Alright, you asked for it...

So, I'm going to continue blogging even though I'm not behind a bar right now. I decided to spend the rest of my summer being a fake socialite, hopping from one social engagement to the next. But really, you know, this is all field research: how am I supposed to know where I want to bartend if I don't go clubbin?

That's my story and I'm stickin to it.

In any case, my shenanigans will still be posted here. So! To begin:

I really love my building; my neighbors are extra cool. The guys that live across the hall invited us out to go to this (free!) party in the Village. Up until now, my partying has been limited to Chelsea, so this was my first Village night. The Village = Adams Morgan on speed. I can definitely see myself bar hopping around until 5 am.

The club we went to was kind of empty, but the DJ was NICE, and we had fun watching the white people dance. Now, all white people are not physically incapable of dancing. I've been on dance teams with plenty of white people, and they have proven that generalization to be false. HOWEVER, I have never seen a black person dance quite like this:

Yes. It was that bad. I'm not one to ruin anyone else's fun, but sometimes you just wonder: does this person realize that NO ONE else is moving like Gumby?

The roomies and I also found THE pre-game bar. 5 shots of ANYTHING for $10. That's just reckless. (And I love it). So the game plan whenever drinks are in order is to go there, get nice, then go to the club (where entry may be free, but drinks will cost a grip).

The story of the night, though, is the Afrocentric Puerto Rican construction worker-cowboy-hippie rapper/storyteller that provided us with subway entertainment on the way home. So, we're at the W 4th St. station, talking, waiting on the A train (which is taking FOREVER)... all of a sudden, our conversation is overpowered by loud banging and screaming rapping. We observe a short, stubby sort of fellow with sleepy eyes and plastic figurine mini fan necklace (which he was using as a mic), ripping his vocal cords to give us his message:

"You SICK wit' it; you ACT wit' it! Africa! Africa! Ooooo whatcha gonna do? Ooooo whatcha gonna do?"

He was so loud, we had to join in with our dancing, backup singing and beat-boxing. When he finished his song, one of my roomies entreated him to keep going.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why not?" she countered.

He continued. ...Even onto the train (when it finally came), where the rhymes got even more ridiculous: "We all gon' win, we all gon' win; we can't lose. Touchdown! Goal! Ooooh, whatcha gonna do? Ooooh, who you gonna call? Africa! Africa!" So, of course, we're all laughing and dancing along... until he gets to his second song:

"They all gon' laugh at you! They all gon' laugh at you!"

Everyone stopped laughing. We didn't know whether or not we should expect the next line to be:

"And then you get your revenge!" Complete with him going on a crazed attack on his fellow subway riders with his mini-fan.

Thankfully, he didn't. He did, however, tell my roomie, "I like you," and told her that he wanted to fall asleep on the train and wake up with her on his lap. He even made up a rap about it:

"Satin, silk lingerie with lace in the middle! I just wanna see you skeet! It's animal instinct! You just get inside and uuuunh!"

Good times.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

"I rep Brooklyn; Bed-Stuy... I rep Coney Island... Madison Square Garden... Midtown... Jamaica, Queens... I rep the Boogie Down too... I can't remember where it is, but I rep that shit. Canada too: I been to Buffalo."

-the same Afrocentric Puerto Rican construction worker-cowboy-hippie rapper/storyteller

...Sir. Buffalo is NOT in Canada!

Sayonara Sunday

That's right, I'm saying goodnight and goodbye to the bikini bar.  (I'm horribly fickle, I know.).  Reasons why:

1.  I can't hide my attitude problem with my boss.  I refuse to be ordered around like a dog.  I'm just not doing it, and I don't respect anyone who does it to me.  You tell me, "go talk to them," and I will answer, "alright, already!"  I know it's rude.  I know I'm the employee here.  But I don't consider that a real job and I'm not going to defer to such behavior.  Accordingly, my boss doesn't like me.

ASIDE: I don't know when I got like this, but I'm a lot less close-lipped than I used to be.  I used to take everything with a smile, but now I'm more "nice when I deem the cause worthy".  I... I... I think I'm becoming a bitch.  (Only when it's deserved, of course!).

2.  The customers get on my nerves.  After I reply, "no, I'm a bartender, not a prostitute," after you ask me to go with you tonight, do not ask me, "why not?"  ...Excuse me?  These perverts.

ASIDE:  I feel like I've got a pretty good handle on who I am and who I'm not; where I belong and where I don't.  I can chill in an environment I don't belong in for a minute, but I know it's not the place for me.  I feel like as long as you know who you are, it doesn't matter where you are, you can't get lost.

So, for all my family members who may be out there, reading all of my crazy tales: don't worry about me.  Of course, I don't know everything about who I am, but I know who I'm not.

3.  I made my rent money!  Consequently, I have no further use for that place.

4.  Boss Man took me off schedule (because he doesn't like me), which works perfectly for me because I didn't want to come back next week anyway.  Hel-lo free time!

This other bar wants to hire me to dance (salsa, merengue, etc.) with customers and bartend, but I want to work at a club, where the main focus isn't the bar.  It's more my speed.

I like really fast-paced places where I can keep my conversations with customers short and sweet, where I'm always moving so the night goes by quickly, where I don't have to work 5 frickin days a week.  ...Where there isn't a chance for customers to get perverted with me.  

So... bigger clubs, here I come.  I've got some NYC bartending experience under my belt: my resume has had its butt shots.  Let's go.

Before I left the bikini bar, I had the proper send off though.  We gave a Cablevision customer service rep (I actually think he might've been one of the ones I got loud and indignant with... whoops), the night of his life: five girls dancing for him at once.  He tipped us $20 each.  And another guy tipped me $20 just because I looked Dominican and he said I would fit right in in his country.  

Again: RENT MADE!

CHILL TIME shall commence once again.  Time to make a list of dance clubs and concert halls, etc.

I'm living in NYC: life comes at you fast.

Smack-a-Ho Saturday

Seriously, Mexico almost got herself smacked by the rest of us at varying points throughout the night.  I'm not a violent person, I'm not a rude person, and I won't call you on your transgressions until they get to the point where I can't just shrug them off.  ...This trick pushed me to the point where I couldn't contain myself and pulled the, "oh no she DIDN'T!" face in front of customers and had to turn and walk away.

Reasons Why A Ho Almost Got Smacked:

1.  You have been working at this jont for the longest time (4 weeks).  Congratulations!  That means: you have been working at this jont for four weeks.  It doesn't mean you can give orders.  It doesn't mean the rest of us want (or need) to hear your "helpful hints".  And it certainly doesn't mean you're an expert bartender.  So keep your running commentary to yourself!!

EXAMPLE:  There was an incident where the New New Girl (just started today because Drunkie got fired) had a guy who gave her a $10 bill and said he gave her a $20.  Boss Man ended up giving the man his $10 back because he "didn't want to argue over $10."  At the end of the night, when Boss Man informed her that her drawer was short by $10, she reminded him of this incident.  It was an A-and-B conversation... so why did Mexico chime in with:

"To avoid that you should just put the money on top of the register before you ring it in."

OMFG!  NO ONE ASKED YOU!

As New New Girl put it this morning when we were riding the train home, "you know how they say most cops were once those kids who everybody bullied and then they grew up and got guns and now they think they run everything?  Yeah, well, that was probably her.  She was probably the nerdy kid who got picked on, and now Boss Man gave her some little bit of props 'cause she's been here the longest and she took it and ran with it."

2.  Never, ever, ever, is it acceptable to jump across someone while they're engaged in conversation.  And it's beyond rude to do it twice.  Next time I'm able to predict that shit before you do it, I'm sticking my hand out in the vicinity of your throat and choppin yo' ass "on accident".

I was smiling, laughing, talking to a customer and this trick LEAPS across me and leans on the bar to talk to someone else.  And then she lost her balance... so she did it AGAIN!  Was she raised by wolves or something?  Where they do that at?

Ho... you bout to get smacked.

3.  It's understood that we're all hustlers behind the bar, however, you do not step in on someone else's hustle.  It's obvious this trick doesn't have an understanding of hood rules: everyone has their own hustle... and you don't interfere with what isn't yours.

Trick, if I'm talking to a customer, don't lean in and ask him if he wants something else to drink.  I GOT IT.

And it's not just like I'm being passive and she's being aggressive and I need to get on her level; no.  She has done it to everyone at the bar.  New New Girl was standing all the way at the far end of the bar and Mexico literally runs from the other side, butts in, and asks the guy what he wants.

She did that to me the other day, and tried that mess again today, but I remembered what the guy had been drinking and had it waiting for him before he sat down.  And then I asked what his friend wanted. +$12 to me, trick.  (We get paid off of sales commission too... that's why she's so pressed.).  She managed to do that a couple of times to New New Girl, who turned to me and said, "man, I told Boss Man about her.  She's a toe-stepper; yeah, well I bite bitches."

4.  Don't send me off on errands so my back is turned to the bar and you can scoop new customers coming in, or refill more glasses.

I know she doesn't have short-term memory loss, so why would she ask me if I had change three times in the span of 30 minutes to an hour?  The last time she asked me, I finally had to say:

"No!  This is the third time you've asked me that.  Go ask Boss Man to open the change box."

Ho, you 'bout to get smacked.  It was no surprise that she made more than $250 in sales and got her 10% commission while the rest of us were stuck 5%.  I've got no problem with my co-workers making their money; as long as they do it respectfully.

Reasons Why My Boss Deserves to Get Smacked:

1.  Don't ask me why I'm "constantly leaning against the counter".  If everyone appears to be entertained: their cups are full, they're engaged in conversation, or they're watching the dancing going on... I'm not about to jump in and interrupt the merry-making.  It's funny how he's always watching me when I have downtime, but never when I'm talking, making a drink, or taking an order.

2.  Don't shine a flashlight in my eye to get my attention.  This aint COPS.

3.  Don't tell me I made a mistake when I didn't... 'cause I will correct you; boss or not.  I, ever so responsibly, informed him that I accidentally input six cents instead of six dollars into the register.  This man's response was, "again?"  

I replied, "no.  I only did it once."  

He goes: "no.  You did it twice; I corrected it.  I'll show you the tape."

So, later, when he shows me the tape, it shows that I input 6 cents ONCE and he corrected for it with 6 dollars ONCE.

"Yeah, like I said," I nodded.

Special People Make the World Go 'Round

I gotta give a shout out to the characters who made the night worth getting out of bed for:

New New Girl, who is certifiably crazy.  She's loud, dances non-stop, and says the most outrageous things.

Are You High, Sir?  The customer who I really think was high.  He was moving in slow motion, nothing seemed to faze him, and he had this one dance move: arms raised in the "Victory!" position, index fingers pointed, moving as few muscles as possible while bobbing along with the music (in slow motion, still).  He kept everyone laughing and imitating him.

The A Train Companions, these two guys who sat and talked with New Girl and I until we got off the train.  They were cute and nice.  And!  Dude said he liked Raheem, Wale and Tabi Bonney! =)

Tip Jar: Married white men tip really well and they're easily impressed.  You don't have to work hard for them at all: you can even just stand there and smile... they've never seen anything quite like you before.

...Fa'realz? Friday

Let me begin by saying that working the crazy hours I work will leave you without a sense of date or time.  And judging by how empty the bar was last night, I don't think anyone else knew it was Friday either.  We even got a new bartender (I like her, she's cool) to bring the total up to five for the night.  Turns out that was unnecessary.  Fa'realz?

...A Wig?  Fa'realz?

Yeah.  I had to go out and buy a lace front wig because I absolutely refuse to put heat on my hair everyday.  Do you know what kind of damage that does?  My hair is my most prized possession (okay, not really... but it's close), it's the essence of my being; I can't let that kind of harm come to it.  I like the wig; it takes all the effort out of doing my hair and protects it from damage, all in one.  I might just wear it everywhere.  ...Sike.  

Fa'Realz, Yo... Everything Is Not About the Hustle!

Bartenders are hustlers; they're entrepreneurial.  However, your customers should not get a sense of this, because then they won't come back.  I understand trying to get your money, but people don't like to feel worked over and taken advantage of.  I understand trying to sell $250 worth of liquor so you can get your 10% commission, but respect your other bartenders' hustle while you do it.  The bartender who's been there the longest (4 weeks), let's call her Mexico, because that's where her family's from, seems to think she works the bar alone.  When one bartender is talking to a customer, you do not go up to the customer and ask them if they want something else to drink.  (Especially when it's the new bartender and she hasn't had that many sales yet).  I mean, look... if you lose a sale today, you'll get one tomorrow.  My boss at the strip club had to tell the cocktail waitresses: respect each other's hustle-- you might have to work the dead section tonight, but the next night will make up for it.  Don't be ruled by the hustle.

You Have NO Authority Here... Fa'Realz.

Mexico was being generally annoying otherwise, too, though.  If you're standing "in her way" whatever she deems that to be, she'll shoo you over with her hands (something I HATE).  And she spent the whole night giving directions to the rest of us for no reason.  New Girl and I were cracking up about it this morning as we rode the train home.  (Yes!  I have someone to ride the train with!).  Some people just like to give directions, down to the way you put the tip money in the tip jar.  It really pisses me off (I have a problem with anyone putting me in a position of inferiority, actually), and I'll get curt or go silent with anyone who does it.  So... shut up, please?  Tha-anks!

Fa'Reals?  You Gonna Play Good Cop/Bad Cop Like That?

A bunch of off-duty cops came in today.  And being cops, you would think they would (a) know the rules, and (b) obey them.  So sir, you should know better than to ask to, "take all the girls out to breakfast."  Nope.  Not gonna happen.

And then this guy tried to play Good Cop/Bad Cop with me.  His friend was a little mouthy, but he was funny (he gave his name as Eddie Spaghetti, lol), so it was okay.  Dude who tried to play Good Cop turned to me and was like, "I think my friend wants more than...  I think he wants more than... just... look out for yourself, okay?"  And then he kissed my hand.

I think you want "more than".  I'm not stupid; don't do me.

I don't know why he tried to pull that, considering he had just told me earlier, "you're a pretty girl, but I can see you've got a tough mind; keep that mentality wherever you go."  It was in the context of talking about traveling abroad.  I really, really want to study abroad in Italy and France, and he told me that Milan was The GHETTO and Paris sucked.  (My father has told me before that Paris is the pits, as well).  

"You know, you think because you're from New York that you know what's what; that you're hard, that you've seen everything... but let me tell you: you aint seen nothin.  Man, Europe is bad, man.  And Milan?  Milan is the worst ghetto ever.  Paris... it sucks... I been everywhere: Italy... Rome, Florence, Venice, Milan... been to Russia, Morocco, south of France...  There aint nowhere like America."  

Duly noted.  I still want to take that two week drawing course in France though.

Fa'Realz?  You Gon' Go Off Like That?  I Aint the One.

Like I said: I have a problem with anyone putting me in a position of inferiority.  And definitely don't curse at me.  My father wouldn't talk to me that way (okay... well... depends on what I did to make him angry).  I feel like the owner of the bar was just upset because it was dead on a Friday and he was losing out on money, but don't take that shit out on us.  And he had a problem with one of the bartenders who let a customer touch her.  So... why did he yell at all of us about it?  That right there is why he can't keep a consistent staff.  That right there is why I'm working for 3 weeks: long enough to pay my rent and expenses and that's it.

And then, he got attitudinal with the New Girl for being nice to a customer.  The man had spent two rounds of $70 with her on drinks; he was drunk.  She offered him a glass of water from the tap.

Boss Man came over to her and said, "what did you just do?"

"Well, he was drunk, so I gave him a glass of water."

"No.  He gets a bottle of water: $6.  Do me a favor and don't give away anything for free in here."

...The man has already given you $140.  Are you really that pressed over $6 that you'll charge a man who's drunk off his ass for it instead of just looking out for him?  Fa'realz?  Not cool.

End of the Night Foolishness:

So, the New Girl and I are riding the shuttle bus to the train and a drunk old man get on and starts dancing on the bus, knocking the poles with his cane.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to sit down so I can move the bus," the bus driver said.

"Okay," Drunk Old Man nods and then goes up front to pay with his Metro Card.

"No, you don't have to pay, just sit down, please."

"No!  I have to pay!"

The bus driver sighs and allows the man to pay.  (He really didn't have to, it was a shuttle bus).  It's in your best interest not to argue with drunk people though.

"Alright, now, can you sit down?"

"Okay, I love you."  He sits down.  "I love you."

(I think it's funny how drunk people seem to think saying "I love you" makes all of your foolishness better.).

Got Me Workin Day and Night

So, let me begin by saying that although I work a hard job, I'm glad for it because it allows me to live in relative comfort without having to ask my parents for money... and that's really all I want.  It would be understandable if I did; I'm still a student-- but I don't want to.  And it's not even about my pride; it's more of a, "I don't want to be another line item on a list of burdens," thing.  Plus, you get to regulate what you spend it on when you earned it.  No one gets to ask me questions about what I'm spending my money on, including...

Sewing classes!  (I had my first one yesterday before work.).  There's a place RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET FROM ME that offers sewing and knitting classes and I'm currently enrolled in beginners sewing.  I didn't want to come into Parsons that far behind, so I decided to find some sewing classes and lower my learning curve.  The BEST thing about this place: the owner offered to let it be my "home away from home" while I'm at Parsons... letting me use the fabric, the mannequins, cut and drape fabric, use their library (and they themselves) as a resource...  I'm SO thankful.  AND it's a non-profit that uses donated fabrics to sew clothing for women who are living in shelters after fleeing domestic abuse situations.  All-in-all: greatness.

So that's why I put up with THIS:

Every Bar Has A Drunkie

When you work in a place where it's part of your hustle to get people to buy you shots and bottles of beer, if you don't have some modicum of self-control... you're going to get drunk.  And usually, the people for which this is a problem don't even know how DRUNK they're acting.  They maintain: "yeah, I can take whatever-whatever for the whole night and be fine!"  ...No, sweetie, you're not fine.  You're drunk.  My boss had to take this girl aside and tell her to stop drinking, that her sales had dipped significantly, and that she had to take a break.  Not a good look.

Quirks and Jerks

Some customers have fun quirks, and some are jerks.  We'll examine a few:

Quirks:  The customer who nicknamed me Jameson after he discovered that that's the only thing I really like to take shots of.  I like that so much I just might use that as my bartending name instead of Nikki.  It's cool!

Jerks:  The guy who said to me, "te amo!  Te amo!  $500!"  ("I love you!  I love you!  $500!).  First of all, if you love me that much, the least you could do is offer to pay my full rent amount, which is $716.  It's more acceptable to pay off my worries for the month though, which will run you about $1,200.  Second of all, I am not a prostitute.  Third of all, if you have to pay for sex, something that is abundant for free, you need to reevaluate your life.  Jerk.  And just for that, you get the  Sleazeball Skeeza of the Night award.

Quirks:  The artistic guy who came in and sketched all of us.  It was cool.  (They weren't really detailed sketches or anything... no resemblance to be found; otherwise I would've demanded that security confiscate the papers, lol).

Jerks:  Those pesky Domincan dudes, Los Chicos Guapos, who came back in with a friend in order to get at me.  This fool said something to me in Spanish that I didn't understand, so I turned to his friend and said, "what did he say?"  His friend translated, "we're fucking tonight."  ...Excuse me?  I didn't get that memo.  And I certainly didn't agree to that.  I shook my head, "no, no, no."  Then the other friend kept asking me for my number and I just finally had to say, "look.  I don't speak Spanish; he doesn't speak English.  What does he need my number for?"  To which he replies, "call a hotel."  OH-MY-FREAKIN-GAWD: NOOOOOOOOOOO.  How many freakin times do I have to freakin say NO!?  After they figured out they wouldn't be getting any from me, they left.  Ugh... Sleazeball Skeezas.

Quirks:  My Slovakian friend who, after asking my name and what it meant (peace), said, "that's fitting because men feel at peace when they look into your face."  Aw!  That's sweet!  Corny, but sweet!  Now, he started to get a little jerkish when he got drunk, he got a little too touchy-feely (don't play with my hair please), but I gave him a pass.

The BEST Customers EVER

With all of that being said, there are the type of customers that I really, really like to serve.  Yes, they are the ones who spend the most money, but they're also the ones that have the most fun.  These guys were dancing around, singing, rapping along to the music, laughing... having a good time.  Bartending can feel like you're a hostess at the best party ever (or like another guest if you really get into it) when you've got customers like that.  I feel like they must have spent over like $250 in the bar (I mean, one of the guys tipped me with a $20 bill for starters), and they stayed until close, dancing and clapping to Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'.  It was fun.  I didn't even feel like I was working.

ASIDE:  And from what I can tell so far: something else I've discovered is that it's not native New Yorkers who harbor disdain for other, smaller cities... it's the transplant New Yorkers who seem to think that nowhere else is worth anything.  And I think I've discovered why the New York accent is so nasal.  Since I moved here, I've been having problems adjusting to the air quality.  I literally feel like I can't breathe some days it's so bad.  I end up talking through my nose.  I sound just like a native New Yorker.  Bingo!  Theory: the nasal New York accent is caused by all the crap in the air that stops up your nose.

An Unpopular Opinion

So of course, what everyone is talking about now is the Steve McNair murder-suicide case.  And I work at a bar... our job is to be social and talk.  At the end of the night, as we were counting up our tips, one of the bartenders raised a point that would probably be an unpopular opinion:

"They keep saying that girl was crazy, but you know, I don't think so.  Have you ever had your heart broken, I mean... really... broken.  Like you thought this person loved you, thought you were going to grow together, be together, thought you were going to have his kids, thought he loved you...  And then they break your heart.  You'd feel like takin' 'em out to."

I thought about it.  Yes, I've had my heart broken really, really badly.  I felt like taking myself out just because it hurt so much and I didn't know how to get it to stop hurting.  (It's an odd and horrible feeling... like wanting to jump outside of your skin because everything hurts and you can't take a pill for it, you can't put a bandaid on it, you can't take a shot... you just want everything to stop because you feel so empty and sick and there's no end in sight.).  I felt like making him hurt so bad he'd feel like he was losing his mind.  I wanted him to feel nothing but pain, just like I felt pain...  

But the dividing line between crazy and sane is feeling all of those things, being able to put life in perspective, and not doing anything destructive.  

Just Your Average Wednesday

You would think Wednesdays at a bar would be rather dull, but they're not.  At all.

More Self Discovery

I have discovered more things about myself: 1.  I have an attitude "problem", and 2.  I drink like a real champ up against seasoned veterans (white guys who work for the federal government).  

On Discovery 1: so, I thought my outfit for work was cute: a bright yellow bikini top and little boxer short-shorts.  I had my hair up in a side bun with a swoosh falling over my eye.  I did look cute, but my boss told me that my shorts weren't appealing and said, "you're not going to work with that bun are you?"  I said nothing, and turned to do his bidding.  Kind of rude of me.  Then, as I was taking out bobby pins, I said to one of the other bartenders, "this is ridiculous.  I look good no matter what I'm wearing or how my hair is."  Eep.  Pretty Girl Syndrome: thinking you can get away with whatever you want because you're attractive.  <--Not attractive.

On Discovery 2: there were these two older white men, standing towards the back of the bar.  They finally came over and sat at the end towards the middle of the night.  "You finally got tired of standing around and decided to sit down, huh?" I winked.  

"I've been coming here for little over a year and I always stand over to the side," he answered.

"Intimidated by the bar?" I flirted.

Because I called him out about standing away from the action, he challenged me to go shot for shot with him, my choice.  ...So of course I chose Jameson.  No one thinks the little girl with bright eyes and a big smile can down the whiskey without a problem.  This guy takes his shot and pulls the most twisted face; I'm standing there, still smiling.  We do two more and I'm still standing with my equilibrium intact; he's slurring his words and heavily leaning on the bar for support.  <-- You don't want it with me at a bar, son!  Oh!  And his friend said my boxers were cute.  Humph!

I'm getting more and more mercenary too, but it's only in the bar.  That same drunk white guy had a stack of singles beside his drink.  The other bartender came over to him to ask him if he wanted anything else to drink and he shook his head and looked at the stack of money, "I don't know whose money this is though.  It's not mine; it must be yours."

She started to shake her head, but I grabbed it and said, "take it, girl!  He said it must be yours!"

...Yeah.  'Cause we all split tips at the end of the night.  You better take that money.

Why I Can't Date Outside of My (American) Culture

I can date outside of my race; I can't date outside of the American culture.  It's been my experience and observation that men of other cultures are more controlling and don't let their women have any independence; everything is done on their terms.  I'm an American woman: I don't play those games.

We had a new bartender come in today, but she left after like an hour.  Why did she leave?  Her boyfriend came in and gave her the Macho Man Stare.  Her boyfriend came in, said nothing to her... just stood against the back wall and looked over at her, maybe once, as she was standing by the register... and within minutes, she was out of her bikini, into her street clothes, and out of the bar, into his car.  Her boyfriend, not even her husband.

I'll be damned if some man I'm not even in a secure relationship with dictates what I do with me life; controls me with a look.  You must be outta your mind, sir.  And she had been talking earlier about how when she used to strip, she used to pull in $1,300 a week, but he made her stop.  ...Again: if you're clearly capable of supporting yourself, why are you allowing anyone to take that away from you?

Hood Girl Logic

So of course, one of the other bartenders reprises this at the end of the night and adds her own Tales From the Hood anecdote on the end of it:

"That's why my mother told me: leave a man with a wet ass and an empty wallet."

I'm not entirely sure what the wet ass part means.  I was thinking the catchphrase means something like, "clean him up and clean him out," or "turn him out and clean him out."  Whatever.

One of the bartenders is a suburban girl like me, and also like me, she just laughs at the way the other two say things.  Sometimes I'll chime in with my own Hood Girl Logic too though.

One was talking to a customer about penis size by race.  "Man, I can't mess with no Puerto Ricans, they all got little dicks."

"Well, you messed with the wrong Puerto Ricans, then," the customer said.

"Yeah, you can't go by race," I shook my head.  "I messed with a dark, chocolate dude and his jont was like..." (I pulled a face and put my thumb and index finger about two inches apart).  <--True story.  I was The Most upset.  You wonder why I never called you back?  Look down.  What's that?  You don't see anything?  Exactly.

Tongue Twister

So, I'm serving this guy, and out of the corner of my eye I catch a flash of a lot of silver in his mouth.

"Wait a minute.  What is going on in your mouth?" I asked.

He stuck out his tongue, and lo and behold: not one, not two, but THREE tongue rings were inside.  Curiosity warred with disgust.  I'm sure tongue rings have their uses, but I'm really not turned on by a guy with piercings beyond the ear.  Tattoos are cool... piercings... I just can't get over them.  It took me 18 years to get my ears done for a reason: the idea of metal going through the body just makes me shiver.  He was cute, otherwise.

"You think these would get caught in your braces?" he asked me.

"Probably," I answered.

"They might... if I was an amateur."

"And you're a pro, huh?"

"I wouldn't say that... but I'm far from an amateur."

Alright bud.  

All Worked Up for Nothing!

Which brings me to: flirting and dancing all night is not good for sexual frustrations.  Seriously, it's like getting all worked up for nothing again and again and again.  If I had a steady, reliable boo... trust: he'd be reaping the benefits of my job.  I don't know how much longer I can take this!  

Prime Example:

Dude with the tongue rings: I'm feeling kinda hungry.

Me: Oh really?  And what would you like to eat?

Tongue Twista:  Depends what's on the menu.

Me:  (singing) The best you eva had; the best you eva had.

THAT is my job.  And not that I would take them up on it, but it's frustrating to have men (just the CUTE men, though) telling you all the wicked, wicked things they would do to you and for you and then go home and not get anything.  Sigh.  Keeping my standards up.

Tip Jar:

If you don't have to work hard for your tip, don't.  These two guys probably spent 1/4 of their paycheck in the bar... just kept passing out ones.  One of them even said, "don't say thank you, just keep dancing."  Fine by me.  And for part of the time, I was just standing there.  You must be trippin if you don't think I spent a good chunk of my time with him, standing there, taking dollars.  Thank you for paying my rent with no sweat equity paid by me!

PS:

YES!!  They played WALE - CHILLIN up in the bar in WAAAAY uptown NY!  DC, baby!

Day 1: Somethin' Like A Video Girl

Every new experience teaches me something else about myself.

So, after working as a bartending video girl (pretty much what I'm doing), I have learned that I have the invaluable ability to detach myself from what ever environment I'm in; I tend to be able to escape into my head.  This is good, because talking to and dancing for sleazeballs is enough to sour anyone on people in general.

Working at the strip club definitely prepared me, mentally, for this job, because nothing shocks me anymore.  And I know how to rebuff advances and still get my tip.  However, that doesn't mean I don't recognize absurdity when I hear it, so:

It's the Sleazeball-Skeeza of the Night Awards!

Runner up for this award is Los Chicos Guapos, these two FINE Dominican guys who were, none the less, sleazy.  They didn't speak any English, so all of our conversation took place in broken Spanish (me) and broken English (them).  They asked me if I was Dominican and I replied, "no, I'm not Latina; I'm just black."  The darker one held out his arm against mine and said, "I'm black too."  (Yes!  Worldwide brotherhood!).  I tried to say, "well, yeah: we're all from Africa."  ...But then he shook his head and said, "no, I'm Domincan."  Alright, fine.  

So then, after a while, the other guy says he want to talk to me, to my boyfriend, asks me when I leave for the night, asks me for my number.  (Um... you don't speak English and I don't speak Spanish... what the HELL do you want my number for?  ...I know what you want my number for, and no matter how absolutely FINE you are, you won't be getting it.).  I told him, "I can't.  I can't.  I can't," ("no-frikkin-puedo!) about 50 bazillion times before he changed his line of attack and told his friend (who spoke more English) to tell me that he wanted to kiss me.  

I've dealt with this before, so I did what I usually do: put on an innocent expression and hold out my hand to be kissed.

This freak LICKS my hand!  So I lightly tapped the back of his, wagged my finger at him and said to his friend, "su amigo estå malo!"  (Your friend is bad!).  To which his bad friend shook his head and replied, "no mami; I'm good... very good."

Agh!  You're a Sleazeball-Skeeza!

First Place, however, goes to: The Nerdy White Dude From Ghostbusters.  (Seriously, that's what he looked like).  He's sitting at the bar, alone, you know: looking like a nerdy perv with his beady little eyes darting to and fro behind his oversized glasses from the 80s.  He says to me:

"You're really cute.  You're beautiful."

"Thank you," I do the whole smile-and-giggle thing.

"Now, I know I'm like, an old nerdy white guy, but believe me when I say: I would fuck the shit out of you."

(Hmm... now where have I heard that before?  What is with all these Nasty Old Men?)

"You've got a dirty mouth," I said.

"Yeah, and I'm kinda drunk, so it's even worse.  But let me tell you; I don't think I could handle you though.  I can tell you like it fast.  I like to go for hours."

Eh-heh-heh-heh...

"Yeah, and like, I'm 39 years old, so the equipment is old, but it lasts for a long time."

Eh-heh...

Yeah.  Time to skidaddle, you Sleazeball-Skeeza!

Honorable Mention goes to... the guy on the train who came up to me (I immediately shook my head... #1: even if I were going to give you money, I'm not pulling out my wallet to show ANYONE that I'm alone have cash on me at 4:30 am!) and said, "I'm not going to ask for any money, I just want a favor."

...lol.  What?  

Also, the guy who followed me at a block-behind-pace after I got off the train.  I will be dressing like an orphan and getting off at a different stop or taking a cab from lower Manhattan from now on.

I'm not dumb and I won't be caught out here in some dumbness. 

Tip Jar:

If you ever want to hear the most absurd, ridiculous conversations: be a waitress or a bartender.  You will work with some interesting people from diverse backgrounds who have been raised to believe different things.  They will say some stuff that you just have to shake your head and laugh at.

First, these two girls started talking about how fast vs. slow their pubic hair grew.  Um... I'm really REALLY not interested; in fact, I don't want to hear that at all.

"Mine grows really slow; it's been two weeks and look..." one girl said to the other.

"Oh, no; I'm always shaving.  After two weeks it looks like Don King up under there," the other one replied.

WHY DOES ANYONE NEED TO KNOW THAT!?

Sigh: another day, another $150 in the pocket.  All I want is to pay my rent and bills for the next two months and then move on to a neighborhood bar for crying out loud.

So... I Got (Another) Job...

That's right.  Only Nikki could find a job after looking for two weeks, quit that job after one night, and find another a week later.

This one is a little further out, but you know what, I can deal with that because my payout (tips + commission) adds up to about $750 a week.  That's rent made in one week.  That's bills paid in two weeks.  That's savings and spending money while I'm in school.  Hell, I can even pay some of my tuition outright.  That's having my days completely free.  (That's having absolutely no weekends what-so-ever.).

Okay, so it's a bikini bar, but it's not sleazy.  It was a critic's choice star winner in NY Magazine.  Though... I do think working in the strip club was good preparation for this jont.  It's not located in the hood; the area was relatively clean and it's a short, well-lit walk past well-kept apartment buildings to the subway stop.  The manager was professional, thorough, and straight-forward.  The only issue I have is that he wants my hair straight =(

Apparently, I got the interview due to chance.

I sent my resume and picture in on Craigslist; they were hot pictures: me in my bikini, my curly hair rioting wild all around my face.  At the end of my interview the bar owner said, "usually if a girl sends me her picture and her hair's not done, I just delete it, but-- and I'm sure you've heard this before-- you're a very attractive young woman, and I could tell from your picture you've got this magnetic personality."

So he took a second chance on a curly-headed black girl from DC and sent me an email requesting an interview and I hopped on the train and made my way to his bar.  The interview went well; he explained all of the rules to me and then got on me about the hair thing... Sigh.

The Loud Black Girl in me wanted to roll my neck and say, "my hair does look good; it is done.  Forgive me if I don't follow the European standard of beauty in that regard!"  However... $750 a week and my rent won't disappear like the interest from my trust fund will.

So, I agree to straighten my hair or wear a wig and he asks me to change into my bikini and do the walk-and-turn for him, which I do.  ...You know I had to Catwalk It Out, right?  Yeah, buddy.

(Now I know you must be thinking "but wait... didn't you just walk out of another bar where you were wearing actual clothes and not just a bikini?"  This is true, however, you've got to add context.  This bar is a themed bar where I'm not just the only one half-naked and it's more professional and the customers speak English, which adds to my whole comfort level... and I'm making $750 a week... not $25 a night.).  

So, I got the job... and I would've worked tonight except that I wanted one last night of peace and I needed time to get my hair "done".

I also like that the owner has no illusions about his bar.  He said, "it's tough to make a buck, you know?  This is a place to work and build up some experience before you move on to bigger and better."  And that's my plan.  I can't sustain earning a fashion degree with working five nights a week from 8 pm - 5 am.  But during the summer, I can definitely sustain for that $750 a week.  Definitely.

I think I'll bartend at this place under the name Nikki Danes (from Nikki Dana), or Nikki D.  Likey?  =)

I feel really blessed.  There's a non-profit DIRECTLY across the street from me where I'm getting discounted sewing lessons and the owner offered to be my "secret weapon" and "safe haven" while I'm at Parsons.  I've got my family.  I've got great friends back home and here in New York.  I've got... the usual distractions a girl's just got to have ;-)  I'm in one of the best damn fashion programs in the world!  (Though, I still don't have cable, internet, or phone service for the third day in a row... damn Cablevision.).

I feel great!  Now... to straighten my hair =/