The Current Coin That Purchases All the Pleasures of the World Cheap
For the past several days, I haven't been sleeping as late as I usually do. It's definitely not because I haven't been staying up as late, oh, no; I'm still working several shifts a week at the Bar that go until three or four in the morning, occasionally even later for clean-up and closing. Even on the nights I'm not working, I tend to be up fairly late. Between Gary having a similar schedule to mine because he helps produce a late-night newscast, and what I don't mind characterizing as a very healthy sexual appetite, we're not exactly dozing off in front of Letterman.
But I'm waking up in the single digits - sometimes even before eight - and finding it impossible to get back to sleep. Impossible, that is, when I'm still in bed and desirous of sleep. The rest of the day, I'm practically narcoleptic. You could explain string theory to me while I lie on a huge pile of goosedown drinking warm milk, and I wouldn't fall asleep any faster than I've been dozing off in the most inconvenient places the last week or so.
Tuesday late afternoon I'm on a bus heading to the Bar. Yes, it's within walking distance of my apartment, but 1) "walking distance" tends to mean something different (and larger) in Manhattan, where people walk everywhere, and 2) it's seven thousand degrees outside with a relative humidity of Jello. So I'm exercising my right to spend $1.67 on a trip anywhere within the 322 square miles of New York City in order to travel about thirty blocks in air-conditioned ecstasy.
When I wake up, the gentleman on whose shoulder I've been sleeping seems a little less than ecstatic about the water stain I've left on his shirt. (I didn't blow-dry my hair because I couldn't bear the thought of the heat.) I apologize for falling asleep on him, and for the wet shirt, but he says, "It's a good look for you." I smile, and then I notice what buildings we're passing; I've slept my way through an extra twenty blocks, and I'm going to be late.
"Crap." I hit the yellow strip on the wall of the bus, and some woman's voice announces, "Stop requested."
A less-than-quick cab ride back uptown later, I'm out of cash and will have to wait until I've gotten some cash tips before I can get dinner. I can't wait until next year, when all the medallion cabs in New York will be required to accept credit cards; as it is, the drivers in the few cabs that already have the capability tend to lie and say the machine is down, so they won't lose part of their profits to the merchant fee.
But I digress.
"You're late," says Kira as I breeze past the bar to throw my bag into the back room.
I return, sign in, and apologize for the second time today. Then I look down. "Holy cow, Kira, you're really starting to show!"
"I know," she says, sounding disappointed.
"No, honey, you look fantastic. Trust me."
"You think?" She stands in profile to the mirror behind the top shelf booze, and tries to get high enough on tiptoe to see her belly.
"I'd totally hit that," says a guy sitting at the bar, before taking a gulp of his Corona.
"Very classy, pal," I shake my head.
"No, it's okay," Kira says. "Debra, this is my husband, Neil."
"Oh! I had no idea," I say, before my third apology in fifteen minutes.
It's a relatively unremarkable evening at the Bar, though there's some excitement over the Major League Baseball All-Star game for a little while. Sometime around the sixth inning, my friend Dara comes into the Bar and gets a big hug from me. "What are you doing here? You haven't been down here since you and Dennis moved in together."
She winks. " My air conditioning is on the blink, what can I say?" That used to be the main reason she would spend an evening at the Bar, or crash at my apartment.
"Ha! Dara, in your new building, the air conditioning has a full-time support staff." I open a Magic Hat #9 for her.
It turns out Dennis is out of town on business, and Dara was just bored at home. When I have a few minutes here and there, she and I catch up for a while on what it's been like to live with a guy she'd only been dating for a few months before they moved in together, how Gary and I are doing, how her real estate career is progressing, my annoying recent lack of sleep, and what's new at the Bar. I introduce her to Kira and Neil, and Neil and Dara hang out chatting for a while when it gets really busy.
I'm done at two in the morning, and ready to hail another cab, but Dara insists on calling Dennis's car guy. "Is it okay if I crash at your place, too?" she asks while we're waiting on the still-steamy sidewalk. "It's lonely in that huge apartment without Dennis there."
I look at her funny for a minute, then grab her purse and start rifling through it. "What the hell are you doing?" she inquires with an amused squeal.
I hand it back. "Just checking for champagne and pot."
She's laughing hysterically when the car pulls up, and luckily, she declines to explain why to the driver.
But I'm waking up in the single digits - sometimes even before eight - and finding it impossible to get back to sleep. Impossible, that is, when I'm still in bed and desirous of sleep. The rest of the day, I'm practically narcoleptic. You could explain string theory to me while I lie on a huge pile of goosedown drinking warm milk, and I wouldn't fall asleep any faster than I've been dozing off in the most inconvenient places the last week or so.
Tuesday late afternoon I'm on a bus heading to the Bar. Yes, it's within walking distance of my apartment, but 1) "walking distance" tends to mean something different (and larger) in Manhattan, where people walk everywhere, and 2) it's seven thousand degrees outside with a relative humidity of Jello. So I'm exercising my right to spend $1.67 on a trip anywhere within the 322 square miles of New York City in order to travel about thirty blocks in air-conditioned ecstasy.
When I wake up, the gentleman on whose shoulder I've been sleeping seems a little less than ecstatic about the water stain I've left on his shirt. (I didn't blow-dry my hair because I couldn't bear the thought of the heat.) I apologize for falling asleep on him, and for the wet shirt, but he says, "It's a good look for you." I smile, and then I notice what buildings we're passing; I've slept my way through an extra twenty blocks, and I'm going to be late.
"Crap." I hit the yellow strip on the wall of the bus, and some woman's voice announces, "Stop requested."
A less-than-quick cab ride back uptown later, I'm out of cash and will have to wait until I've gotten some cash tips before I can get dinner. I can't wait until next year, when all the medallion cabs in New York will be required to accept credit cards; as it is, the drivers in the few cabs that already have the capability tend to lie and say the machine is down, so they won't lose part of their profits to the merchant fee.
But I digress.
"You're late," says Kira as I breeze past the bar to throw my bag into the back room.
I return, sign in, and apologize for the second time today. Then I look down. "Holy cow, Kira, you're really starting to show!"
"I know," she says, sounding disappointed.
"No, honey, you look fantastic. Trust me."
"You think?" She stands in profile to the mirror behind the top shelf booze, and tries to get high enough on tiptoe to see her belly.
"I'd totally hit that," says a guy sitting at the bar, before taking a gulp of his Corona.
"Very classy, pal," I shake my head.
"No, it's okay," Kira says. "Debra, this is my husband, Neil."
"Oh! I had no idea," I say, before my third apology in fifteen minutes.
It's a relatively unremarkable evening at the Bar, though there's some excitement over the Major League Baseball All-Star game for a little while. Sometime around the sixth inning, my friend Dara comes into the Bar and gets a big hug from me. "What are you doing here? You haven't been down here since you and Dennis moved in together."
She winks. " My air conditioning is on the blink, what can I say?" That used to be the main reason she would spend an evening at the Bar, or crash at my apartment.
"Ha! Dara, in your new building, the air conditioning has a full-time support staff." I open a Magic Hat #9 for her.
It turns out Dennis is out of town on business, and Dara was just bored at home. When I have a few minutes here and there, she and I catch up for a while on what it's been like to live with a guy she'd only been dating for a few months before they moved in together, how Gary and I are doing, how her real estate career is progressing, my annoying recent lack of sleep, and what's new at the Bar. I introduce her to Kira and Neil, and Neil and Dara hang out chatting for a while when it gets really busy.
I'm done at two in the morning, and ready to hail another cab, but Dara insists on calling Dennis's car guy. "Is it okay if I crash at your place, too?" she asks while we're waiting on the still-steamy sidewalk. "It's lonely in that huge apartment without Dennis there."
I look at her funny for a minute, then grab her purse and start rifling through it. "What the hell are you doing?" she inquires with an amused squeal.
I hand it back. "Just checking for champagne and pot."
She's laughing hysterically when the car pulls up, and luckily, she declines to explain why to the driver.