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.
So, you dropped the call to the T complaint line--and cleaned out the bit of confusion in that graf, and otherwise went with a very very good thing.
ReplyDeleteThere are times when I have a lot to say--and there are times when I follow the words of the philosopher who said, 'Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must not speak.'
This is such a delicate, piece of work and so embedded in your experience that I'd be a fool if I thought that I could speak about it. It's beyond any but the pettiest criticism, and stands alone perfectly without any help or advice from me.