I have to work all weekend. Friday night. Saturday. Sunday. And holiday Monday. On a crappy brief that I’ve been struggling with for the past week. My writing has been shit. I’m really fucking depressed about it. I barely see the Rican. I’m really fucking depressed about that.
I was six-hours-of-sleep-bleary-eyed this morning, crawling up the stairs from the subway, while I pondered this mess. In front of me was this huge black guy. Arms and legs hanging haphazardly at his side. He was probably drunk. But at the time I wasn't thinking about that, I was just trying to get past.
I don’t know about you, but I like to walk up stairs quickly. Sort of a jog climb. The type who trudge very slowly step by step up the stairs in front of me are the type that make me rush home and compose a blog about people, as why I dislike them so.
This guy was zigging. And zagging. And walking very fucking slow. I tried to zig and zag around him, late for work, trying to get past. I finally found my exit hole and, careful to say excuse me, quickly slipped through it, and made my jog up the rest of the stairs. Totally normal, right?
I’d made it past the gate and onto the sidewalk, where I resumed my internal self-reprimands about how I’m New York’s worst writer.
Then I heard behind me, “Bitch! You think you’re cool like Tyra Banks, bitch?”
I turned around to see him, the big black guy. His arms were no longer haphazardly hanging, but now flailing. And he was following me at a pretty fast pace.
While I did appreciate the super model nod, I’d like to point out that it’s a pretty inaccurate comparison. Ok, I may stand above your average girl height-wise. But anybody who’s seen me recently might notice that I’m not that well, er, tan. My skin color has fully assimilated to the color of a white New York native. Even in my darkest of West Palm high school laying out days, I don’t think I still could have ever been mistaken for an African American supermodel. So thanks for the shout out, but you might wanna check your references.
References or not, he was still following me.
“This ain’t no test, bitch. This for real, bitch!"
Then I heard glass shatter. I looked behind me, to see he’d thrown a glass bottle in my direction.
“This ain’t no test, bitch!”
Ok, I think it’s time to walk faster.
More glass. More screaming. And then THUD! I probably shouldn’t have looked back but I turned around anyway.
He was hitting, and I mean really smacking the hell out of everything on the sidewalk he walked past. Punch the payphone. Bang the bus shelter. And the worst part was, no one else around me was paying any attention.
CRASH! More glass bottles. “This the real thing, bitch!”
Luckily I made it to a crosswalk. The Don’t Walk sign was flashing. But I ran across anyway, eventually holding up traffic as the cars waited for me to get to the other side. But I made it, safe on the side-walk with him blocked by the now moving traffic. But I'd escped him, only to face the very “real thing,” of a very bad day.
At work I couldn’t write a headline to save my life. It was bad. Really bad. I could tell my CD was doing everything he could to keep from screaming at me and kicking me out of the office. Writer’s block has had a hold on me for over a week. Or maybe it’s not even writer’s block. I’m just making excuses for the fact that I can’t get my mind wrapped around this brief. Instead of screaming at me, (which he doesn’t do, by the way) he channeled that frustration through a little light ridicule. But I can usually spot the truth in jest. And coupled with my own frustrations of not being able to write, it felt like shit.
Then I left a blank Word document at work, to go to… work. When I got to the club, I glanced at the schedule for next week to find my name. But it wasn’t on it. “It must be some mistake, I thought.” But as it turned out, it was the “real thing.”
Last Saturday night, a table came in the club, on the condition that they would by a bottle. The door-man sat them in my section, gave me their credit card and IDs and walked away. I was insanely busy, so I promised them I’d be back in two seconds. When I came back they told me that they’d changed their minds and weren’t going to by a bottle. When this happens, I’m supposed to escort them back out of the club. They’re admitted on the condition that they’re going to spend $350+ on a bottle, not buy 4 or 5 drinks for 50 bucks. But since I was busy, I just told them to leave and showed them the door. Instead of getting security to escort them out like I’m supposed to. When the door staff asked me what the guys bought that night, I told them I’d kicked them out.
Today my manager explained that to me that later that night, one of the door guys saw them inside the club. I guess they hadn’t left. He asked these guys why they hadn’t left and they told the door guy they’d given me $200, no, let me rephrase that TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS to let them stay in the club. Now, I got no $200. If I knew that I could make those kinds of deals, the Rican would have gotten a much better Christmas gift. But my bitch manager, the one I’ve known for 3 years, decided to believe these guys over me. And fired me.
It rained a lot today. The subway ride home was soggy. So was my head.
So I guess it is true what they say. Being a supermodel isn’t as glamorous as it looks. Even Tyra has bad days.