the cafeteria.  Awkward.  At the bar, this woman asked me for a Raspberry Cosmo, and after I made it (just looking at it I could tell it was good, ya'll) she took a sip and told me, "oooh!  Girl, you did the damn thing!" and winked at me.

Then, she said, "but the next time you serve me, I'm gonna need to see some ID."

"Yeah, I know I look like I'm sixteen."

"You really do.  How old are you?"

"Twenty one.  I guess I'll appreciate my young face when I'm like 35."

"Yeah, you'll look really good then. You're a cutie.  And your braces are sexy."

Eep.  I don't know how to handle advances from women yet.  I generally just pretend like I don't know what they're doing.  Men are one thing; even if they're hard-headed, once you say "no," they back off/only go after you jokingly.  Women, on the other hand, have to know: 1) I'm not into women, 2) you can't MAKE me into women, and 3) I'm not trying to get picked up at work anyway.

I'm In Love with the Dope Boys

Sorry, but drug dealers tip really well.  I'm not trying to work in the hood when I move up to NY because I know the hoods in DC; I'm unfamiliar with the different levels of hoodishness in NY, but...  When you do work in the hood, your drug-peddling customers aren't really affected by recessions, and they always buy top shelf liquor and tip well.  Anyone who spends $124 on liquor and tips me $25 is good in my books.  These Wall Street mofos better be on the same level or higher.  They make even bigger, legal money.  (Well, bigger money than the lower-level street hustlers, anyway.).

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

Me to Nasty Old Man:  "I don't owe anyone anything."

Damn straight.  I answer to my own personal code and God ONLY.