Chronicles of a Cocktail Waitress Pt. 3

Helpless anger seethes in my chest. I may be working for tips, but I'm not working to please you sexually, I think as I flash another fake smile from the aisle as the older man kisses at me when I pass for the third time.

A woman with bright orange hair and a fox mask gets up on stage. She holds the mic close to where her mouth should be and begins to read poetry no one can hear. I am crying with laughter from behind the bar. The band, which is improvising music along with the reading, can't hear her muffled grunts from behind the mask either, they look at each other and decide to play a Guns and Roses song.

The poet's words still hang in the air like frozen moisture. The room is silent as he ruffles through his pages to get to the next piece. I've stopped working and am sitting: this man's poetry can't be ignored, it must be honored by listening.

The Jazz sounds like a cat in a blender to me. The saxophone is screaming the high pitched yowls of the theoretical cat as the blades rip into its flesh and I can't help but feel like the cat as the music rips into my ears. I look up at the clock and sigh as I realize there's another hour and a half to go before the night's done.

The solo performer is CRAZY. Like, totally bat-shit nuts. She can't sit still. She needs everything NOW. Her husband, a beaten looking bald man, is trying to placate her as he pulls another chunk of hair out of his head. I am not digging the energy and want to run very far away. I can't, however, as the solo performer needs a glass of water that's room temperature with a slice of lime and honey and a cup of ice on the side with a couple of pieces of bread as well and a bottle of soda water for her kid thankyouverymuch.

The bass player gives me a knowing smile and chuckle as I pick up a cup of what used to be water and quickly put it in the service bin. The cup had so much backwashed food in it I thought the whole thing was covered in vomit when I first got to the table to clean up. I had to wrap my hand in towels before attempting to pick the glass up. The bass player, who was sipping a beer after his set, watched and provided sympathetic phrases and jokes that made me laugh enough to keep my own bile down.

The smell of pot smoke is ripe, so ripe I wonder if someone is actually curing the marijuana in the room. The reggae music is amazing, however, and I let the atmosphere of the room (dark, warm, undulating currents of music) take me to a relaxing place.

We're bored. Very few people are there to see the amazing Brazilian music that's played by incredibly talented artists. We look at each other. Nod. Twenty minutes later we're stoned out of our minds: nodding to the Brazilian music and wondering how we got so lucky.

Dark cave. Up the stairs it's summer and sunshine! Dark cave made even darker when the lights on the ceiling are on. There's something about lightbulb light in the daytime that makes a room feel even darker when the sun is shining. I dream about running up the stairs and running out of the restaurant, up the street, to the subway, to home, to pack, to run to the airport, to buy a one way ticket, to go and to never come back.

What I'm Thinking

He was looking at me, studying my face. I had just opened my eyes. It was morning (sort of) and we'd only gotten to sleep at 5am. 

I looked back at him for what felt like 20 minutes.

"What's up?" I asked, groggy. 

"Just wondering what you're thinking." He replied, keeping his eyes on mine. 

We looked at each other again. I had just spent two days with this person, taking only a few hours off at a time to do human things, but then only to go back to his bed and exist as a red-hot band of nuclear energy that kicks in when a relationship is in the throws of infancy. I felt the temperature rise in my chest again. 

I recalled the first symptoms of a new relationship: the absolute mind-crushing feeling of desire for one person. To have my entire day altered when I see them; to think about them constantly; to wish, with every piece of me, to be able to push them into me, hold them against my chest and breathe them in. The feeling is mind numbing. I can suddenly spend days doing nothing but lying in bed naked and talking about inside jokes and shared experiences. Plans I made get dimmer and priorities are not so important. I can lightly brush through life knowing someone, not so far away, is waiting for me somewhere and when he sees me will make me his universe, worshipping me and all my flaws. 

I was staring back at The Musician on the bed. Tired. Exhilarated. And a surprised at how quickly everything is escalating. This guy is pretty damn great, and getting better and better each week. I didn't think I'd get into a relationship. I assumed I'd keep meeting more Tom, Dick and Harry's for a while. And everyday that goes by spent in his arms means less and less time spent on what any of the other boys must feel like. 

I tried to convey all of that with my eyes, but instead leaned in and kissed his neck. 

"I'm thinking coffee and breakfast." I hummed from between my pursed lips, my thoughts fading into a fuzzy background noise. 

Complicated

C - Confusing. I like you! You're sweet, you listen to me, you're patient, you want to see me more, you're honest and I'm not ready to commit.

O - The "Oh, Shit." factor that happened last night when blast from the not-too-distant past, Mr. Kiss, texts me again.

M - Man, I want to have sex like that again... Mr. Kiss is flakey, a stereotypic hot-guy who repeats himself several times ("because you haven't heard that story yet, right?") and is one helluvah hot piece of ass.

P - Pausing, because I really like the Musician. He's sweet, he listens to me without any kind of "shut up, lets fuck" attitude, he's patient, and really smart. He's also not the tall, chestnut-haired prince charming.

L - Love is what I'm after. I want to love someone, desperately. And I could, if I wanted. Yet, I keep thinking of all the men who are seemingly coming out of no where, and I pause the "L" button. Example: The Friend who recently revealed he wanted to sleep with me. "YOU DO?! I guess... I could do that. Maybe. If I'm drunk and single and we're hanging out... but, I'm not attracted to you. Or am I?"

I - I'm single. I'm not emotionally. I'd feel really, really bad if I acted on an impulse and didn't tell the Musician. My friends tell me that unless we've decided that we're officially seeing each other exclusively I'm off the hook, but that doesn't mean that's a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.

C- Considering my options. Because behind "Door Number 4" is the College Buddy who made out with me on my bed a few weeks ago and wants to casually sleep with me. "I'm a really good kisser, like, really, really good. And I love to go down on women. We'd have fun. No strings."

A- All of them are cute. All of them are worth considering. I'm at the point where, hell, I could sleep with them all, right? Take a chance on a college buddy I would never slept with when I was 20, a friend I never considered, an old lover I've been hoping would reach out again, and a guy I'm getting more and more comfortable with.

T - Totally loving this attention, but trying to play my cards right. Honesty is the best policy. Or is it? I'm learning, here. Being 25 has given me a sense of duty to adulthood, and adults (mature ones anyway) act on the healthiest options for everyone involved because that's the right thing to do.

E - Even if I called off everything with everyone and just chose one guy, whoever that be, would that be the right call? Mr. Kiss would probably flake on me again (the old "radio silence" never-got-your-text bullshit he's pulled in the past). Or, I start dating someone: The College Buddy, The Friend, The Musician... and even with a big fat "TAKEN" sign on my forehead I'd get surreptitious texts at 2am from other "TAKEN" guys who feel like their drunkenness is an excuse for telling me they want me to sleep over.

D- Despite the complications, I'm loving the attention. It's ego boosting. However, I'm in no way looking to hurt anyone, because I've been burned in the past and wouldn't want to inflict that pain on someone else (My ex, Serendipity, whose send off was: "I slept with someone else while you were in Thailand because I thought we had come to a 'break' in our relationship." coming into sharp focus, here). Don't know what I'll do, trying to stay in the moment as much as possible. I'm going to call a few girlfriends and get their advice. I don't have enough women in the mix.

The blip-blop scoobity doo-da walla walla ding dong

What does it mean to be "dating" someone versus "seeing" someone versus having a "boyfriend"?

Where does one draw a line and declare that something is indeed happening with someone? There is no definitive word that can describe it all and one is left using a lot of vague hand gestures and facial expressions (usually involving a shrug) to try and give an idea about the complicated nature of what's going on on a daily basis with another person. Who happens to be male. And not just a friend.

I'm single.
I'm single?
Wait... am I single?

So, single means I am a free agent. A gal who can look a guy in the eye and say "let's do this" and not feel a shred of remorse about hurting anyone else's feelings by making that choice.

And, therefore, by default, not being single means the opposite.

BUT WAIT! I don't have a boyfriend! Therefore: no relationship! HA!

Nope: Single.
No... I'm... not single.
Wait...

I feel a fear grip me in this regard. On the one hand: this complicated jumble of emotions toward another human being who also has complicated (or not) emotions toward me is exactly what I've wanted! And on the other hand: I'm still thinking with a single-gal brain! "He's hot." and "I'll do you, once I'm drunk, though." and "Can't wait to flirt the hell out of the room." All fly through my mind. I've also got: "You'll hurt him." and "He'll let you down, eventually." whizzing in my brain as well. Ouch.

My Mother told me to relax and live in the moment. "Enjoy yourself. Let it just be and have fun." She said, scrolling through his Facebook profile pictures and exclaiming: "He's Cute, Nat!" I felt myself relax a bit. She's right. I'm trying to define a thing that's a thing without a definition or name.

For now: I'm in a "blip-blop scoobity doo-da walla walla ding dong," with The Musician.

I don't know where it's going, but *shrug* I'm enjoying myself.

Like Father, Like Daughter.

Spent 14 years working for Barnes and Nobel right out of college, moving from suburban Long Island to New York City in the 1980's.

Devoured the history of the City and becoming an ardent New Yorker by reading book after book about the growth and change of the metropolis. He'd go for walks, taking in Brooklyn and Queens and tracing his finger over a map to show me the edge of the world he'd seen that day. Being a Manhattanite I'd only stare in awe at large swaths of the city I never thought I'd one day see change so much.

Becoming a major Yankee fan, scoring the high honor of being voted the "Biggest Yankee Fan" on MLB.com. Driving across the country to see games in foreign stadiums and collecting pins to stick in his hat, it was my first reason to ever go to Detroit: to watch the Tigers play the Yankees on Memorial Day weekend.

Decided to collect and publish the world's most comprehensive list of English language citations on King Charles the 12th, king of Sweden. Why not get a Master's degree in Library Science? Oh, and let's fly us all to England so we can get one more citation on the way.

The building we lived in burned down. We lived all over. East side, West side, Hotel, Duplex with backyard (the only one I've ever lived with), Studio Sublet... all in 2 1/2 years. My middle school years were peppered with "Time to Move" and "Gotta Unpack" days off.

Figured selling the apartment on the West Side and buying a boat to sail around the world for the rest of his life would be a great way to spend retirement. In come the sailing magazines and nautical books.

Biking enthusiast, he could hop on his trusty two wheeler and go for a 100+ mile ride every weekend.

Sold the apartment in the City, giving up the New Yorker lifestyle, bought a mini-van and built a shed (made of found flag stone from the side of the road and the local dump) in his suburban backyard. A playground for new ideas.

Bought land in the Catskills and figured he'd build his own house from the stone found in the ground, he'd be entirely self sufficient and live off the earth, being his own boss for the rest of his life. In come the homesteading books. In comes the beard.

But wait, how about starting a Lavender farm instead? Bought a stone house built in 1820, 80 acres, and set a date: he'll be a farmer and owner of a Bed and Breakfast in a year.

That's my father in a very brief nutshell.

I see his high cheek bones in my face when I look in the mirror, his hands and feet, his long arms and legs reflect in my own body.

Is it any wonder that I can't keep still either?