I've taken on the Al Swearengen a few times. I even lied my way through three interviews to get a cocktail waitressing job at The Knitting Factory. An hour before my first shift I called and left a message:
"I'm sorry. I won't be coming in. I lied. I've never waited tables before in my life. Thank you for the opportunity."
I also once quit a barista job after two days of training:
"I'm sorry. I won't be coming in. My boyfriend is afraid he has herpes and he's freaking out."
And there was the time I quit Bennigan's after a week of training and trailing. I had mental blocks when trying to memorize the menu and I was in complete shock the first time I watched the waiter I followed prepare someone's food. I couldn't make my lower jaw meet my head after I saw the tomato from the floor become the tomato on the hamburger:
"I'm sorry. I won't be coming in. I'm going to be a camp counselor with a focus on arts-n-crafts management."
...Not to mention the hostessing position I was fired from at the empty Asian Fusion place that closed six months after it opened. One, I sucked, and two, I demanded $15 an hour when the other girl got $10. I'm 5'6" and I was by far the tallest and blondest person employed by the establishment at any given moment. I think I just intimidated them into hiring me to begin with. I am much better at being on the eating end of the food service industry.
However...
...there was one magical night I lived the fantasy. It was my second night on the job. One week after my first. A friend of mine was a patron at her local Irish dive deep in the untouched, unpretentious, unartificial part of Brooklyn. She convinced the owner to give me a chance behind the bar. It was like slipping on your boyfriend's boxers. Comfy, familiar, sexy and slightly awkward. I had definitely been Lloyd in a past life, and not that close to this one. Trying to figure out what a 'Johnny-Walker-Blonde-Neat' was and learning that 'top-shell' was not sea food. I earnestly knew absolutely nothing and they earnestly could not have cared less. Each patron carefully explained what he wanted and patiently waited his turn. I even started bringing drinks around the bar to the tables. Different folks came and went but by the end of the night there were about 10 men, the three o'clock men, singing songs and wrapping their arms around my waist as I passed so I would sit in a lap or two for just a moment.
It was better than a party in The Shire.
Closing time was 4am and I had an admin job that started at 8:30am. I remember helping the drunk owner close windows and him slinging me over his shoulder while I laughed and screamed to be put down. He was way too drunk for acrobatics and I was oh-so-grateful my friend stayed in the bar till closing time. With a booming mom voice, she told him to put me down. She was a professional Stage Manager. I was never more the wide-eyed cheerleader from the Dallas burbs than in that moment.
I spent most of my tips watching the sun rise from a gypsy cab that took me North to my Brooklyn hipster hood. I showered, got coffee and got to work early in midtown Manhattan. No sleep 'til Brooklyn.
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I arrived at a quiet office and sat at my quiet desk. I was usually late. Like a different world with no one there. Peaceful. Nice. My bosses wife called and blurted the news without saying hello. I laughed and thought she was kidding. I got up and told my boss. He stuttered when he asked me what I said and quickly picked up the phone.
I headed back to my desk but decided to see if anyone else was in. A hole started burning in my stomach.
The Office Manager turned on the TV in the conference room. The three of us stood and stared.
Others trickled in unawares. They paused at the looks on our faces. They caught up when facing the screen.
Phones started ringing.
Ran to my desk and answered the phone. Told my other best friend to get away from down there and to call her husband. Hung up. And phones stopped ringing. I didn't know until that night if she'd made it out or not. She did.
On my way out passing Mr. American Psycho's office that stank of booze... suit, tie and hair disheveled... hitting redial on his speaker phone over and over. When I asked if he was OK he slowly looked up and through me. "He's up there....he's there..."
Walking up Sixth Avenue. In the middle of the street. For hours. Looking up at the most perfect blue sky. Glancing to my left and marching in silence next to Kathleen Turner for over an hour.
Being turned away when I tried to donate blood on the Upper West Side. They didn't need it.
Finally getting to Harlem. Sitting with my roommate and close friends. Watching the TV. Having absolutely no understanding of how to swallow any of what we were seeing. It was on TV. It was TV?
Saying good night. A half hour train ride taking three hours to get home.
Detoured to another stop. Another neighborhood. Walking by a mosque barricaded by police. There was a celebration party going on. Singing and shouting. I remember party lights.
Getting up the next day with NY1 still on the tube.
Two more hours back into the city.
A fight breaks out on the crowded platform. Another in the packed car. We all are shoved and swaying together. I look up at at the strangers around me. Most are crying.
Looking out the window at the smoke. Smelling the sweet, pungent air.
Fifth Avenue, empty. I can still smell it. TWO men across the street. Twighlight Zone.
The LCD ticker running. "...orld Trade Center attacked yester..."
After a few hours being sent home.
Detoured train to detoured bus to train evacuations to giving up and walking through unfamiliar neighborhoods. Getting quietly lost with the others. Half numb. The hour long walk to find my way back to my apartment.
Realizing I had gotten to work early the day before. Realizing had I been an hour late I might have been on THE wrong train.
I headed back to my desk but decided to see if anyone else was in. A hole started burning in my stomach.
The Office Manager turned on the TV in the conference room. The three of us stood and stared.
Others trickled in unawares. They paused at the looks on our faces. They caught up when facing the screen.
Phones started ringing.
Ran to my desk and answered the phone. Told my other best friend to get away from down there and to call her husband. Hung up. And phones stopped ringing. I didn't know until that night if she'd made it out or not. She did.
On my way out passing Mr. American Psycho's office that stank of booze... suit, tie and hair disheveled... hitting redial on his speaker phone over and over. When I asked if he was OK he slowly looked up and through me. "He's up there....he's there..."
Walking up Sixth Avenue. In the middle of the street. For hours. Looking up at the most perfect blue sky. Glancing to my left and marching in silence next to Kathleen Turner for over an hour.
Being turned away when I tried to donate blood on the Upper West Side. They didn't need it.
Finally getting to Harlem. Sitting with my roommate and close friends. Watching the TV. Having absolutely no understanding of how to swallow any of what we were seeing. It was on TV. It was TV?
Saying good night. A half hour train ride taking three hours to get home.
Detoured to another stop. Another neighborhood. Walking by a mosque barricaded by police. There was a celebration party going on. Singing and shouting. I remember party lights.
Getting up the next day with NY1 still on the tube.
Two more hours back into the city.
A fight breaks out on the crowded platform. Another in the packed car. We all are shoved and swaying together. I look up at at the strangers around me. Most are crying.
Looking out the window at the smoke. Smelling the sweet, pungent air.
Fifth Avenue, empty. I can still smell it. TWO men across the street. Twighlight Zone.
The LCD ticker running. "...orld Trade Center attacked yester..."
After a few hours being sent home.
Detoured train to detoured bus to train evacuations to giving up and walking through unfamiliar neighborhoods. Getting quietly lost with the others. Half numb. The hour long walk to find my way back to my apartment.
Realizing I had gotten to work early the day before. Realizing had I been an hour late I might have been on THE wrong train.
Remembering the night before.
All of the three o'clock men I served were fire fighters. They were all from the same ladder. A few days later my Stage Manager friend told me only one of them survived. The one she was dating.
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I win the ultimate fantasy contest. No lottery can top that.
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