2.) Night shift

A jet-black pile of clothes lie on the floor next to my purse; tights, a short skirt, a low cut v-neck t-shirt. On the other side, a collection of necessities: Emergen-c vitamin supplements, lip gloss, eyelash glue, perfume, my Charlie Card for the permanently behind schedule green line, a cell phone charger, and a pair of sky high heels.  

The clock on the nightstand glows neon green, reminding me how late I’m running.  I will stop for coffee anyways.  Frantically jamming everything into my purse, I’m thwarted by crumpled receipts, broken cigarettes, pieces of gum with no wrapper, lone Tic Tacs, and a tangled set of headphones connected to nothing.  

My purse is large enough to qualify as a weekend or overnight bag. But I’m not going very far with this baggage tonight. 

I look straight ahead into the mirror and I see my naked face.  Tan skin, almond shaped eyes, stick straight brown hair. This face is less familiar than the one I will create with brushes and pencils.  I apply the makeup layer by layer, a comforting ritual. I know the shape of my eyes and lips, the angle of my cheekbones. I know how to darken one area, and lighten another to accentuate my best features.  I curl my hair, piece by piece until it resembles a Southern beauty queen, teased and sprayed to unnatural heights.  Better for my hair to be too big, it will deflate as the night goes on. 

I glance in the mirror as I gather all my things together.  I see a strong and confident woman. She is outgoing and quick witted and a compassionate listener. She can toss out a joke or a jab without ever seeming downright impolite and she never loses her temper, or rolls her eyes if a customer is looking.  I do not see the kind of girl who has gum with no wrapper covered in bits of tobacco stuck to her headphones at the bottom of her purse.

Standing on the platform I stamp my feet impatiently. I crane my neck and peer into the darkness of the subway tunnel for the fifth time in three minutes. Finally a headlight shines back at me in the distance.  As the train approaches I scan the cars for empty seats. I slide on my headphones and take out my book, ignoring and avoiding the sideways glances and blatant stares that come my way. Are they surprised that I can read? Are they suspicious of my overdone makeup and stiletto heels poking out of the top of my bag? I concentrate on my book. I'm not required to interact, in fact, like most public commuters I am encouraged by social norms not to talk to or make eye contact with anyone. If I actually paid my taxes like I’m legally supposed to, I guess I’d be more up in arms over my 25-75min commute, but rampant tardiness and probing stares aside, I relish my time on the T. With my job, most nights I practically pray for signal failures or disabled trains ahead. I will definitely get yelled at if anyone notices me coming in late tonight.  I can’t blame the train every time; everyone knows it is notoriously unreliable. 

The bathroom is empty except for me.  I check my hair in the mirror and adjust my bra.  The room is silent.  These are my last moments of peace before another night of work.  I sit to put on my shoes and struggle with the tiny buckle clasp.  My hands are shaking from too much Starbucks and not enough real food calories.  These heels are outrageously high and uncomfortable, but they make me look taller and skinnier I’m almost positive. Between Beacon and Charles Street I must have lost at least a pound or two, I’ve been fasting all day. I can already feel my feet throbbing and I haven’t even started walking. 

Tonight I will walk over four miles, to cater to the needs of pushy men and ungrateful boys.  I will ignore their rudeness, their sense of entitlement, I will smile and flirt.  Tonight I will make a lot of money in a relatively short period of time. The faster I go and the bigger my smile, the more money these men will give me.   As much as I hate them, they do pay my bills. We have a symbiotic relationship where I provide a service and they compensate me generously, most of the time.  I am here to make money, and get paid. I’m not here to look pretty and make friends, but if I play my part well enough, no one will know the difference.  

My breath mixes with smoke as I lean against the cement wall. It’s my third smoke break in two hours and I know my manager is irritated.  The ground in frozen and my toes are pink and criss-crossed with straps that will surely create enormous blisters by the time I sit down in 6 hours. I can feel a slight ache in the small of my back from bending over again and again. I am alone and it is quiet except for ambulance sirens in the distance at Mass General.  This is a moment of cold stillness before I return to the chaos that lies on the other side of that wall.  

I am moving as fast as I can. Bending over, scooping ice, pouring liquor.  I am popping open three bottles of beer simultaneously with one hand while swiping a credit card with the other.  People are yelling at me, they are calling out their orders and pushing each other for space at the bar.  Loud electronic music pulses and thumps. I can feel every beat down to my core and I strain to hear the difference between “jack” and “black” as in Johnny Walker Black Label. 

The crowd tonight is definitely under-grad, definitely Ivy League.  They buy each round on a different American Express card. They sign their own name but without the necessary numerals that distinguish them from their father.   The boys who wear watches have Datejusts or Submariners, the junior varsity league for Rolex.   They take shots, round after round until I stop adding vodka all together and laugh to myself as they down sour mix and lime juice shaken and chilled.  The girls in the crowd drink gin and tonics because they’re underage and don’t know any better.  This is a shitty crowd for tips, but I’ll use the oldest trick in the book and add a drink here or there and make up the difference in cash.  Now that they’re wasted they’ll never remember how many drinks they’ve had, and they aren’t the ones paying the credit card bill anyway. 

Last call: my favorite time of the night. Stragglers remain, but most people scattered like cockroaches as soon as the house lights came on.  A couple makes out sloppily in a corner before being moved along by the bouncer.  I run the till on my register and count up my sales and tips. I pour myself a shift drink, three times larger than we’re supposed to, and swear up and down that it’s my first and only of the night, even though everyone knows I started hours ago. 

I count out the bills, smoothing each one and making sure they face the same way, separating them into piles of fives, and tens, twenties, and hundreds.  The hundreds are my favorite.  I might have junk like Tic Tacs at the bottom of my purse, but my cash is always immaculate. This money is mine, and I earned it.

1) Migration

The line of cars stretches well beyond the first bend in the road as I approach the ferry terminal.  Large cement trucks line up in the first half of the line, while shiny German cars with out of state license plates crowd the reservations area.  Dodge pick-up trucks make up the rest of the line. A circle of locals stands to the side, taking bets on whether their vehicle will make it on the boat or not. 

The sea looks calm and glassy, dark blue with no whitecaps in sight.  I watch as the ferry crew unties the massive Margaret Chase Smith, a sparkling white beauty in her heyday, now her hull is marred with rust stains and peeling paint.  As the long line of cars inches forward, I recline my seat and stare out the window. She only holds forty cars, less with the work trucks that appear all summer long. I won’t be going anywhere for while.  

The early morning sun shines on the east side of the bay, peeking through the blanket of fog that lingers over empty moorings and skiffs.  The lobster boats are long gone, and won’t return until well after lunchtime, their captains and sternmen convening on the float to weigh the day’s catch.  A family make’s their way down the gangplank to the dock, carrying coolers, canvas bags, and life preservers to unload onto their sailboat. 

The air is crisp and cool; dew covers the dandelions that grow along the road.  It will warm up in a few hours, but for now people wear fleece jackets over their pink shorts and polo shirts, their Wranglers and work boots.   

On the far side of the cove tall pine trees loom, their dark green branches weaving an impenetrable blanket  of dark, damp forest. A bird glides over the tree tops, coming or going from the morning’s first fish.  The bird is smaller than an eagle, larger than a crow. Its brown wings span three times the length of its body. Even in the distance I can make out its razor sharp claws and beak.  I know this bird well, but forty years ago they were almost extinct.  When Joni Mitchell opined on the dangers of DDT, she must have had the osprey in mind.

Like most Mainers, the osprey is tenacious and hardworking. Fiercely loyal, they mate for life and will protect their offspring to the death.  Nowadays many ospreys call the midcoast’s rocky outcroppings home.  They spend the best months here, arriving in early spring to comb the salt marshes and build their nests in preparation for new editions to the family. When the lupines and lilacs start to bloom, the chicks are born, hungry for fish and ready to learn to fly on their own. I watch as the osprey flies back and forth, surveying the water and stalking its prey.  It glides smoothly over the surface of the water until it spots a fish, then dive bombs abruptly, its beak and claws disappearing for a brief second. It returns to the nest fish-in-mouth to a harmonized chorus of “feed me, feed me!” When the air turns cold and the sea turns dark gray, parents and children alike know it’s time to head south for the winter. 

The boat should be leaving the other side by now, packed with construction workers and the mail truck, and an 18 wheeler full of groceries to be delivered to the general store. Later in the day the last straggling summer people will arrive, just in time for 4^th of July. Like the osprey, the ferry makes this trip back and forth, eight times a day delivering sustenance, in the form of food and supplies, news from the mainland, and business for this struggling fishing economy. Islanders, as self sufficient as they’ve grown to be, still rely on the ferry for reassurance, for a connection to the outside world.

The air is cooler today, the heavy fog absent. The dew forms tiny ice crystals as the thermometer rises in the early morning hours.  There are no dandelions, no lilacs or lupines.  The forest is dark green, with shocking patches of yellow and orange.  The wind blows, and the sea forms frothy white caps in the distance. As I come around the first bend in the road, the ferry line has dwindled. Seven or eight cars idle in the front of the line, their exhaust smoke rising and mixing into the gray air.  People sit in their cars, next to heaters and radios.  No one is taking bets today. All the plates say Vacationland, the out-of-staters left weeks ago, closing the shutters of their cottages, and draining their pipes in preparation for winter.  

As I drive onto the boat I see the osprey nest, empty in the distance. All month long the new chicks practiced flapping their wings on the edge of the nest before taking their first flight. They fished these waters growing strong and capable and finally, when the wind felt right they took off, embarking on a dangerous but necessary journey.

As the boat moves out of the pen and into the bay I look back at the island. Quiet and serene, the island is resting for another winter, the seasonal hustle and bustle suspended.  For now, most people are gone, most places are closed, and the ferry only has to make three trips a day.  I am leaving, but like the osprey I will be back next year. 

A fresh start

I grew up on Islesboro, an island in Penobscot Bay, ME. Island life is simple by nature, one grocery store, one school, one post office, and that's it. If you need to go somewhere after the ferry stops running at 4pm, too bad. I had a graduating class of nine students, which is on the larger side for Islesboro Central School.  I am the middle child, with an older sister and younger brother. My mother grew up in Greenwich, CT, has her Masters degree in education, and is the Vice President of an international non-profit organization. My father, an emigrant from Mexico, works as a caretaker for the gilded-era palatial summer estates that Islesboro is well-known for. My parents have been married for 35 years.

After high school I moved to Boston, to study at Northeastern University. As a 16-year-old college freshman, I dove head first into my new city life. I made friends from all over the country and the world, I excelled in my Communications Studies classes, and I used a fake ID to attend 18+ nights at local nightclubs.

As part of the curriculum at Northeastern, I participated in the cooperative education program and spent three semesters working in the professional world. I worked at a public relations firm, drafting press releases and pitching editors. I worked at an e-commerce start up, and watched the company grow exponentially as I learned the ins and outs of Search Engine Optimization, Google Ad Words, and general product marketing. Lastly, I worked as a literary publicist, booking authors for nationwide speaking engagements and television appearances.

During college I also started working as a cocktail waitress to pay for my rent and other living expenses. Between work at the bar, and work for co-op, I soon felt pulled away from academic life. In my quest for independence, I equated disposable income with freedom, and focused less and less on college. One month into my senior year, I quit school and on a whim, moved to Miami, FL. In South Beach I experienced firsthand the challenges of autonomy, and the darker side of an otherwise glamorous locale. After a brief stint, I made the decision to move back to Boston.

I’ve been working as a bartender ever since. Although this is far from a passion of mine, without a college degree my employment options have been limited and I make a decent living. In fact, I make about twice as much as my graduated friends, who have struggled to find work in the midst of an economic recession.

I’m weary of getting “trapped” in the service industry, as so many of my colleagues have. We use the term “golden handcuffs” to describe the struggle between staying in a job that pays well at the expense of pursuing something more fulfilling. I don’t want to be a bartender forever. In fact, I don’t even want to be a 25 year old bartender so I’ve decided to go back to school and finish my degree.