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.
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