6-15-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #125 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: The hands behind bar who rocked the cocktails)

(Well, after doing six weeks of blogging about my crazy big brother Tom -- may be rest in peace, and I’ll be working on finishing a book-length version of that story, with his writings interspersed -- I said I’d return to the original blog’s purpose: my survival jobs through the years.  Along the way, many other interesting things happened. . . like living in NYC, being part of the CBGB music scene, moving to England, visiting Paris, etc.  It’s been QUITE the life -- and it’s not even half over yet!)

Although the serving staff tended to change with the four winds, the bartenders remained pretty much the same three easygoing, cleancut guys: nice heterosexual fellas who were both men’s men and happily flirtatious when it came to women.

Jimmy was the king: a tall, loose-boned guy about thirty-five years old, with a wiry frame and med-long curly dark hair.  He seemed to bounce on his feet and his features were kind of rubbery, His dark eyes sparkled with merriment.  He had a quick comeback when shuttling jokes and comments like ping pong balls back and forth with customers and waitresses alike.  He was into word play.  Jimmy was quick, steady, funny, and just a wee bit superficial.  I believe he’s still working behind a quieter bar this very day, in Soho. 

Greg had sandy, short hair and was quieter, but also steady.  He seemed to be around 30 years old.  Of average height and weight, he didn’t cut an imposing figure but commended and gave respect to one and all.  Greg’s smile was sincere, and he didn’t “flap his gums” incessantly: you could hear yourself think when Greg ran the bar.  I appreciated that. . . so much other noise went on all around, especially in that wild scene.  Greg turned out to be the most decent one there and was my favorite, ultimately.

The last guy, Mark, was another likable young man, around his late 20’s or maybe thirty.  He was built like a football player: tall and thick bodied.  Mark had those blue eyed, med. brown haired good looks of an Irish American firefighter or something -- you could just imagine him doing something other than slinging drinks down the bar to this one or that one.  He didn’t talk as much as Jimmy and his voice was a bit deeper and softer than Greg’s.  When there was trouble, you kind of had the feeling you wouldn’t want to deal with the brawn of a big guy like Mark.

As for whether they also drank up profits, I don’t recall.  Best thing about these bartenders: they looked out for each other and for the waitresses. . .

6-14-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #124 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: the good, the bad, and the super bitchy)

My co-workers at One U fell into a few categories.  Other than one older (around 40!), big boned earth momma type named Mary, there was another, even sweeter, waitress named Brenda.  In her twenties, Brenda was a ballet dancer: thin, kind of (enviably, to me) flat-chested, with beautiful thick, long, brown hair.  She was kindhearted and a little bit naïve, but nice to work with.  Brenda was from Ohio.

There was Claudia, a short blonde with thick, long hair and large, nearsighted eyes, who was at first suspicious of people, but when she relaxed and got to know them, her pupils dilated when she talked, she acted kind of in awe, and she spoke with a drawl.  Just adorable.  Claudia was from Texas; she was an actress.

Douglass was one of two “cool” bitchy girls.  She was very pretty, with green eyes and long straight blonde hair that she curled into glamour girl styles.  Of medium height, she had a tantalizing walk and usually wore a mild sneer on her face.  She was an actress/artist.

The other “cool bitch” was a tall, dirty blonde girl with short, straight, spikey punk hair named Nicole.  She also had that “je ne sais quoi” fuck-you attitude that some customers couldn’t get enough of.  I’m not sure what she did, but I’m sure she did it really cool, with flair.

I figured a fair amount of masochists inhabited the backrooms of One U and the art scene in general -- and not all customers craved or even required nice treatment.  Richard Sanders was quite perspicacious to realize that his staff needed to be memorable and extreme in all different ways.  The place gave new meaning to “performance” at work.

In this world of atmosphere, I reckon I had the rep of a nice waitress. . . playing a bitch wasn’t a natural for me, though for short bursts I’m sure I did & still can. . . 

One other character, a busboy named Jimmy (also an electric guitar player), worked there at One U.  He was dating Patty Donahue (of the Waitresses!) and was a very handsome, sweet guy.  He needed somewhere to crash for a few months, so I invited him to stay in my back room, an 8 by 9 foot space with a small window that looked out on an airshaft.  Claustrophobic wasn’t the half of it. . .

And I already mentioned Nina and Victoria Ruskin. . . next blog, I’ll try to describe the bartenders. . .

6-13-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #123 (Starting Out Again. . .in the Big Apple with a new survival job at One U: one crazy place)

(Well, after doing six weeks of blogging about my crazy big brother Tom -- may be rest in peace, and I’ll be working on finishing a book-length version of that story, with his writings interspersed -- I said I’d return to the original blog’s purpose: my survival jobs through the years.  Along the way, many other interesting things happened. . . like living in NYC, being part of the CBGB music scene, moving to England, visiting Paris, etc.  It’s been QUITE the life -- and it’s not even half over yet!)

One of my fave things about the survival job at One U was how they handled the waitstaff.  We were a young, good looking bunch, all between 20 and 40 years old.  Girls only served; guys were either bartenders, kitchen staff, or busboys.  Mickey Ruskin’s two daughters, Victoria and Nina, worked as waitresses.  They were both very good at their jobs, and Nina especially took it seriously.  She was a thin, sallow girl who looked remarkably like her dad -- his baleful eyes, his lanky dark hair, his big teeth.  Nina didn’t have the best moods, in general, and she was head waitress for a while.  That meant, she knew more, had been around longer, and got to boss people around if she so chose.

Nina walked with purpose and she rarely smiled. She was the responsible sister.

Her sister, Victoria, was younger, curvier, and more cheerful.  Her dark hair was long and wavy, and she had a sweet face.  Mickey’s girls were, of course, off limits to the customers & staff.  No foolin’ around with those chickies, nosiree.

The rest of us “girls” were called to a waitresses’ meeting one day by bossman Richard “Richie” Sanders.  Skinny, dark, intense, with big eyes and nose and a haunted look about him. . . Richard was invariably kind and funny, or one gruff, tough asshole.  He was a Pisces (if that means anything to you).  Richie didn’t walk so much as “roll ‘n’ stroll” with this strange kind of loping, limping gait.  I figured it happened in Vietnam: war wound.  He had a tendency to self-medicate, if you catch my drift.

At any rate, he says at this waitress meeting, in his street-tough New York accent: “Okay, girls?  We don’t want any of this in-between shit from our staff, with customers getting all namby-pamby service that’s just okay, okay?  So girls, either be really really nice or be a real bitch, Okay?  Okay?”  Richard was a crazy, lopsided-smiling mess; his nose had perpetual sniffles; his body kept in constant, jangly motion, smoking cigarettes, drinking, never sitting still.  Still in all, he was charming and he seemed to genuinely like us -- for whatever that was worth.

6-09-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #119 (Back in the NY Groove -- Kinda Sorta)

(Well, after doing six weeks of blogging about my crazy big brother Tom -- may be rest in peace, and I’ll be working on finishing a book-length version of that story, with his writings interspersed -- I said I’d return to the original blog’s purpose: my survival jobs through the years.  Along the way, many other interesting things happened. . . like living in NYC, being part of the CBGB music scene, moving to England, visiting Paris, etc.  It’s been QUITE the life -- and it’s not even half over yet!)

(photo of a photo by Stephanie Chernikowski, 1982 -- "Lauren in the world of men")

I returned to NYC in November 1982 with two full suitcases, my guitar, a duffelbag, bittersweet memories, and the remnants of my own, cute English accent.  You know the way Linda (Eastman) McCartney had a Yankee-Brit accent that some thought odd, others affected, and others thought just “natural” (having been immersed in the culture 24/7 for some time)?

Guilty, I was.  But as I didn’t record my voice at the time, I couldn’t tell what I sounded like.  Some people remarked, “What’s that British accent you’re putting on?  Pu-leeze!”  At any rate, I was quite delighted to be rid of my Queens accent, a sort of low-class way of talking that I’d always been ashamed of -- or shunned.

However I sounded when I talked, that didn’t matter to me as much as how I sounded when I was making music.  Although scared, I was ready to get back in the NY groove and start playing guitar and singing again.  So why not do a performance art type thing, and get a “busking” gig at a hip club and just kind of be there, play with an open guitar case, and pretend I was in a London tube station?

Oddly enough, Steve Maas, “Doctor Mudd” from the Mudd Club, thought it was an all right idea.  So I played one of the floors of the Mudd Club in the winter of ’82, dressed in my London clothes with my Guild F-30 guitar and my mix of classic country and twisted original songs. 

Here’s a photo that my friend, music photographer Stephanie Chernikowski, took of me one of those nights. . .

(Very) Odd Job Lauren

All right. Today I just about had the weirdest experience at a new (temp) job, ever. This is saying a lot for a person who seemingly has made a career out of job sampling like bon bons in the sweetshop of life. Not that I WANT to be jumping about so; it's probably all on account of being small and realizing that writers must have interesting lives in order to have something to write about. And now, my husband laughs when I tried to describe how my day went. "Well, it'll give you something interesting to write about!"

Well, try this one on for size (I'll try to be brief): I apply to this "Executive Admin Assistant" job via idealist.org six weeks ago. Being slightly depressed about my station in life, I've been striving not for something amazing, but for the old tried and true thing I could do for a nine to five, being an office worker drone (in addition to considerable amounts of writing and music, which I actually do believe I excel at; more people seem to need an admin than a writer or a musician, though I could be wrong!).

So, Monday night at dinnertime I get a call from a woman who has a nonprofit in New Haven. It centers around the Arts and Culture as being vital to society, and racism in healthcare, and film projects. It's all classy stuff and on a well made website. I won't mention her name or the organization -- and you'll soon see why. I say graciously, "How can I help you?" She tells me she's desperate for a good admin. . . had to let the other one go. . . AND her project coordinator is leaving the job at month's end. . . she wants to hire me to temp for a month at $20 per hour. . . then she says, "I'm going to ask you a question that's totally illegal but I have to. Are you over the age of 34?" Sadly yes, I respond. "These people 34 and under, this generation just doesn't get it!" Anyway, I pass that test.

Then she asks about my typing speed. "Last time I tested, it was around 6o wpm. Probably more now, as I type all the time." "Oh, good," she sighs, "This other person typed 35 wpm -- and she TOTALLY misrepresented herself in the resume. She looked good on paper, but she WASN'T HER RESUME!" Well duh, I could have said, but held my tongue. A resume is a billboard that highlights what the person wants you to see. People aren't resumes, and vice versa. I still don't know why people lie so much in this world. Exaggerate a little, OK, but blatant lies are ridiculous.

She tells me she's confined to a wheelchair, doesn't leave her house, and that everybody on her staff works right there, in her small NH apartment off Whalley Avenue. OK, I think, this is REALLY getting interesting. . . maybe not in a good way?

OK. I get out my Shoreline East Train schedule to see about going in to meet her. I am resolved to get into NH by train. She says that "Carny," from her office, will call the next day to make arrangements. The pseudonymous Carny calls, sure enough, and we figure out that it's best I come earlier, like 10 AM Wed. OK, that's cool -- I'll get done what I have to and get to the 9:15 train. No problem! I am glad somebody wants me. Maybe I can be helpful; we'll see.

So I get to the NH station and wait until, like, 10:15 -- and Carny has been delayed. So I wait around and she turns up by 10:30. We have to pick up carrots on way there -- which is OK too. She asks if I have lunch and I say no, so I pick up some protein bars to augment my fruit and cheese. We get to the apartment, and it smells like old food, cooking. There IS some old food, cooking. The small front room contains three desks & chairs with lots of files and piles of paper etc. Attached to that, a small dingy but functional kitchen. I notice there's no microwave so I might as well toss my leftover coffee.

I meet the woman's husband, a nice guy who seems kind of exhausted, and a young man who is in their care who doesn't talk, just grunts and honks repeatedly, like a Canada goose: "Hoh, hoh, hoh, HOH!" I realize this aimlessly shuffing about teenager is developmentally challenged, so I don't get into engaging him in drawn out conversations. I also meet a few women who function as housekeepers or cooks, and they're nice, too.

I am handed a manila folder full of papers to do data entry with. I ask, "Am I going to meet her (the boss) today?" Carny's face falls. "Oh, you don't know? She had a rough one last night -- was in the emergency room. . . " Apparently, this woman -- the boss -- has Muscular Dystrophy, diabetes, and a host of other major health issues. No meeting with her today! I am pretty disappointed, as this was the purpose of my trip.

Then I inquire if I will be paid to work. "Yes." All right, I dig in and start to do the pile of data entry after Carny explains to me. All this goes on for a few hours, smoothly, the sounds of the street outside lulling me interspersed with the young man honking away and other sounds of painful aspiration from the bedroom. . . I feel guilty that I'm turned off by the surroundings, and very conflicted about my future with this company. Everybody is certainly nice, but the lulling sounds and smells and thoughts all mingle into a not-too-agreeable feeling. On top of that, I'm kind of struggling with a major depression and then I start thinking I'm such an asshole for aiming my sights so low. . . . though $20 an hour was what I was paid in my last job (plus benefits). That job wasn't very interesting, and sometimes my coworkers simply toxic, but. . . ah, to go back. At least it smelled nice and there was a fitness center onsite!

So on the trip back to NH station on our way back (2 1/2 miles on the odometer), I asked Carny about more general job stuff, like does she always work there, in that litte apartment. No, not necessarily. Good. Then I ask if there are any breaks, like if I could step away for a walk or at lunchtime, occasionally. "No, we work straight through." I mention, trying to hide my dismay, that that's not healthy. . . she comments that maybe the boss could learn from that. Hmmm.

Before leaving the apartment, the boss woman, via phone intercom, cross examines me about my work schedule and so I tell her -- to feel relieved and off the hook, oddly -- I'll come next week, Monday through Thursday. Thursday is a major event in Albany, and she asks if I would come along for that. "It will show you what we're about. Will be very important." Plus, the pay rate for events is $200. Hmm, that's not bad, I think. Anyway, I figure I'm on the spot and I'll give it a try. . .

Once at NH station, after all this, I'm in shock and I walk around so troubled that I forget to take my coffee from Dunkin' Donuts and have to go back for it! I call a few friends and try to figure it out. One says that times are so hard, sure, stick with it! My friend Dave says we'll talk about it tomorrow. My husband just chuckles. He often has to do jobs he doesn't like at all to bring in money. I figure he thinks, why not Lauren? Who knows.

I just know that I saw a NYT subhead on my way out of the train back to OS station, and it read, "In Medicine, The Power of Learning to Say No." I do believe that was a message intended for me. . . but meanwhile, please send me your own thoughts/comments/experiences. I am struggling with whether I should return and work for a month and have them think I'm signing on and training for this position, or just come out with the truth: it's a grim environment for me to work in and I can't be a part of it because it's a really bad fit. I'm not a quitter; I just have this sinking feeling . . . though first impressions aren't always lasting.

HELP!!