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."
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