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 =/

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."