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.  

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.