Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Two hours later I throw a passing glance at the bar and find the rude guy still sitting alone and consuming Macallan 25 like a fish chugs water. Presently, he’s swallowing half a tumbler in one shot.
Hmm, clearly this guy is on a mission to get wrecked tonight, if he isn’t already.
Other than that, I pay him no mind. This job may be a side hustle, but it is the side hustle that keeps my hopes and dreams alive and nothing will come between me and my hopes and dreams.
Fast forward to midnight, I’m counting my tips and dispensing my cut to the busboys and girls as the last of the stragglers file out the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Mike, the bartender, slide a tall glass of water across the bar…to the guy.
He’s still here.
And now I’m starting to wonder who he is because A: his bar tab is upwards of a few grand. And B: this restaurant is Michelin rated, not the type of establishment one goes to get lit. If he wasn’t someone, he would’ve been cut off hours ago. Which makes sense given his behavior toward me. Welcome to New York––the US capital of kings and queens, serfs and slaves.
Reaching into his black designer suit jacket, he fishes a black credit card out of the inside pocket and tosses it on the imported Venetian glass bar. I watch him rise from the stool in slow measured movements, graceful even, considering the guy is trashed.
“Damn, he fiiine,” Kerri, one of the servers, mutters as she walks past me into the kitchen with a handful of dirty dishes.
Meh. Good looks only get you so far. He seems to be about as much fun as a migraine. He also strikes me as high maintenance and in general, a chore. Come to think of it, I sympathize for whoever has to bear his company.
The rude guy ambles out the door in a semi-controlled manner and everyone disperses.
“He didn’t give me the time of day…” I hear Jeanine, another waitress, announce as I fetch my messenger bag from my locker in the employee lounge, “asshole.”
Slipping off my ballerina flats, I exchange them for my ancient Nike Air Jordans, the ones I picked up at Mrs. Caputo’s garage sale. I’m pretty sure Richie Caputo was wearing these when we were in the ninth grade together, but when you ride public transit at night, the last thing you want to wear is anything bright and shiny and new enough to draw unwanted attention.
“He’s gotta be gay,” she continues to vent. Jeanine is a dead ringer for Kate Upton, so there may be some truth to that.
“All the hot ones are,” I say, throwing her a bone even though I have zero sympathy for her. Jeanine gorges on a steady diet of sugar daddies and tosses them aside like yesterday’s news. She’s a seasoned predator. The rude guy may have dodged a major hit to his bank account.
On the way out I swing by the dessert station. “Paris-Brest. Eat it at room temperature,” our stellar pastry chef says as she hands me the take-out box.
“Thanks, Izzy.” Grabbing it, I place it neatly in my messenger bag. We get to sample all the desserts––one of the perks of working in this fine establishment––and I like to save mine for the ferry ride home.
Outside the stench of garbage and car exhaust and hot tar from a recently paved alleyway makes me hold my breath. It’s the only thing that overrides the clammy feel of my skin and the smell of fried food in my hair. July ushered in a bout of blistering heat and humidity and tonight is arguably the hottest to date.
Popping a Dubble Bubble in my mouth, I roll the sleeves of my white button-down shirt over my elbows and head for the subway. One block south, the pink neon light of the Gansevoort Hotel falls on the crowd congregating outside, all of them young and hip and likely out-of-towners. They pile into a dark SUV as I pass, leaving Billy, the doorman, standing alone.
“Hey, girl, heading home?” he says with a bright smile. Billy is a first-rate player. After two years of walking past him on my way home, we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well. He uses his considerable good looks to work that door for all it’s worth and I don’t blame him. You gotta do what you gotta do.
“Trying to catch the 1:30 ferry.”
“My bro needs a couple of windows replaced. He’s in Bensonhurst. You do that?”
I stop and pull a business card out of the back pocket of my work pants, hand it to him as I walk backward down the sidewalk.
Fortune favors the brave…and the prepared. A lot of people forget the second part.