Notes from Underground

Or My Life in Nightlife

Fashion Week

 

Restaurants love opening during fashion week. Especially places that fancy themselves fashiony and want to attract a fashiony crowd. Personally, attracting a fashiony crowd sounds like a bad way to run a restaurant to me, but I guess that should have been my first hint that [MexicanRestaurant] was more beast than restaurant.

We still don’t have uniforms, so I show up wearing the same thing I wore for the Fancy Tequila Dinner. Much to my surprise, some fashiony gentlemen are there to adorn me, because they are displaying their line at the party, and I need to look like I am in some way affiliated.

They ask if my name is Russian and comment on my insoles, revealed when I take off my boots.

It’s a men’s clothing line, so our options are sort of limited. They have me try on a striped button-down. I look like a five year old wearing my dad’s nightshirt. But they didn’t call me big foot in the fifth grade for nothin’, so we find a pair of shoes that work, and they tie a sort of belt-type-thing around my waist, over the shirt I had shown up in. They all take a step back and look at me with their chins in their hands, and their expressions say that I’m that short, frumpy work of art that’s just not quite coming together.

“Yeah, that’ll do,” they say, and walk away.

Other First Hire, however, is completely outfitted, and though he is griping, actually doesn’t look half bad.

AGM is there and she looks simultaneously fashiony and awesome in some blue transparent-net-dress-thing.

We were supposed to be open as a restaurant by now, but so far it’s just been training— the date for friends and family keeps getting pushed back. I hear murmurs about an issue with the liquor license, but nothing concrete. GM jokes that every night of fashion week we should just pay someone to stand outside and say that we’re closed for a “private event”. Not a bad idea.

Anyway all I know about this event is that we’ve got a bunch of models and donated alcohol. Go!

Oh and that Lady Gaga is rumored to show up.

In the kitchen, Chef explains what each tray of canapés is. I’m not terribly familiar with the food yet, as we’ve only had one tasting, and most of the ingredients are foreign to me. This isn’t Mexican food like I’ve ever seen before— what I would have thought was an empanada is in fact a quesadilla. Things like gorditas, flautas, and tostadas all appear to be part of a greater category called antojitos… he keeps talking about epazote and huitlacoche but I have no idea what those are… there’s not much time, the food is hot, and Chef’s accent and eccentric English make it difficult for me to grasp his explanations over the din of the kitchen. So I pay it forward and mumble some things that sound vaguely like what he said as I offer up my tray, and smile politely in the face of people’s confused stares.

There is a line of male models posed along one wall sporting the fashion label’s latest looks. I’m passing canapés amidst a flurry of camera flashes, and one of the designers pulls me aside to request that I make sure the boys get some food. I’m about to drop them a tray of something-that-I-think-are-gorditas when I spy Cute Scruffy Investor, formerly known as the one in the Henley tee. I ask if I can get him anything and he says yes, he’ll take a Brave Man. I know enough to guess that that’s one of our pulque cocktails, so I drop the tray of probably-gorditas in the PDR for the boy models and rush off to the bar.

Encountering AGM on the way, she asks why I’m not passing food and I explain to her about Cute Scruffy Investor. “Ah, yes,” she nods wisely, “that’s his drink. Just make sure he has one in his hand at all times tonight. In fact, maybe you should cocktail for awhile. I’ll tell Other First Hire to worry about the food.”

After bringing Cute Scruffy Investor his tomatillo-pulque-brave-whatever-the-fuck I walk around with a tray of other pulque cocktails, which were briefly explained to me by the surly bar manager, after the story about how his father taught him how to make pulque when he was a child. Cool. Pink is watermelon, yellow is corn, white is jicama, and green is tomatillo. Got it. Gracias.

“Excuse me, what is this?”

“That’s the Two Rabbits. One of our pulque cocktails. It’s made with jicama.”

“Oh, um… so what’s this one?”

“That’s the Inebriated Monkey. Also one of our pulque cocktails. With watermelon.”

“I’m sorry, pul-what?”

“Pulque… it’s… um, it’s made from agave.”

“But is it like, alcoholic?”

“Yeah… these drinks also all have tequila in them.”

“Oh! Great. Thanks.”

But after doing a lap my tray was still full, so I just stood in a corner, hoping someone would lighten my load.

After standing there for a few minutes with an increasingly weakening forearm, I heard someone whisper my name from inside the coat check.

It was Bald Girl Server, who had somehow gotten on AGMs bad side and was therefore relegated to taking coats for the evening. She had a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “You know what helps me when I’m passing drinks? I just stand there and think about something really nasty that I did in bed. Your tray will be empty in one minute. Try it.”

I went back to my corner and followed her advice. God damn it, she was right. As I walked back to the bar to replenish my tray, I caught her smiling at me knowingly.

When I went to bus the plate that I had left for the boy models, I caught one of them stuffing the last probably-a-gordita into his mouth. He was all alone in the PDR, probably eating his feelings. Or maybe just hungry. I laughed. He laughed.

The space got more and more crowded to the point where it was difficult to move. But boy-oh-boy did I keep Cute Scruffy Investor supplied in Brave Man Cocktails. He was nearly drowning in Brave Men. So much so that he may have even tried to remember my name at one point.

I was keeping half an eye open for Lady Gaga, but she was nowhere to be found. However, AGM did send me to insure the contentment of several VIPs on table four. The group, which included Rose McGowan, complained that they had been unable to battle the crowds at the bar. I fought through hell and high-water to bring them their cocktails in a timely fashion. “You’re a star,” Rose thanked me upon receipt of her vodka tonic. You hear that, everyone? Rose McGowan says I’m a star.

Passing back by the PDR I caught the lone hungry model solo-eating again. I laughed. He laughed. We talked about how he is from Australia.

But my time to chat is limited because now things are really getting out of control. I feel like I’m playing the Sims: Restaurant Edition and I can see everybody’s anger levels rising as their booze level falls because the bar is so slammed. I cut through the kitchen because I can’t carry a tray through that crowd, and I find two other servers sharing a bright pink cocktail which I identify as the Inebriated Monkey.

“Whatever,” Sassy Server says, “we fucking deserve it, putting up with this shit.”

She hands me the mug and I drink, it’s sweet but probably would be refreshing if it were cold. Unfortunately it is not.

The boy models have now been liberated from their post and I find the Australian one back in the bar. There was just enough tequila in that cocktail to make me think it’s a good idea to talk to him, so I saunter up. “Still hungry?” I put on my best flirtatious affectation. “No… but can you bring me a glass of water?”

Ah. OK. Walking away I realize that there are two kinds of customers: Those who see you as a means to an end, and those who see you as a person.

Sassy Server catches my eye as she heads back into the kitchen with three tequila shots and I follow her.

Just as I put the empty shot glass in the dish pit, AGM rushes through the door, her arms full of glasses, eyes panicked. “Go bus every glass you can find. Everything.”

I rush into the bar and am nearly run down by a bartender carrying maybe ten bottles of tequila into the basement. The others are anxiously pulling everything from behind the bar. Guests are milling about confusedly, drunk but concerned.

A slightly wobbly girl grabs my arm while I’m filling my tray. “Why can’t we exit?” she demands.

“Excuse me?”

“Why can’t we go outside? What’s going on?”

“I… I don’t know anything about that. I’m sorry.”

Sassy Server comes back into the bar from the dining room, muttering something like “Do we even have our fucking liquor license?” under her breath as she passes close to me.

I flee the scene and start grabbing glasses that have been left in the staircase. From above on the street I see red and blue lights and hear shouting. AGM comes down through the staircase, seems initially angry when she perceives somebody in the staircase, but then sees my tray. “Oh thank God, that’s a good idea.”

“Do you need me to do anything else right now?”

“No… just… what you’re doing. And don’t let anybody up these stairs.”

“OK… and, um, why exactly are we doing this? I mean… with the bar, and the bottles, and….”

AGM inhales, sizes me up through narrowed eyes, and then exhales wearily.

“Don’t repeat this. It’s just that… we may or may not have secured our liquor license at this point…”.

“Ah. I see.”

If you have ever had a nightmare about being trapped in a Mexican Labyrinth… well, I have lived that nightmare.

Worming my way through the crowd trying to clear the evidence of just how much potentially illegal alcohol these people have consumed this evening, I overhear murmurs of “What the fuck is going on” and “I don’t think I’ve ever been told I can’t leave a venue…”.

One of the bartenders loads me up with the last of the bottles and sends me downstairs into the basement. On my way back up I find Sassy Server freaking out in a corner at the top of the staircase. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“I… no. No idea. I… I think the police might be upstairs.”

“Do we have our liquor license?”

“I don’t know. I would assume so…..”

“Because if we don’t, then we could all be held responsible for serving alcohol without a license.”

“Yeah.”

“Which would be bad. Like, really bad.”

“Yeah.”

“So, I’m asking you, do we have our liquor license?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Five minutes later I saw her with her bag, the other girl following.

“Guys, no one is supposed to go outside…”.

“I don’t give a fuck. This is so ridiculous. Whether we have it or not, I’m not gonna stick around to find out. Either way, we’re so far over capacity… Honestly, I’ve been waiting tables for ten years, and I’ve never seen such a shitshow.”

In the back server station I find Other First Hire downing a shot of tequila. “Dude, come on," I start to lay into him, "we’re supposed to be getting rid of all of that stuff.”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

AGM comes back and says that the cops are gone. People start trickling out. Somebody taps me on the shoulder, I turn around to find Rose McGowan. She is miniscule.

"Oh, yeah, it's OK," I tell her, "you can exit now."

"No, just..." she fishes in her purse. "You were helping me before. Here." She hands me a fifty dollar bill. Nice.

Back in the bar I find the Australian model.

“More water?”

“No, but… well, my friend wants your number.”

Ah ha. Maybe I am a person.

“Which friend?”

He points down the bar to one of the boy models who looks like he just may be over twenty-one. Boy model clearly knows what conversation we’re having, he smiles sheepishly (read: adorably) and waves.

“Well then, tell him to come ask me.”

Australian Model motions at Boy Model to come over.

“This is Boy Model, Boy Model, this is…”

“Annika.”

“Hi.” He has curly hair and what promises to be a sick body under the artfully-half-buttoned shirt the designer had dressed him up in.

Six months later he was still texting me, and still in my phone as Boy Model.

The only thing is, I was wrong about the whole over-twenty-one thing.

After an hour I'm still cleaning up. The liquor has been restored behind the bar. As it turns out, because we weren't charging (everything was paid up front by whoever was throwing the party), we were never really in danger of having a liquor license issue. But we destroyed all the evidence in the interest of playing it safe.

“Where’s Other First Hire?” I asked AGM when the place was mostly closed.

“I sent him home…he didn’t seem like he was helping much.”

“Fair enough. How much longer do you need me?”

“I think we’re done here. Do you have plans?”

It was three in the morning, so my only plan had been heading back to my twin-sized mattress on the floor.

“Not really…”.

“Cool. Let’s go drink upstairs.”

[Mexican Restaurant] is next door to a speak-easy style bar, operated by the same owners. AGM led me up a back staircase, and we emerged behind a gorgeous marble bar covered with antique-style bottles filled with what appeared to be potions.

Cute Scruffy Investor was lounging on a divan, and Male Co-Owner was smoking a cigarette in a wing chair. Mustachioed bartenders in lab coats were breaking everything down. A large doorman in a black overcoat came in from the street, locking the door behind him. AGM pulled up two leather ottomans for herself and me next to Male Co-Owner.

“So?” she asked him.

“She was here,” he replied.

“Oh yeah, I know. She was so incognito. I loved her dress.”

“She was fucking here.”

“Wait,” I interjected, “Who?”

“Sefani Germanotta,” Male Co-Owner replied, “Lady Fucking Gaga.”

“What?” I was astonished.

“Yeah, crazy, right?” a shorter guy who seemed rather underdressed for the evening had joined us. “Hi,” he shook my hand, “I’m I.T. guy. I live upstairs. And I do the computers for [Mexican Restaurant].”

AGM lit a cigarette and leaned back against the elaborately upholstered wall, removing her shoes.

“I didn’t realize we could smoke in here.”

“Eh, you can smoke anywhere after hours.”

Male Co-Owner stood up and started doing a sort of jig.

“Stefani Germanotta. Lady fucking Gaga. Was. In. My. Restaurant!”

“You did it. Congratulations. Now all you have to do is show up for your court date.”

“Court date?” I asked.

“Male Co-Owner gave the police a bit of a hard time…”.

“It was worth it,” he smirked.

AGM went up to the bar and poured us each a glass of wine. We toasted.

“Happy Fashion Week.”

I'm Cleaning Out my Room from High School...

... and I'm getting rid of a few things.

Does anybody want these Hello Kitty stickers?

No? How about this Audiovox cellphone accessory?

OK, well, perhaps a Diskman?

Novelty compact mirror?

Fight Club on VHS?

Old Navy gift cards?

Russian cough drops?

List of all of the boy I've ever made out with... last updated circa 2008?

Expired condoms?

Origami frog?

Promise ring?

Spice Girls cassette?

Incense?

No?

Your loss....

Notes from Underground

or My Life in Nightlife

Down the Rabbit Hole

 

The Initial Descent

It was just under a year ago and I was sleeping on a twin-sized mattress on the floor of my new apartment in Bed Stuy. Roommate was set to arrive in a few days from the Boys Camp where he spends his summers (as the music director, not as a boy), but for the time being I had the place to myself.

I had been running around with a Pseudo-Rock-Star who had blacked out on our first date. But he was pretty cute and I was severely rebounding so I let it slide.

A friend from Oberlin had offered to refer me to his former employer who was opening a new restaurant. At this point my serving career was approximately six weeks long and confined to Cambridge. However, I did know how to shuck my own oysters. Probably one of the few tangible skills I acquired the entire time I was there. That, riding a bike in city traffic, and being able to talk loudly without losing my voice.

Joking. I’m joking! Grad school was an infinitely valuable experience. I would never have achieved such a finely developed sense of cynicism without it.

Anyway I needed a job. And I wasn’t going to get one in a restaurant without a reference. Sign me up!

I emailed Female Co-Owner of Mexican Restaurant, who in her response requested that I send a resume and PHOTO to the General Manager. I barely had time to acknowledge that this was a strange request before I got an email from GM telling me to just come in with my resume.

Later I learned that this practice of asking for photos for serving jobs is, while commonplace, actually discriminatory and illegal. But as an actor I was like, oh, you want my picture, cool, headshot of full body?

GM said to come by any time between three and five. I said I’d be there at four, but of course at this point I was terrible at navigating the city, and what’s more, this restaurant was in Chinatown. Chinatown! Who (besides those who live there) knows their way around Chinatown?

So I’m booking it down Canal, and then I turn onto… Mott? But then… wait… how did I get back on Centre street… fuck, this is Broadway again, OK…. Finally I find the tiny little street that leads to the even tinier street, but where #11 should be there is no door. Only a concrete staircase. And a sign advertising a Vietnamese restaurant. An extremely attractive guy in a Henley tee with rolled up sleeves emerges carrying a ladder and places it on the stoop of #9, also unmarked. Signs of life. OK, I figure, down the rabbit hole it is.

At the bottom of the stairs there are two doors. Behind door number one is a bicycle and some cardboard boxes. I open door number two. Straight ahead of me is a wall. I feel like I’m trapped in the labyrinth in King’s Quest VI.

But wait! If I look to the right there are some tables that look like they could be part of a restaurant. If I look to my left there are… people! And a bar! OK.

The bar is detailed with brass plates and poles. A man in a white labcoat is cutting open a box of produce on the tile floor, while another guy in a vest yells at him in Spanish from behind the bar. Another extremely attractive scruffy guy is attending to some construction issue in the corner, while talking to a smaller bespectacled guy with a bowtie.

I clear my throat. “I’m looking for GM?”

They all stop and look up at me, but only one says anything. “I’m GM, can I help you?”

“I’m Annika, Oberlin Friend’s Friend? Sorry I’m late, this place is kind of hard to find…”.

We sit at a booth. I give GM my resume, which I took the liberty of attaching to my headshot.

“Ha. Are you an actor or something?”

“Female Co-Owner asked for a picture in her email, so….”

“Wow, master’s from Harvard.”

“Um, yeah, sort of….”

“Yeah, no, that’s a good program. I’m an actor too. I have a theater company.”

“Oh really? Awesome. Anything I would have heard of?”

“Our last production was a couple of years ago… how long have you been in New York?”

“Um, a week as of yesterday.”

“Oh wow. So this would be your first New York serving job?”

“Yes. As you can see from my resume, I don’t have a ton of restaurant experience, but I learn really quickly….”

GM laughs. “Don’t worry. I mean Oberlin Friend recommended you and obviously you went to Harvard, so I’m sure we’d be happy to have you.”

Does that sound like I’m hired? To me that sounds like I’m hired….

“I don’t know how much Oberlin Friend told you, we’re going to be doing authentic Mexican food, and then the bar is going to focus on tequila, mezcal, and pulque. We’re the only restaurant in New York, maybe even in the country, I don’t know, to serve pulque.”

“Wow, that’s amazing. Why does no one else have it?”

“Because it’s disgusting. Have you ever had it? Do you know what it is?”

“Uh, no, I guess not….”

“It’s fermented agave. It tastes like snot. It’s foul.”

Wow, what a resounding endorsement….

“Well, anyway,” he continues, “we’ll definitely be in touch.”

The cute Henley guy from upstairs has joined the other scruffy guy in the corner, and now yet another scruffy thirty-something jogs across the tiled floor, wallet chain dangling out of his pocket. They’re multiplying.

“Oh, Chef,” GM catches the one with the chain, “This is Annika. And Annika this is our Executive Chef, and this is Investor (Henley guy) and Male Co-Owner, Female Co-Owner’s brother.” All three of them have that look that says “Nice to meet you but there’s no way I’m going to remember your name”. Oh well.

Upstairs on the corner of Street I Don’t Know and Street I Sort of Know, I call my Mom. “So, I think I got a job…. No, no, like a day job. Well, more of a night job, I suppose. At a restaurant. Yeah. Um… it’s a Mexican restaurant. In Chinatown.”

I guess I was wrong because three days later I got a group email from GM inviting myself and several other qualified candidates to a final interview with the owners. Ugh. One interview is always better than two. Just like hiding is always funny.

But! Tuesday morning I was roused from my sleep on my tiny twin mattress on the floor (which I happened to be sharing with Pseudo Rock Star at that moment, corpse-like physique, arms akimbo, still passed out in his tighty-whiteys) by a call from GM, asking if I could work an event that night. I took a minute to pretend to check my calendar before informing him that yes, I could make it. Great. But I still had to have a “final interview” that afternoon.

About twenty of us sat in the dark basement and didn’t say much. GM told us a little more about the project and brought us one by one for an interview on 16 (the VIP booth) with both Male and Female Co-Owner.

Eventually some conversation broke out when an ominous rumbling seemed too extreme to be blamed on construction. I suggested that it was an earthquake, but everyone looked at me like I was crazy.

“Ah, you’re the one that went to Harvard,” Male co-Owner said when I sat down in the booth across from them. I don’t misrepresent myself on my resume, I swear, people will believe what they want to. We touched on how great a guy Oberlin Friend is and my “style of service”. Female Co-Owner finished the conversation by saying that they’d let me know. There was an awkward moment when GM had to inform her that I had already been hired and was working the event that night.

“Oh, I see. OK, well in that case, yeah… just… wear black. Something cute.”

I was wearing a long black dress.

“Sure,” GM chimed in, “what you’re wearing is fine.”

“Yeah…” Female Co-Owner added, in a tone that indicated it clearly wasn’t.

“Oh, no,” I reassured them, “I wasn’t going to wear this.” I totally was.

Cut to me in a trashy-trendy clothing store with blasting house music. I found a little black skirt, black shirt with a cut-out back, and some cute-ish boots that I could mostly walk in. My limited serving experience had involved a treacherous staircase and I could never possibly serve in heels, I thought. Oh, if I only knew….

Above ground I notice that my twitter feed is blowing up. Fuck. That was an earthquake. Does anyone remember that day? Yeah all this happened on that day.

Fake It Till You Make It

Meanwhile back in the dungeon I am introduced to the guy I’m going to be working the event with that night, and GM informs us that we are the “first hires”. I think that’s kind of like making the dean’s list.  Apparently tonight’s event is going to be a five course tasting featuring different pairings with a featured tequila, and there should be “a lot of VIPs”.

At this point we commence a montage of me pretending that I know how to do things. We have to make roll-ups, so I cleverly convince Other First Hire to show me how to make roll-ups “his way”. In discussing how we are going to prepare for various courses, GM and Other First Hire talk about whether or not they’re going to “mark” courses. “Sure, yeah, that sounds like it would be helpful,” I chime in. I have never felt like such an imposter in my life.

The fancy tequila retails for something like $350 a bottle. I’m told that it’s a “joven” tequila… yeah I forget what that means. Anyway. A fancy lady in a fancy beige suit gives me some to taste and we talk about the “notes”. It tastes more like water than other tequilas which I guess for tequila is a good thing. Or a bad thing, depending on how you want your night to go.

GM, Other First Hire and I painstakingly arrange the room, but then some girls in six-inch glitter heels with their hair piled high on top of their heads come in and reconfigure everything. “I hate promoters,” GM mutters under his breath.

So I stand by the door with a cocktail tray of champagne flutes full of this fucking expensive liquid asking people if they want some when they walk in and basically running a constant internal monologue of “please don’t drop the tray please don’t drop the tray please don’t drop the tray.”

Nobody seems to know what they’ve signed up for. I say the name of the tequila when I offer it to people and they look at me like I’m crazy. “Oh, wait, it’s tequila? Yeah, no, I don’t want that….”

Now everybody’s seated family style and those who are drinking are drinking really fast because the food is coming out really slowly. Every time I bus a plate back into the kitchen I can feel the frustration radiating off the line. But if my six weeks of serving experience prepared me for anything, it’s this: crazy mean chefs. I was so terrified of the chef at my restaurant in Cambridge I could barely form a complete sentence in front of him. The things that came out of this man’s mouth…. OK I’m done shuddering now.

One of the promoters beckons me over, pulls my ear close to her mouth and tells me to keep everyone’s glasses full. So I do a round and pour out one of the bottles (which is made of crystal, did I mention that?) but then Fancy Beige Suit Lady pulls me her way and mentions that we might be low on product so “pour light”. Cool.

The doors to the kitchen don’t swing yet, they still have handles. So I’m trying to open the door with an armful of dishes, half-way into the kitchen when I realize that Female Co-Owner is in there yelling at Chef about how the food is too slow. My hands are full and I can’t go back out, but I don’t want to go all the way in either. Female Co-Owner exits through the other door and Chef turns around exasperatedly only to see me lurking. He seems on the verge of yelling but then throws his hands up and just says, with an air of extreme disappointment, “Don’t be coming through here all the time.”

Oh God. The Chef hates me. The event that I’m working is a disaster. I can’t simultaneously keep everyone’s glasses full and “pour light”. I am so fired.

I really have no idea how we got through that night except that GM gave us some shots of tequila and everyone was pretty drunk by the time the entrees came out. None of the alleged VIPs showed up, but no one seemed to notice. Male Co-Owner was holding court down on one end of the table, with a girl on each arm of his chair. So he was having a good time. In fact everyone was so drunk and that a lot of them were leaving by the time the entrée course came out, so there were several untouched plates of red snapper in the kitchen. I found Female Co-Owner back there chowing down, and she handed a plate to me and to Other First Hire.

“It’s so fucking good,” she was praising Chef with her mouth full, then turned to us, “Don’t you guys think this dish is amazing? And it’s beautiful, too….” I guess she really was a fan of his, on some level. Why else would she have hired him.

I walked out with GM and Other First Hire. GM congratulated us on doing a good job. He and Other first Hire were headed to some club, turns out they were already friends from some other places they’d worked. I guess that’s why he was the other guy they picked. “Aren’t you going to invite Annika to come with us?” GM asked. Other First Hire stared bashfully at his feet and then tried to toss off a casual “Oh, yeah, wanna come?”

I looked at my phone, expecting to have heard from Pseudo Rock Star by now, but nothing. Maybe he would text me in a bit. I declined their offer and headed back to Bed Stuy to pass out in my tiny twin sized mattress on the floor, alone.

Guys With Girlfriends

or Men Are Dogs and So Am I

I am not a saint. And as Spencer Krug put it, “Ain’t no such thing as a saint, ain’t no such thing as a sinner, oh.” But boy oh boy have I witnessed some appalling behavior.

This probably sounds really naïve, but I just had no idea how rampant this cheating thing is. Or maybe it’s me? Maybe guys with girlfriends are just really into me?

Maybe since my last boyfriend cheated on me I’m just really into guys with girlfriends? Could that be true? Because that would be pretty fucked up. Still….

I’ve had my own fidelity issues, to be sure. Like that one time in Mexico. Or the entire time I was in Paris. And then when I got back to Oberlin. Plus there was that summer I was living at home…. And yeah that thing that almost happened but didn’t in Moscow. Oops.

OK so yeah maybe monogamy is “not in my nature” as Chef put it. But, and this is so totally not an excuse, but! these were all out-of-town affairs. And they also all occurred when I was under the age of twenty-one. Except for the Moscow one, which I resisted. See! Ten points for making a grown-up decision. For once. 

What I’m talking about are ostensibly grown-ass dudes who want to pursue some sort of physical interaction with me in spite of the fact that both they and their girlfriend live in New York. Sometimes together. Like they want to come home with me instead of going home to her.

And I don’t really know how I feel about it.

Do I think cheating is the end of the world? No. While I think it was pretty fucked up of Ex Boyfriend, he is not an Ex Cool Guy just because of that. He’s an Ex Cool Guy because he tried to blame me for his cheatin’ ways. While we were still together. So, I went ahead and filed that under L for LAME. Plus some other shit, obviously.

That said, it wasn’t until after we were broken up that I realized the full extent of things. Would I have dumped him on the spot had I found out sooner? Hard to say. What with my move to NY and general sense of ennui about the whole relationship, it’s difficult to be scientific about it….

Do people only cheat because something is already wrong? Personally, I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone who’s not looking forward to having sex with me (and I mean “me” as an individual, not just the idea of a vagina) at the end of the day. So if someone would rather go bang someone else, that is “wrong” in my eyes.

But what about “cheaters”? Does this breed truly exist? Those who need to sleep with other people to keep them content with the one they are committed to? Predetermined designations of polyamory and open relationships aside, here. I’m talking about those who are addicted to the thrill of doing something wrong.

I like attention, there’s no denying that. And perhaps I haven’t always had the best relationship with male attention. But when I’m really excited about someone, that’s all I want. Is it so much to ask that whoever I enter into a relationship with would feel the same way? Maybe.

Because when I think about guys who I would in theory be really jazzed on dating, several of them have approached me looking to step outside the bounds of their girlfriendy relationships. And have I automatically shot them down? No. I’ve made out with them. Sometimes more than once.

This isn’t even to get into the whole guys-who-are-married-and-hit-on-cocktail-waitress-version-of-myself thing, that’s for another day.

I’m talking about guys who you know. Good guys. Guys who have integrity and are interesting and cute and guy who have rad girlfriends who are also interesting and cute and more or less exactly like me. Except that sometimes I’m that shitty girl who hooks up with their boyfriend. Oops.

So here’s another thing: if one of these guys was to break up with said rad girlfriend, could I really date said good guy? Knowing that a year and a half down the line there would probably be an equally rad but morally unhindered girl who would satisfy all of his “she (me) is so _______” woes and help him get his ya-yas out no strings attached? How does the girl who is currently dating (like, serious relationship-style) Ex Boyfriend feel about it? Is he trustworthy in her eyes? Is that really the kind of cycle she wants to be part of? Is it really the kind of cycle that I want to be part of?

Could I be the other-woman-comme-girlfriend?

I just don’t know what someone could say to make it better. No, baby, never with you, I’m through with all that…. The fact is I wouldn’t even want to hear that shit. I wouldn’t believe it.

Because I, and almost every girl I talk to, get hit on by guys with girlfriends ALL THE TIME. And according to my informal straw poll, most of the girls I hang out with have been some sort of “other woman” at one point or another. So who can we even blame when we, regardless of gender, have all been part and parcel to the same misstep?

And the fact is, if you tell someone you cheated, you’re only looking to make yourself feel better. You either want absolution so that you can “come clean”, or you want them to break up with you. And as I’ve discovered recently, guys my age (and by "my age" I mean people who behave like they're under 35) very rarely break up with girls. They just become more and more visibly discontent until they’re no fun to be around, and then the girl has to cut the ropes and let that ship sail.

Chef has a very attractive female friend. I don’t think they’ve ever hooked up. But he acts differently around her, and she is sort of touchy-feely and territorial about him in a way that verges on weird. Like only speaks Spanish with him in front of me even though her English is pretty great and she knows I don’t speak Spanish. Like touches the back of his neck. Like comes into the apartment and opens the fridge as if she lives there.

It’s subtle enough that if I harped on it to Chef I would look like a psycho. So I don’t.

The point is, if Chef wants to fuck Touchy-Feely Female Friend, then he wants to fuck her. And he’s either going to or he’s not. And if he does fuck her, then that will be kind of a bummer for me, and our relationship will either continue or it will not. Or, if at the end of every day he’s still more interested in hanging out with me, then that’s what he will do. And no title is going to make him act one way or the other.

So that’s that. I guess when I said I want whoever I’m with to prefer me to someone else also means that I don’t really feel compelled to obsess over these ideas of exclusivity. They either want me all the time or they don’t. And if they decide they want someone else badly enough to pursue it, then that’s a bridge we'll cross. And if I can’t stomach it, then I’ll be out. And I’ll probably cry a lot and eat a pint of ice cream with Female Friend George (and by “eat a pint of ice cream”, I mean get really drunk). And then I’ll move on to a guy who I make swear his undying fidelity to me.

Or not. Because I’ve been hit on by enough guys with "girlfriends" to not put much stock in that title.

Notes from Underground

Or My Life in Nightlife

The Hostess with the Mostest

We're not making enough money at [Cocktail Lounge] so I've been forced to take the occasional hostessing shift in order to make ends meet. I don't know how to use Open Table but anyway I guess that's what my nineteen years of schooling are for, plus we only have four reservations. Cool.

Trapped behind my red podium I am at the mercy of the conversationalists around me, and I can't even have a sense of humor about it because I'm excluded from the hourly floor staff shots. A slightly-wobbly insurance type in a tan suit offers to buy me a drink but I say no, more for the sake of propriety than integrity. AGM says the floor has been looking stiff lately and that we need to loosen up so that everyone has a better time and spends more money. I say it's going to take a lot of liquor to loosen me up enough to pretend that the Wall Street happy hour crowd is interesting.

Now this man who is a seemingly impossible combination of loud and tiny is very near tackling his linebacker-turned-businessman friend, explaining to him how he has to stop drinking and driving. "If you get a DUI," he explains, "yeah, your life's gonna suck. Things are going to become very difficult for you. But!" He reaches his hands up to his giant friend's shoulders in order to pull himself up to meet his eyes, "If-- God forbid. God forbid! You hurt someone. If God forbid you ever hurt someone. God forbid. God forbid. If God forbid you ever ever hurt someone, your life, your life, God forbid, your life, man. Your life! Your life is OVER."

Now here I am thinking he means that, as opposed to the concrete consequences of a victimless DUI, were he to cause harm to someone else, the burden of the guilt would be too much to bear, and he would live as a shell of a man from that point forward. But no-- "Vehicular manslaughter! You go to jail, man! God forbid, God forbid you hurt someone,  your life, your life man, your life is over!"

Meanwhile the oaf-like half of the duo has given most of his mass to the bar, and is mumbling incoherently about how he never "drives when he's bad." He keeps flapping his hand dismissively at the loud guy as if trying to swat away the angel on his shoulder. My dad is an EMT in Westchester and part of me wonders how many of these post-happy hour wrecks he's responded to on the Saw Mill Parkway. I wonder if I should take this guy's keys or at least tell my manager. The time, by the way, is seven PM.

The crew that replaces George and Lenny includes an equally oversized gentleman who approaches me with a quip about the pipsqueak with the giant voice. I don't recognize his cocktail so I ask him what he's drinking-- turns out he desperately wanted "Stoli blueberry" but we (God forbid!) don't offer any flavored vodkas, so he had the bartender muddle some raspberries and blend them with that blandest of all liquors. "We have so many fresh, natural fruit juices back there," I explain, "why would you want flavored vodka?" Before I can even finish my sentence he proffers what he clearly considers to be the excuse to end all excuses. "I'm on a diet."

Now, while I agree with Ron Swanson that vodka is for rich women on diets, booze is booze. Sure, you may want to go for a tequila with soda and lime as opposed to a frozen margarita, but at the end of the day it's all sugar. Chemically. "Alcohol is alcohol, and it's bad for you," I say. "Plus that flavored vodka crap is disgusting, why don't you just drink some nice liquor on the rocks and call it a day?" "No no, brown liquors are very different from clear liquors. I could drink Glenlivet all day, but a scotch has 167 calories, whereas vodka only has 83." "Personally I'll just stick with tequila." I couldn't even look at this guy anymore.

Their seats were taken over by a couple on a date who's scintillating discussion covered such essential topics as the hot weather, where other people vacation, the importance of working out when one is hung over, and of course, the master cleanse.

But the real highlight of my evening came later, when I had already concocted the phrase "the most bored board that ever bored" in my head and realized that I should probably interact with someone. I noticed a guy who I had met last week leaning over the bar, talking a little too close to the slightly giggly female bartender. Last week he had closed the place, after spending probably two hours chatting up the contortionist who had performed that night. Whether or not he took her home remains a point of contention between those who watched the scene unfold.

But somehow between pushing her hair behind her ear and asking her how she stays so flexible, he managed to find time to tell me about how he had been served divorce papers that day. Now this was a really nice guy who I had already offered a shot of tequila when he was sitting on my table earlier in the evening, and I didn't mind listening while he poured his heart out a bit. After all, he was a good listener, too, and even seemed interested in details about my life, like that I live in Bed Stuy and have a garden.

"I never did anything intentionally to harm her," he reiterated to the hostess version of myself what he had said last week to the server version of myself. "Never cheated, never misbehaved, always just loved her so much, and it sounds stupid to say, but I really worked at this. I can't for the life of me figure out where all of this anger is coming from."  Apparently she's a "high-profile model" and "there were eating disorders involved".

I guess as long as a man "behaves" the only reason a woman could ever have negative emotions towards him is because she's crazy.

But the fascinatingly misogynistic implications of his analysis of the dissolution of his marriage weren't even the most interesting part. I did find myself willingly participating in conversation with this guy because he was extremely nice and there was something genuinely intriguing about him. Plus it's like pulling teeth to even get people to respond when you greet them with "Hi, how are you this evening," from behind  the host stand, so there's something nice about being listened to for a few minutes.

We talked about how after eleven years of marriage he really didn't see himself being divorced at forty-three. I told him that now he could do whatever he wanted, that there were not kids involved so he could just completely move on with his life. But this sort of seemed to sadden him more. Meanwhile I notice that he's sweating even though it's not that hot in there and the reason I notice this is because he's suddenly standing really close to me, his breath smells like the three Manhattan's that he's had in the last hour and he says to me, "I think you'd make a wonderful mother."

I think a man tried to pick me up last night by telling me that I'd make a wonderful mother.

I mean, I guess that's what all flirtation is about on a biological level, but seriously.

The weird part is, I almost went for it.

I mean, I wasn't going to go home with this guy. I'm living a life of blissful angst with Chef and anyway this guy seems like a bit of a mess plus who would want to sleep with someone who would sleep with a cocktail waitress anyway and he's almost twenty years older than I am but. There was something sort of nice about that. About someone telling me that they think I'd make a wonderful mother. Because I'd really like to agree with them.

But then he was making way too much eye contact and I felt his hand on the inside of my forearm so I smiled charmingly, made an excuse, and exited as gracefully as I could.

The Date to End Other Dates

As a byproduct of the numerous “you are not my girlfriend” conversations I had with Chef, I decided to go on a date. With a guy that, of course, I met at [MexicanRestaurant]. He knew Door Guy, he knew DeeJay, and he even knew some theater friends of mine. He was cute and personable and really good at prolonged eye contact. I gave him my number.

A few days elapsed. I heard nothing. No big deal.

The weekend passed. On Tuesday he texts me asking if I’m free Sunday. I make some things up to make it sound like I am busier than I actually am but yes Sunday could definitely work. He proposes brunch or dinner. I propose dinner or post-dinner drinks (drinks being the preferable choice— I hate meals for first dates, way too much pressure). He counters “Or both, assuming we don’t hate each other.” Cute. I’m looking forward to it. He says he’ll touch base on Saturday to confirm.

Wednesday of the intervening week I’m working, and who do I see at the bar but Future Date. Future Date appears to be on a current date, with a girl who was Not Me. Not Me had sort of a corporate look to her and didn’t appear to be having a very good time. In my attempt to rationalize how Future Date could be so stupid as to bring Not Me to the place where he and I met, which is also the place where I WORK, I wondered if Future Date and Not Me were on a date at all.

Equally baffling was the fact that I couldn’t even attempt to deny that it was him, because he was wearing the exact same hat/scarf/t-shirt that he had been wearing when I met him. Maybe he goes on SO MANY DATES that he doesn’t even have time to change his clothes.

I said nothing. He did not see me. They dance a little bit and leave. I have no idea how to feel. I mean, of course he has other dates. That is beyond within his rights. I sleep with someone else more or less every night of the week, someone who is actually in this restaurant right now, so I’m not really in a place to judge. But he had to figure I would be there.

About thirty minutes after I realized they were gone, Future Date returned. I approached.

“I thought that was you.”

“Yeah, weird, blind date… she has to get up early for work so I walked her to the train.”

“Oh, yeah, work. Some people do that.”

“Sorry, yeah, she wanted to meet up in this area and this is kind of the only cool place I know around here…”.

“Yeah. No worries.”

“Cool.”

“…”.

“…”.

“Tequila?”

“Yeah.”

We established that we were still on for Sunday.

Saturday comes. He does not text to confirm.

It is now five o’clock on Sunday. I have not heard from him. I do not have other plans but I ostensibly could have made some. In an effort to avoid texting Future Date, or as he may now come to be known, The Date that Wasn’t, I call Female Friend George. I implore George to stay on the line until the storm has passed. We talk about celebrities and the fact that her boyfriend’s dad is dying. That, and how I am not allowed to text Future Date.

Then BING Future Date texts me, George makes me stay on the line for the mandatory five minutes that I must allow to elapse before responding to his text.

He asks if we can do drinks in Brooklyn. This suits me fine. He asks me what time I’m free. Right now! would sound pretty lame, so I pretend to be in a rehearsal that gets out at eight. We choose [Dive Bar Under the BQE in Williamsburg] as an “initial meeting place”.

I get there before he does and order a drink at the bar. I contemplate drinking the whole thing and ordering another one right away. He comes in and takes a minute to spot me, but thank goodness he’s still wearing that same hat/scarf/t-shirt combo, so I recognize him right away.

We talk. We drink. We giggle. We drink. We stare. We move to a booth. We make out. We take photos in the photo booth. We get tacos. We make out. We leave. I think that we’re going to head to another bar but evidently he used to live in this area with his ex so even though he knows it really well, everything reminds him of her. Overshare? Incidentally we are approximately four blocks from Chef’s apartment. 

We buy two six packs (overkill?) at a bodega. He also buys groceries. Weird. We take a cab back to his place in Bushwick. In the car he shows me a photo of his sister that he carries in his wallet and he talks about how proud he is of the work she’s doing “down home”.

His apartment is one of those newly-renovated apartments in Bushwick that seem like they can fit more stuff than they can and so always feel cramped. We talk to his roommate for WAY TOO LONG. We make out in the kitchen. I think we’re going to go to his room but instead he turns on a Louis C.K. DVD and makes ramen.

It occurs to me that this is probably my cue to leave, but he seems genuinely excited about experiencing all of his favorite Louis C.K. jokes with me, even if we do have to keep the volume super low and not really laugh too much because his loquacious roommate has gone to sleep. He even makes me ramen. With an egg in it (the right way).

This is really far from my ideal date, but Chef is sending me dramatic text messages about how he needs to be by himself tonight. When I’m done being rude and checking my phone, Date puts a blanket over me (one of those shiny fleece blankets that looks like it’s made from a skinned muppet, the tacky kind that guys always like because they’re super soft) and starts rubbing my feet. I am simultaneously weirded out and pretty cozy.

To my surprise, we finish the entire Louis C.K. DVD. He brings me into his bedroom and I’m thinking “What’s the harm? We both like Ramen. He likes rubbing my feet, I like having my feet rubbed. Plus, my apartment is pretty far from here…”.

We go through his room onto the balcony without so much as a pit-stop at the bed. He smokes a cigarette. I say something complimentary and unsincere about the view. He leads me back, straight past the bed, and suddenly I find myself at the door. Ah. This is my cue to leave. Got it. He calls me a car and offers me money. I decline. On the way back to my apartment I text Chef to make sure that he really doesn’t want me to come over. He doesn’t. No worries, that’s cool.

That was the last date I went on with someone who was not Chef. Any sort of designations of exclusivity, implied or otherwise, did not come for months. But after that experience I pretty much decided that I would rather consistently hang out with a guy who I like a lot, even on uncertain terms, than waste my time feeling awkward and trying to avoid Louis C.K. traps. At the end of the day, Chef and I always have stimulating conversations, know what we like to do together, and can have awesome sex whenever we want. We’re at that really nice place where we’ve developed a level of comfort and simple co-existence, but we’re still getting to know each other. And he’s not perfect, but he’s pretty great.

I didn’t ever hear from The Date to End Other Dates, but he did come into [Cocktail Bar] when I was working. He was with a girl named Amber. She seems very nice. Very friendly. And suffice it to say, if Amber is his type, then I certainly am not. While Amber was off somewhere I handed him a shot and proposed a toast to “the only guy to never call me back.” He said he’s still not sure why he didn’t. I think he was lying but I appreciate the sentiment all the same.

A few weeks later we ran into each other at [Dive Bar Under the BQE in Williamsburg], where Chef and I were celebrating his birthday with his crew in a cascade of tecate and tequila. Chef evidently did not recognize Date to End Other Dates from the strip of photo booth pictures that he had been polite enough to ignore when he accidentally came across them in my bedroom. Especially polite considering the fact that I was wearing Chef's scarf in the photos. What a keeper.