Thursday, June 21, 2012

6-21-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #131 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: My Big Crush)

I mentioned in One U posts about how much flirtin’ and hurtin’ there was back then and there.  Well, it’s true -- and I was pretty silly at times, too.  However, my big crush shall remain nameless in order to preserve a shred of dignity.  One thing I’m not comfortable with writing or talking about is the kiss-and-tell.  I am sure this is one factor that might prove potential harm when it comes to getting read and published but hey -- as daddy said, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.  I tried just now to curse in print but that looked uncouth, too.  Oh well.  Badass I’m not.

I will say this much about my big crush: I melted every time I saw him, every time he walked in. He was a writer. . . not famous per se, but he did have a famous grandfather, a musician.  I dug this guy (he was maybe five, ten years older than me?) because he was smart, funny, kindhearted, wore glasses, and was cute -- in my mind.  He was part of a movable poker game where the guys all wrote out checks to cover their losses in the written amount of “One hundred hurts.”  I know I saw that. . . . I’ve always been observant of those kinds of amusing details.

One night, at closing time, a bunch of us went out to an afterhours club in Soho.  The expected occurred. . . without spelling it out, I’ll leave it to your imaginations (and if you were indeed around, out and about at the time, you know what probably transpired).  All in all, it was a most unhealthy and (ultimately) unhappy scene.  In my mind’s eye and memory, the song “Billie Jean” by Michael Jackson kept playing in the background, over and over.  Also Human League’s “Love Action”. . . and Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing.”

Toward the dawn hour, I wound up in a cab with the object of my crush, and one of the bartenders from One U. . . believe me, everything wound up being a blur but I do recall slow dancing to Patsy Cline singing “Seven Lonely Days.”  Recalling it all, I shudder to think how dangerous everything really was.  What if somebody had turned violent, or wound up the victim of a mugger, thief, etc?  How did we avoid breaking our necks or worse, doing all that crazy shit? 

I am at a loss; can’t explain. I’m just thankful I lived to tell the tale. 

Oh, and what happened to my crush?  He had already fallen in love with a beautiful young woman who worked at One Fifth (bar/restaurant), whom he courted, married, and settled down to have a family with.  I think they live(d) on Long Island. . . and I wish them well.

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