Meeting the Poet

On a crisp night in February I left my Hoboken bubble to visit it's unpopular sister, Jersey City, for a housewarming party thrown by a friend of mine.

This friend is 50-year-old writer who actually has a tangible, published book available (seems unheard of nowadays) and took a liking to me while I was serving him at a restaurant almost four years ago.

Greeting the party in my gray and orange striped cardigan, gripping my Smirnoff handle I bought on sale for twenty bucks, it was clear I was at the wrong event. Jazz was softly streaming and the lights were dim enough to feel like I was entering a poetry club rather than a one-bedroom apartment in a Jersey ghetto. I pretended to look at the books lining the walls, but that was an act, since I already spent nights examining his bookshelves.

My friend tried playing good host by taking the large handle from my small hands and introducing me to some people, sitting in a circle, "This is Stephanie, she's a poet."

My face reddened and I stuttered something about not writing much poetry anymore, more along the lines of short stories. Everyone shook my hand and said their names but I did not process anything as I was too busy trying to fit in.

A surly man, who my friend introduced as "also a poet," starting questioning me on what I write or how I write or something and really, to stop the questions I just handed him my card. I am quite proud of my business cards, adorned with a black and white picture of an alter-ego of sorts with long, wavy black hair and a star tattoo on her neck.

I am pretty sure the next question was if I was having sex with the 50-year-old. I politely guffawed and dismissed that notion.

Later the glum poet pulled up my blog and Twitter via his smartphone and started quoting me -- to me! -- as I tried desperately to avoid eye contact and walk away. It's one thing to comfortably pseudo-promote yourself but another to hear your words read aloud, by a stranger, who you can't tell if he's drunk, condescending, hitting on you, or genuinely enjoying your stories.

The next day I had a friend request and new follower on Twitter. Turns out, this poet was just as nervous as I was and also felt out of place. We're friends now. He encourages me to write, builds my ego. Maybe, in a strange way he's become my mentor, or at least, showed me what I'd be like if I was a 40-year-old, professor-poet.

So that's how meeting the poet led to "Unemployed Sex" -- my new weekly column on njpoet.com.

The Failed Threesome

A couple years ago a quiet girl I waitressed with asked me out for dinner and drinks. Since I did not know her very well, I took it as her way of saying she wanted to be friends-- and who am I to deny an extended hand?

She wanted to go to a new restaurant her ex-boyfriend worked at because on Tuesday night they had cheap specials. Sounded good to me.

Once there, we each ordered a martini, followed by another martini we received courtesy of the manager, then another courtesy of her ex. By the time the place closed, we were more than buzzing so it was easy for her ex to convince us to go to another bar down the street.

There, the ex fed us numerous vodka shots. -- I should probably mention her ex did not speak any English. -- While he was taking care of my bill, I did not speak an actual word to him. My coworker sat in between us relaying English to Spanish and vice versa and through the drinks, we managed to have a good time.

By the time it was 3 a.m., we attempted to stumble back to our homes. Being the lush that I am, I invited the two back to my apartment. The least I could offer was more vodka shots from my Smirnoff handle I always have waiting in the freezer since I hardly paid for anything during the night.

After the first apartment shot, things started to get strange. The three of us were hanging out in my room as the quiet girl told me how cute I was. Thanks? Then the boy started rubbing my shoulders and whispered Spanish nothings into my ear. Seriously, Spanish nothings, since I did not understand what he was saying. Simultaneously, the two pressed their hands against my body and guided it to my bed where each tried to unbutton the long flannel I had over my leggings. My fingers quickly buttoned my shirt back up, as they each began to kiss my neck. 

My confused, drunk mind stuttered "I need more vodka" as I struggled to rise. I poured myself another vodka as I glanced at the guy who was sweaty and smelled like tequila. He looked incredibly excited, like a kid in a candy store, not knowing what to grab first.

As I took my shot, each lunged at my shirt buttons again. I laughed nervously then swiftly button them up like I was playing an instrument. Another shove, I was back on the bed... the charade again continued in trying to match my lips with theirs as they pushed down my hands so they could caress my squirming body. Wow, this was some kind of dual molestation.

Somehow, my body lurched upright and I drunkenly shouted "Stop!" The girl then snapped out of it, grabbing her ex's hand and saying, "We're going to go now." No complaints from me.

The next morning she sent me a text saying she blacked out at the bar and didn't remember the rest of the night. We never talked about the incident.

Burning Down the House

Beep! Beeep! BEEEP! BEEEEP!

The high-pitched noise is drilling into my dreams -- wait, I'm not dreaming -- disoriented, my legs stumble out of bed, practically tripping my body onto the doorknob. When I open it and peak my head into the hallway, my mind begins to put things together-- it's the fire alarm.

But not just for my apartment, the downstairs alert system is going off as well. And I smell something burning. Not caring where it was coming from, my squinty eyes focus on my roommate, curled onto our couch. She's slept there three nights in a row already and it looks like tonight wasn't ending much different. 

Beeeeeep!

"Heather!" She is still in her bartending attire, she must've gotten drinks after work. "Heather!" Leaning over her, my small hands shake her shoulder, she slightly opens her eyes -- glasses still on -- grunting something incoherent then turning away from me.

"Something's burning! Wake up! Don't you hear the fire alarms?" The beeps are so loud, my thoughts are having trouble connecting. "Heather!"

Frustrated by her behavior, I run into Keith's room. How am I the only one to hear the noise? "Keith, I need help! Something's burning! Heather won't wake up!" 

Like a cartoon, Keith springs out of bed, still in his white boxer-briefs. I hurry into the hallway which is now filled with smoke. It wasn't like that before. "Smoke! Shit! I don't know where it's coming from!" I start to panic. Why won't Heather wake up?

Keith prances passed me, straight for the kitchen. Then I see it-- why didn't I think of this before? -- the oven is registered at 425 degrees. She left the fucking oven on.

As I push every button to turn it off, Keith reveals the culprit. A frozen Amy's Pizza that has turned into charcoal. Heather wakes up now, she grabs the smoking, hard disk that was in the oven at least two hours too long and attempts to run water over it.

It's 6:15 a.m. in the morning. The beeping won't stop. The girls upstairs hate us.

I snatch the pizza box to use as a fan. Finding the blinking red lights, I wave the box wildly over my head, hoping the wind will turn off the noise. My large t-shirt I wear to bed, rising above my bum, I continue to scream at the ceiling.

Keith is laughing, already reiterating the story while Heather is mumbling apologies. After my frantic hopping from alarm to alarm, the noise subsides and things (more like, I) seem to have calmed down.

Keith goes back to bed snickering, Heather tells me she didn't do it on purpose, she fell asleep. Of course, she didn't do it on purpose, but she acted like a fucking drunk-- which is what I wanted to tell her but I didn't 'cause the shame in me knows I am a drunk, too.

She staggers back to the couch, back into a fetal position. Why didn't she just go to her bed?

I go back to my room with my heart still pounding. I had to work at the office in less than three hours.

It happens.

#2011highs

Twitter upsets me. I feel like I am trying to get into the popular clique by having to copy everyone else... hashtags, retweet, links... but I don't really know how to do it. And I try to show off my random, hilarious and poignant thoughts but always seem to fall short. My followers come and go.

In attempts to get "more popular" I am trying to incorporate trending topics. This morning I noticed one was #2011highs. Well that should be easy...

Writing more. Escaping steakhouse. The Cure show.

Seriously. That was all I could think of.

Sure, I escaped the terrible steakhouse I worked at for two years, now write for an online magazine and started this little blog, but I make less money and most of the time feel uselss. The Cure concert was awesome but why didn't I go to any other mind-blowing shows?

Wow. I can't say "2011 sucked" but where are the highs? Where are those crazy experiences that make my heart feel like it's going to burst and my head go into overload?

No spontaneous trips. More blackouts. Same lovers I should be rid of.

So 2012, I will cheers to you tonight, but please... show me something worthwhile this year... and maybe, have 100 followers find me so I can pretend to be loved.

"I've always wanted to be a waitress."

One of the intern mutes said this to me a couple days ago. We were talking over a Hoegaarden at a going away one-beer-each lunch celebration for a guy we never met. She confided in me she felt guilty for accepting a beer 'cause she wasn't twenty-one yet. Oh. My. God. I felt old. The sad thing is I am probably older than most of the editors, too. But since when is twenty-five old? And how did they all get jobs before me? It is appearing that only restaurant managers like me.

When the intern exclaimed, "I've always wanted to be a waitress." My initial reaction was, "Really? But you can't be a mute and be a waitress!" (Okay, she is obviously a nice girl and now I know she and some others can talk but it is still fun to refer to them as "the mutes"). Then, I remembered! I always wanted to be a waitress, too! In college, I applied countless time to my favorite restaurants and desperately wanted to work there. I never did. But what if -- if I did, would I have gotten out of it sooner?

I have a friend crush!

But I do not think he wants to be my friend. This makes me sad.

I am an intern now. An eager, overzealous editorial intern for an online magazine. I sit in the corner table with three other interns while the superior, editorial staff are aligned in front of us. They play a lot of 90s pop music and ignore us interns until we need to update spreadsheets or transcribe an interview. That appears as fine to the other interns (whom I call "the mutes") but me being a miserable, bored waitress, 'causes me to chime into the staff's conversations with silly anecdotes or questions. I do not think they appreciate these contributions. They are not used to those-not-being-paid to talking.

My friend crush sits completely across the room, opposite me. After labeling everyone in the office on my first day -- it's called boredom, not judgmental -- I decided he will be my friend. He makes me laugh, in that stupid, outburst guffaw kind of way with his intelligent witticisms and interesting comments. He also drew me in with his shaggy hair and plaid shirts. Since the editors never saw interns reacting to their antics, I am sure everyone believes I am laughing and socializing with myself. Which, in a way, I am.

We had our first intern meeting yesterday. It was there I repeatedly expressed my desire to write articles for the site and volunteered to become the resident sex editor if they need ideas on how they can hire me permanently. If not, I could write about punk rock since their music editor mainly writes about hip hop. Apparently, I have become an expert on that, too.

I cannot help being vocal. I want to stop telling people about home fries and smelling like a steak every time I go out! I want to stop watching others celebrate their life! I will blame my behavior on having a strange reaction to sitting in an office for eight hours. I know if I was already an editor and some intern was acting like me now -- like the girl who always raises her hand and recites every answer -- I'd be annoyed (by me).

But I put my life on pause for three years. Waitressing has broken me and left me craving more. I wish these editors could understand how desperate I was before I entered their building, how being hired was like winning American Idol. It is my chance to show the world (and myself) what I can do.

Herbert.

A Spanish server in his sixties: short, glasses, dark gray hair. Whenever I see him he smiles brightly, bows slightly, and says, "Hellooo S.O.S!" Since a misunderstanding a month ago, he believes my initials are S.O.S. They are S.M.O. but I do not have the heart to correct him (again). He also calls me Mark Twain. 'Cause I am a writer, get it? Apparently, he could not think of a female.

[Sidenote: Coincidentally, he told me Mark Twain is not the author's "real" name and asked if I had a pen name. I told him Steph Bee and he instantly exclaimed, "Ohhhh I thought it would be S.O.S!"]

He is ridiculously generous and odd. If a server needs singers for a customer's birthday, he jumps at the chance, and follows the other singing servers like we are in a parade, clicking a fork and knife together "to create festive background music." Out of the blue, he gave me a mini stapler and told me to name it "Herbito" meaning, "Little Herb." One day he said goodbye by interlocking his pinky with mine and saying, "Have the sweetest night," while the next day, he placed his palm on mine, closed his eyes, and hummed softly, "I am feeling your vibrations. They are good vibrations."

He also loves kids. It does not matter if they are sitting at his table or another server's, he approaches them and shakes their hand. I caught him drawing an elephant on a styrofoam plate and he told me, "It is for the children, I think they will enjoy it!" I now notice he draws an elephant for every child he talks to. And I am not sure what he talks to them about. I have even seen him hold hands with a few as he leads them to the bathroom. The parents seem to appreciate it; however, my coworkers call him a pedophile.

Sometimes, I too, now look at him strange and wonder, "Why does he draw the children elephants? Or shake their hands like they are tiny adults?" Then I catch myself. Why is it so hard for people to believe someone could be so nice? How does a friendly man turn into a creepy man?

And who are we to judge each other anyway? Professional servers do not end up being servers without a story. No one wants this to be their career, and when it is, the person's esteem and hopes disappear. Why make it worse for someone who is in their own struggle? I once witnessed him walking out of the bathroom with his head down and his hand slapping it, repeating, "Stupid Hebert! Stupid Herbert!" Not sure what he did; but it does not matter.

On the back of my check pad I have collected, what I call, Herbert Wisdom. These are my favorites:

"Even if someone is sending you dark and bad energy, smile all the time."

"I save gracious acts."

"Don't let anybody's ego steal your smile."

"He is a lucky one!" (referring to the birthmark in my eye)

I conclude. Herbert is a nice, quirky man.

Potatoes: A True Story

     “I would like the steak with mashed potatoes.”

     “We don’t have mashed potatoes – we only have one kind of potato – they’re like home fries.” I tell this to at least ten customers every day.

     The woman’s dry expression remains unchanged, “Okay, I will have a baked potato then.”

     I sigh, not surprised, “We don’t have baked potato – we only have one kind of potato – they’re like home fries; they are sliced red potatoes sautéed on the grill with some seasoning and onion.”
     She blinks. “I think I’d rather the mashed potatoes.”
     I blink. “We only have home fries.”

     “Oh, that’s fine.”
     Of course that’s fine, it’s the only potato we have, if you want potatoes you will eat these potatoes. The restaurant has been around for 26 years; I have been working there for two. Still, I am filled with a mundane amazement every time I repeat to customers about our one-of-a-kind “famous” potatoes. It says that right on the menu: “Our Famous Potatoes.” The menu has not changed in its 26 years and it is incredibly simple: meat and potatoes, more specifically giant steaks, burgers and potatoes aka home fries. Sometimes, when I describe these “famous” potatoes, I do quotation marks with my fingers. 95% of the customers will giggle at this and think I am a friendly waitress opposed to one who repeats herself over and over and curses those not listening in her head.
     I smile and collect the table’s menus.
     Five minutes after I bring the woman her steak and home fries she waves me over. “I don’t like these potatoes. Could I have French fries instead?”
     I am dumfounded. “We don’t have French fries.” I cannot bring myself to explain further, again.

     “Really? No French fries!?” She exclaims.

     No I am lying. This entire time I just wanted to make believe we only had one kind of potato because I do not want to please you, drive up the check, or receive any kind of tip.”Nope, just the one kind of potato, the home fries.” I give a half smile.

     As I walk away I hear her and her husband marveling about how there are no French fries and how odd it is for a restaurant to have no French fries.

    

     I need a new job.

"So your life is waiting, alcohol, and sex?"

A friend said this to me last night. At first, I was appalled. Who could say such a thing? Is that all they think of me? But after taking thirty seconds to think about it -- well, yeah -- my life is mostly waitressing, drinking, and sex.

Is this what happens when you graduate during a financial crisis? Or is this just the life of people in the serving industry? Maybe, every twenty-five year old is like me: having an early life crisis, not in the career or city they want; going from lover to lover but all the while, feeling like an overgrown adolescent.

I need to remember what matters to me. Writing, good books, punk/indie music, vegan food, dark satiric movies, NYC, vintage clothes... this is who I am. But I am stuck in Hoboken. And waitressing.