It's up. Party on. TGIF. Seriously.
I stayed in bed all the next day, deep inside the freshly stirred up funk of the previous evening, the emotional garbage turning over and over in my head. I slept, woke, watched the wind drag dirty clouds across the sky, slept again, sliding off into blessed grey oblivion. Around three, I forced myself out of bed and into the shower, standing under the fiery spray until I crossed the line between a little and a lot late for work.
As I smoked a cigarette and drank my third gigantor mug of coffee, I threw on a forest-green cotton bodysuit and a pair of jeans with enormous holes in both knees and half the seat ripped out. A quick look in the mirror showed the bottom half of one butt cheek on display. Excellent. My current attitude wouldn’t garner me a heck of a lot of tips, but my ass just might. I headed down the stairs to take the subway to the upper west side and the wonderful world of bartending.
The restaurant was busy for a few hours, and my jeans delivered as hoped, the tip cup filling with fives and tens. A couple of suits passed me their business cards, cell numbers scribbled on the back. The cards all found homes in the trash as soon as the guys walked out the front door.
Later that night, the skies opened up again and we found ourselves in the midst of another torrential downpour. The bar emptied out and stayed that way. Right before closing time, the cop from last night came in again, shaking rain from his clothes, wiping fog from his glasses. . .
Read on: Chapter 6