It never ceases to amaze, but no matter where you go on a Saturday night, the people and stories contained with a bar are just no match for those on the outside. As part of hopefully semi-regular series, evidence will be herein presented. From the night of November 12, meet a couple of The Outsiders.
Name: Pam
Scene: Milano's (East Houston, near Mott)
Time (estimated): 12:45 a.m.
Story: Pam used to manage a restaurant in the East Village. She did all of the hiring, but several of the employees had been there much longer than her. One that always stood out in her mind was Nickie, a small, chubby blonde who wore oversized false eyelashes every day of the week, day and night. Nickie was a rather plain girl with very little to add to any conversation, but she had her eyelashes and that was what made her matter; ownership was taken in her responsibility toward making herself memorable. As Pam came in one day after having worked there about a month, one day, a woman with short red hair was bussing tables and cleaning up booths. The woman was particularly striking because Pam had never hired a red-head. Ever. Turns out that Nickie, in addition to the eyelashes, also came to work sporadically in a red wig and, on those days, would only answer to the name Veronica.
Bonus second story: One night recently Pam and her husband were outside of Milano's (where they are semi-regulars). The air had just turned colder and to stay warm they stood huddled. It took them by surprise when they approached by someone who had one hand extended in front of him and was invading their huddle. Pam's husband was taken by surprise and thought this was someone asking for money. He curtly advised the man to step away: "You need to go around us. This is a wide sidewalk." The man was incensed. He, too, was a regular at the bar and went back in yelling at the top of his voice what had happened. When the couple returned to the bar they were immediately confronted by shouts of indignation. The angered bar-goer (who happened to be african-american) confronted the couple: "Who in the hell do you think you are, telling me to step off because 'This is a white sidewalk.'?"
Name: Alex
Scene: Rawhide (Eighth Avenue, Chelsea)
Time (estimated): 1:50 a.m.
Story: Alex, not really your typical Rawhide client, was first seen as my friend Dankh and I, also not typical clients, were taking a cigarette break outside. Within moments of stepping outside and spying a heavily-intoxicated man in his early (aka girly) 50s, Alex approached and told the older man dressed in denim and leather, "Girl, you so twisted." The man looked up, and then around, unsure of what was happening. Alex starts again, "Look at you. You are twist-ted, gurrrrl." At which point Dankh introduced himself and me to Alex and dragged him around the corner and away from the now befuddled man.
Flash forward one hour and Alex was bobbing and weaving through the bar. We sat him in a barstool for stability, and because he had given us some hope for at least some freshness in the next generation of the gays, we offered to escort him to the PATH train to be sure that he arrived home in one piece. Along the walk over, we patiently waited as he emptied out the contents of his stomach (neatly, into a trash can, as a responsible homosexual should). He seemed to perk up some as we approached the entrance to the PATH. Goodbyes were said and as we stepped away from the stairwell that was the beginning of Alex's trip home, there was an echo from the bowels of the station. "Oh! I am so tah-wist-ted!"
Ugh. Maybe a blogcation is in order. My content is in the toilet and this blogwar retardation has left me feeling just a little dirty. Luckily, there is plenty of talent to feed off of out there.
