7-12-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #145 (The Washington Squares - Sidebar about Syd Straw & another Starter Job. . . )

Anyway, one day, Syd Straw tells me she has a part time “day” job that she really isn’t into. “Hey honey” -- she called everyone honey, sofar as I could tell -- “I’m working for this architect guy who started a temp agency, in the cable building?”

Yeah? I was all ears, as I had a constant need to supplement my income, and after Mickey died at One U. in May 1983, the job there started to really suck. Naturally, we were all in mourning but that puts a pall on business, you might say.

“Yeah, and he needs somebody to come in, answer phones, and help with his filing and stuff.”

Sure, I’ve done that kind of work, I said, and I type like a demon (probably around 40 wpm but not bad for a musician in her 20’s back then). I didn’t mind office work because I knew I had other stuff going for me & so as a rule I didn’t hate my “day jobs.”

So, Syd Straw introduced me to David M., who ran a company that he started called Consulting for Architects (CFA). An architect himself, DM came upon the brilliant idea of representing/hiring other architects out at a rate twice what he paid them (the usual for a temp agency). I was familiar with the temping world as I’d do that on occasion, too, for a company called Accurate Temporaries downtown in the World Trade Center.

The cable building was a large, gorgeous hulking antique on the corner of Broadway and Houston street, and many hip businesses rented offices there. Being only a few blocks from my home at Thompson Street between Houston and Prince, it was a no-brainer: of course I’d work for DM at CFA.

Thank you, Syd Straw - or, thank you, Straw woman!

6-18-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #128 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: No-No Nina)

In her no-nonsense clogs, Nina Ruskin clomp-clomped with a light foot, as she weighed a scant 100 pounds.  With purpose she clomped, with her bar tray of drinks held firmly in front of her: 3 Dos Equiss (“Double-X suds”), 3 shots of Jameson’s straight up, a tall screwdriver, and a bottle of coca cola (for dad, Mickey).

Drinks delivered to her dad and a table full of raucous older artists, with the younger-generation (by 15 years, maybe) artist, Nathan Josephson, regaling them all with jokes that kicked up the hilarity a notch, Nina’s mouth tightened as she turned heel.  Back at the bar, she paused and stretched up on tippytoes to survey the scene, her perhaps 20-60 eyes squinting.

A thin, sallow girl who looked remarkably like dad, Mickey, young Nina Ruskin took her job very seriously.  She kept a baleful eye out for misbehavior in general and rarely seemed to have fun.  In days of yore, she’d have been deigned of bilious temperament.  At One U -- an outpost of outlaws and reprobates, druggies and dealers, poets and painters -- Nina felt that she needed to keep things steady, on an even keel.  I, too, thought of how this was important, but I never envied her being the one to remind people of rules.  

I mean, One U was a notably lawless place.  Many of its artist patrons ate and drank on tabs that owner Mickey Ruskin bestowed in exchange for pieces of their art.  Many fine pieces hung on the crisp white walls.  Working at One U was kind of like working a constant downtown gallery opening -- with a kitchen, a great jukebox, and a bar that was open ‘till late o’ clock.

Drinks in those days were as fancy as a screwdriver or a margarita; a tequila sunrise, maybe some kirs (white wine with cassis) and kir royales (champagne with cassis) were served.  Martinis weren’t very popular.  Of course, mimosas were consumed along with bloody marys in the morning, but who got up early enough for such things?  Maybe the people who slept all day and got up at dark, the cocaine vampires. . . I for one could not understand how anybody could function at all, let alone for lengthy periods of time, high on anything, esp. coke (cocaine). 

I started working there in December of 1982, and by February of ’83 I knew what was going on in the back office, roughly. . . they weren’t exactly hawkin’ vichyssoise in bulk, or anything remotely calorific. . .  but very, very hush hush. . . dangerous.  Did Nina or Victoria, her little sister, know what was being cooked up in the back?  I really doubt it on one hand, but on the other hand I wonder how they couldn’t have known. . .

Even if not exactly likable, I thought Nina was so brave and strong and I admired her ability to keep her head in that zoo that her dad built.  She knew that few people liked her, but stuck to her guns and worked really hard -- probably with blinders on.