The Barmaid Blog™: Life for a 20-something Manhattan Barmaid

Thursday evening I'm working with Cindy, and we're doing a decently brisk business, but nothing unusual. At one point Cindy comes down to where I'm cutting limes.

"Didn't you say that single malt Scotch is better than blended?"

"If I did, I wasn't explaining it well - why do you ask?"

She gestures discreetly toward the other end of the bar. "Those guys in the suits have been drinking Johnnie Walker Blue for the last couple of hours, and acting like it's a big deal."

"It is, kind of. Have you seen what we charge for it?"

"Yeah, tonight for the first time, though. That's why I'm asking."

"Okay, let me try again. Single malt isn't necessarily better, it's just more individualized. Every year's batch comes out differently, and a single malt is only made from that one year's batch, so it has a distinctive taste, kind of like a vintage wine from one year will be a little different from the same wine the next year." Cindy nods, and furrows her brow as if she's taking mental notes. "A blend is the distiller's attempt to make a Scotch that tastes exactly the same every year, by mixing a bunch of different batches together."

"Okay, then - is Johnnie Walker Blue so expensive because they somehow manage to mix a bunch of different batches together that tastes fantastic and exactly the same every year?"

I shrug. "Honestly, I have no idea. I don't like it, but then I don't like blends in general. Maybe if you're nice enough, they'll buy you one."

"Nah, I don't drink."

That stops me in my tracks. "Seriously?"

Cindy smiles. "Seriously. Nobody ever asked me at the interview, so I figured it was okay." She turns and goes back to the other end, where the suits seem about ready for another round. Not that I would've been looking for it, but now that I think about it, I can't remember noticing her with an alcoholic drink in her hand. How about that, I think to myself.

In the interim, Jack has come in, the first time I've seen him in a few weeks. I walk over with a smile and hand him his usual Stella Artois, and the first thing he says to me is, "Hey, Debra, are you okay?"

"Yeah, Jack, I'm doing fine, why?"

"Well, your Facebook status last weekend said you were bawling like a little baby or something. I was a little worried."

I smile. "You didn't come all the way down here just to ask me that, did you? You could've e-mailed me."

"Oh, no," he laughs. "I was actually hoping to get some advice from Mario, and maybe you, too."

"Mario's not around tonight, at least not yet. What's the problem?"

"I asked you first," he grins.

I shrug. "No, it was no big deal... I was watching 'Band of Brothers' with Jenny all last week, and that night we got to the episode where Easy Company stumbles on a concentration camp they didn't even know was there, and there were all these hundreds of emaciated Jews, and thousands more dead. It just upset me more than I expected, I was a wreck the rest of the night."

"Oh, sorry. How did Jenny take it?"

I don't take my Judaism all that seriously; I mean, I work almost every Friday night, and I refuse to believe in any God who wants to take my bacon cheeseburgers away from me. But I guess I take it seriously enough that all things considered, if I ever manage to convince myself that having kids is a good idea, I'd like to have Jewish ones. And that has sometimes colored my dating habits with men, but I didn't stop to wonder whether it mattered with women before I made that leap.

I remember wanting to see "Schindler's List" when it first came out, but my parents wouldn't take me because they felt I was too young to handle it. When I finally rented it in college, I watched it at my sorority house. I was inconsolable at the end, but the few sisters who'd watched with me seemed kind of put off by my reaction, as if I was deliberately overdoing it. When I spoke with my father about it later, he asked if the other girls were Jewish. "No," I said, "but human suffering is human suffering, isn't it?"

I heard him sigh over the phone. "Debra, I think you know I'm the last guy who would ever encourage you to think of yourself as different or better in any way than anybody who's not Jewish. But the Holocaust is one thing that some people just don't get, and in my experience, it's been people who aren't Jewish."

I was genuinely shocked that he would say such a thing, and I dismissed it, thinking that maybe his feelings on the matter were shaped by growing up in a different time. And then I watched "Band of Brothers" with Jenny.

She asked me if I had lost any family members in the Holocaust. Not that I know of, I said between sobs, and it was true. As far as I know, both sets of my grandparents were here in the United States long before World War II. Maybe some distant cousins were still in Europe, but nobody's ever told me about them. To her credit, Jenny's only further reaction was to look at me a little funny; then I suppose she gave up wondering, and focused on just holding me instead.

So as I notice a large, co-ed crowd of softball players coming into the Bar, I shrug at Jack. "She spent the rest of the night comforting me." We made love well into the night, too, though I don't say it out loud to Jack - probably the best sex we've ever had, not that I could begin to explain why. Me and my white-bread, Episcopalian sweetheart getting each other off a half dozen times so that maybe we don't have to talk about how she doesn't get why I'm so upset and how I don't get why she isn't.

"That's certainly something."

"Hey, stick around, okay?" I say to Jack as I move off to help Cindy with the thirsty athletes. "What is it you need advice about, anyway?"

"A woman," he says, "but take your time."

Things don't quiet down for a pretty solid two hours after that, and by the time I have a chance to catch my breath, Jack's gone home.

Friday evening, for the first time since January, I see Bonnie. I don't see her at the Bar in her old Coors gear, or run into her on the subway; I see her on the side of a bus stop shelter in midtown. She's gazing at me seductively from a fashion advertisement, and it absolutely stops me in my tracks. I'm grateful that Jenny isn't with me, because although she knows about Bonnie, I don't know if she'd understand my need to stop and stare. Before I can convince my feet to move again, I start to remember what it was like for someone to have that much control over me just by looking at me or saying my name. Obsession isn't love, but being owned so completely can be just as overwhelming.

Eventually I peel myself from my spot on the sidewalk and finish my trip to the Bar, making a mental note to avoid that corner for a while.

As I walk in, I see Tony and Carl sitting at the far end of the bar, and they both get up to give me a hug. I'm running a little late, so I promise them we'll catch up shortly, and I run to the back room to drop off my bag. After I've checked in with Jocelyn and Maya, I check in on the boys with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand.

"How's your girlfriend, girlfriend?" Carl grins.

"She's good, thanks. Working hard, as always. And she asked me to move in with her."

"Holy cow," says Tony. "That's huge! Are you gonna do it?"

I smile. "I don't know, to be honest. It's fast, and her asking was sudden. I've got a couple of months to decide before I have to renew my lease with my roommates, so I'm not thinking about it much right now. But it sure would be convenient - I haven't taken the subway this much since I was a grunt at a publishing house."

"You don't move in with someone because it's convenient, Debra," Tony lectures.

Carl snorts at his boyfriend. "Who do you think you're kidding? This is New York, my friend. You moved in with me because I had a balcony and a wide-screen TV!"

"Don't you believe him, Debra," Tony wags his finger, "I moved in with him because he cooked the best risotto I've ever tasted." I laugh, and leave them in order to serve some other customers.

"Where's Mario tonight?" I ask Jocelyn a little while later. He isn't always there when she's working, but it's unusual for him to miss a Friday night.

"Oh, he's away for the weekend with Angelo. They went to Atlantic City, I think."

"You didn't want to go with them?"

"Nah, I'm not much for gambling. Besides, it's good for them to have a boys' weekend every now and then."

"So what are you doing Sunday?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, what am I doing Sunday?"

"Come over to my place, the girls and I are doing our traditional bagel brunch and watching the Yankees-Mariners game, and Jenny will be there. I'd love for you to get to know her."

She bounces a little (which makes her enormous breasts bounce a lot), and says, "Hey, that'd be great!"

At a little after ten o'clock, Susan and Grace, the current Coors promo girls assigned to work the Bar, enter and start making their way through our customers. As far as I know, Grace doesn't know anything about the woman she replaced or why she left; she just happened to be next. Susan on the other hand stops by the bar to say hi, and gives my hand a squeeze.

"Have you seen her ad?" I ask, and she nods. "I don't think I was prepared for it," I add.

Susan shakes her head. "Nobody has ever been prepared for anything about Bonnie," she says, and turns to dive back into the morass. For the first time, I wonder if Bonnie seduced her, too, or if she's talking about something else entirely, and then I decide it doesn't really matter. The very next thought in my head is to try to remember who actually paid for the enormous leather sectional couch in my apartment, and whether my roommates Cassie and Jill will want to keep it when I leave.

When I leave. I've already started to make up my mind, haven't I? I think to myself. And for a moment - just a moment - I bounce a little, too.

(Many thanks to Bridget E. Wilde of Bewildered Art for permission to use her Barmaid Fox drawing as a userpic.)

It's a couple of Thursdays ago, and while most of the people in the Bar are watching the Yankees walk all over the Kansas City Royals, I've got one television tuned to college hockey. It's not even really for me, though I'm watching when I have the chance; it's for Will. It's the first time he's been back here since Samantha died, and we're all naturally worried about him. But for the moment, he's sitting at the bar talking to Mario, and Maya - Samantha's friend, and the reason she started coming here and met Will in the first place - is mostly just standing there and listening to him. Simone and I are taking up the slack willingly.

Notre Dame is playing Michigan in the national men's hockey semifinals, and they've jumped out to a 3-0 lead. Will has said in the past that he doesn't really care that much about Michigan's hockey team, even though he played on their football team, but it's the reason he's supposedly here, and he keeps shaking his head as things look bleaker and bleaker. During the second intermission, after Michigan has finally made a game of it by scoring two in a row, Will asks me a question I'd sort of been hoping wouldn't come up. But I suppose if it was to come up at all, it's best coming from him, because the main reason I wasn't going to talk about it was not to rub it in his face. "How's things with you and Jenny?"

"They're good, thanks. We've been spending a lot of nights together." Maya slips off to serve some customers so that I can stick around and talk for a while.

"Is it love?" he asks, the second reason I was going to avoid the subject.

"I have no idea, Will." And that's the honest truth. "But whatever it is, it feels very good."

"Okay, I'm - listen, I'm only going to say this once, but I'm sorry, there's just no way I can let it go without saying it at all, it's just who I am... can I, uh... please come over and watch it feeling good sometime?" Will finishes by smiling the most innocent smile. If it were anybody else but him, I might actually be a little angry, but with Will I have to laugh - and I have to be relieved that he's in a good mood.

"I'll make you a deal - as soon as New Hampshire wins the Frozen Four, you can videotape Jenny and me having sex."

Mario laughs, but Will just sticks his hand out for a shake. "You've got a deal, Debra. And you've made a brand-new New Hampshire fan." I wonder, for a moment, what I've gotten myself into... and then I wonder for a few more moments whether Jenny and I will still be together when next year's Frozen Four arrives, much less whenever my alma mater finally wins one. We've never really talked long-term.

Will sips from his Anchor Steam. "So how did you and Jenny meet, anyway?"

"Oh, it was a blind date. It's all her fault," I say, pointing to Simone, who's a few yards away trying to convince a customer that she doesn't really want to order a tall glass of Goldschläger on the rocks. "We road-tripped up to New Hampshire for a few days in mid-December. I met her family, we hung out at their brewpub in Portsmouth, then she came with me to see UNH play hockey against Maine... we got totally socked in by a snowstorm that weekend, and ended up raiding her Dad's wine cellar. She was bitching about the pressure she was feeling to get a boob job, I was bitching about the online dating thing, and suddenly she said, 'Hey, you and this lawyer I know would totally hit it off.' So she gave Jenny my e-mail and here we are."

"Wait," says Mario, "how did Simone know Jenny in the first place?"

"Oh, I think Simone used to be a Starbucks barista across from the courthouse in Brooklyn Heights, and Jenny used to come in a lot, or something."

"Nice," nods Will. "You really never know how you're going to..." He can't seem to finish the sentence, and looks away as he drinks more of his beer. Mario puts his arm around Will's shoulders. I really don't know what to do except reach for his hand on the bar, and give it a squeeze before I go back to serving drinks. When Michigan finally loses to Notre Dame in overtime, 5-4, Will has long since left for home.

Mario leafs wordlessly through several pages of the magazine, then hands it back to Jocelyn and looks down at his beer.

"What do you think?" asks Simone.

"I'll tell you when I figure out how to look at you again, okay?"

Jocelyn laughs. "I think that means your photos turned him on." It's been several months since Simone did her first shoot with John, a porn photographer who left his card here, and some of the photos finally ended up in a magazine. Jocelyn and I are working the relatively docile Wednesday shift; Simone just came in to show us the mag, hot off the presses.

"Debra?" Simone holds it out to me. I've been avoiding this since I knew the photos existed, but now I feel like I'm being a bad friend, so I shrug and I take it. The title makes me want to roll my eyes; then I flip to the page marked with a Post-It, and the first thing I see...

"Holy shit, Simone," I say. "They couldn't ease me into it a little more than that?" She smiles, and shrugs. I flip through her layout, and wince a little at the story accompanying the photos. But I have to admit two things - she looks great, at least in the shots where they're not too close for my comfort; and this guy knows what the hell he's doing. "You did a fantastic job, honey. You look just great."

"Thank you, Debra! That means a lot to me."

Jocelyn grabs it again to take another look. "Are you going to do more?" I grin as Mario gets up from the bar and goes over to the jukebox to stare at the selection, something I'm pretty sure I've never seen him do before.

"Well, I'd like to! John said he's already gotten some calls asking for me specifically, but he said a few of them were... well, conditional."

"On what?" asks Vince, cleaning the taps. "You already told him you wouldn't have sex on camera."

"No, nothing like that - and that's still true. No, he said he thought he could sell a lot more layouts if I had my boobs done. They want my face and most of my body, but her tits," she says, gesturing at Jocelyn.

"Oh, no, don't do that!" Jocelyn shakes her head. "You have no idea how lucky you are not to have these! Please tell me you won't make yours bigger just to make some money?" I decide to stay out of this one, given that I happen to think there's only one good reason that Jocelyn's tips are usually better than mine.

"I don't think I'm going to, but I haven't decided for sure."

A debate on the issue continues for a while, and I try to stick to serving drinks, though at one point I'm a little surprised to overhear Mario talking about how difficult it sometimes is for him and Jocelyn to find a comfortable position. I mostly take orders down at the other end of the bar.

"Could I have a dry martini, please?"

He's easily six feet tall, but his face makes him look about sixteen years old. Bill's not working the door tonight, so I ask him for some ID. As he pulls out his wallet, I notice he's wearing latex gloves on his hands. He hands me his license, and I check it over. Twenty-four, and it looks legit, so I hand it back and mix his drink. He leaves enough cash on the bar to cover the drink and a decent tip, and wanders off to join a friend on the other side of the room, holding his glass with a gloved hand. I wonder what his story is, but it's not really the kind of thing you can ask about politely, so I just go on with my night.

Simone taps me on the shoulder. "Hey, before I leave, Debra, are you still thinking about going up to New Hampshire for a weekend?"

"Yeah, but I haven't really decided when. Why?"

"Well, I was hoping to get back to Portsmouth sometime to see some friends from high school, I thought maybe we could roadtrip together - maybe rent a car, share the driving, make it more economical?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Okay, I'll call you and we'll figure out when, okay?" She waves, and leaves The Bar.

Not a minute later, she comes back in, and marches right over to me. "Hey, uh, you know I'm not making a pass at you, right? I'm not into that, I just, I mean, I know I've said I think you've got a great body, that was professional, John wanted you to -- well, I'm saying it was an objective -- not objectifying, that's not what I meant to -- look, I know what you're into, but just because I take off my clothes..."

I can't help laughing out loud at this point. "What?!" she says.

I clear my throat and do my best to get rid of the smile. "Thanks for letting me down easy." She blushes, and I laugh again.

It's a rare quiet moment on a busy Thursday night, my eleventh shift at the Bar in fifteen days, making up for eleven days out of town. I want to go lie down somewhere, but I can't do that. Bracing myself for a moment on the shelf the cash register occupies, I let my head relax and look at the floor.

Jocelyn puts a hand on my shoulder. "Debra, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just tired."

"Hey, I hope you don't mind my asking... you haven't posted on your blog since you got back from your vacation."

"Yeah." I'm not sure what else to say.

"Aren't people getting impatient?"

"Hard to say. I haven't checked that e-mail account in a few days, I'm afraid of what I'll find." I lift my head and look at her. "I'm just tired, and I've been busy. I'll post soon. Not that there's been much to post about. Hey, could you and Mario split up again or something?"

"Ha, very funny. Well, maybe you could tell everybody you were sick or something."

I sigh. "Nah, I don't want to do that. Even when it's true people think I'm just making excuses for my absence or fishing for sympathy."

Jocelyn spots someone waving an empty glass at her. "You don't owe them anything, you know." She puts on a smile and heads off to take an order.

"Well, now, that's not true, either," I say to nobody in particular, and head in the other direction to check on some customers.

Thursday evening, Maya and I are on, with Jocelyn expected later. Most eyes are on the television watching the Yankees, but shortly before eight I hear Bill shout, "Vince!" and half a dozen heads sporting curious looks turn just in time to see the barback in question high-five the bouncer who greeted him. Entering behind him are the reasons we're all so curious, his girlfriend/my roommate Jill, and Vince's father.

Vince hasn't talked much about his past, so we have no idea what to expect - only that Vince's father is in town for a few days for a conference, that Vince wanted him to meet Jill, and that he would be coming back to the Bar after they went out to dinner to see what his son does for a living these days. What we aren't expecting, given that Vince is a wiry, hip-looking, tatooed guy who wears nothing but black jeans and t-shirts, is what walks in the door with Jill on his chivalrously extended arm: A middle-aged man sporting a fancy walking cane, and wearing a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches.

"Everybody, this is my father, the Professor," says Vince as he approaches the bar, and his father introduces himself to Maya and me, and then to Mario and a few other regulars who have gotten to know Vince well.

"What can I get for you, Professor?" I ask.

"Debra, my dear, I would be most grateful and, indeed, most impressed if you were to mix me a burnt fuselage." He smiles warmly.

I freeze for a moment, and then I remember something I read a while back, something about Paris during the Great Depression. I nod and smile back at him, then I turn to the back of the bar and mix equal parts Grand Marnier, dry vermouth, and Courvoisier cognac over ice, with a bit of lemon rind. After four years of doing this, every now and then someone still stumps me, but it won't be tonight. I also mix a cosmopolitan for Jill, and then serve the drinks. The Professor takes a sip, then turns to his son, who's now behind the bar starting his shift, and says, "Vincent, your colleague seems quite knowledgeable. So far, I most heartily applaud your choice of workplace." I beam, and Maya chuckles.

"What did you think of his last job, Professor?" she asks.

"I'm not sure what you mean, young lady. Are you referring to one of the musical combos he traveled with?"

Maya laughs. "Yeah, the punk bands - you know, Cheap Sex and 7 Seconds?"

"Well, personally I thought that 7 Seconds were rather derivative of the Dils, but Vincent seemed to learn an awful lot about life in their employ. And quite frankly, how often do you find a punk rock band capable of conveying a positive message?" With her jaw practically bouncing off the bar, Jill offers a toast to the Professor, while Maya skulks off to the other end of the bar to serve some thirsty Yankee fans. Vince just shakes his head, smiling, and goes off to collect some glasses.

Wednesday evening, 8pm

"You checked him out?"

"Of course I did, silly. He's totally legit."

"Did you talk to anybody else who's posed for him?"

"Yeah, I e-mailed one girl, and we talked on the phone a little."

Simone, the newest barmaid at the Bar, is wrapping up a short early shift as I take over, and she's heading out for a modeling session with John, a guy who was in here a couple of weeks ago.

"You sure you want to do this?" asks Vince, as he's wiping down the taps.

Simone gapes. "Wait, are you sure you're a guy? I thought guys love porn."

"Yeah, we just don't usually know the girls in the pictures."

"Is it really going to change what you think about me? It's just my body. It's not like I'm even having sex on camera, I'm just taking off my clothes. I can earn half my rent in two or three hours, and I can do it legally."

"Legal doesn't mean smart."

She shrugs. "Okay, well, do you really picture me running for president someday?"

"I think she's brave," pipes in Jocelyn. "I've always wanted to do something like that."

"You have?" I ask.

"You have?" repeats Mario, a regular and her boyfriend of several months.

Jocelyn turns to Mario and smiles. "Yeah! I get really turned on by the idea of posing for a camera, and thousands of guys lusting after me. Plus, with these babies," she hefts her considerable breasts in her hands, "I'll bet I'd be in serious demand."

Simone asks, "So why haven't you ever done it?"

Jocelyn shrugs. "It's not like I haven't been asked. Hell, this weekend in Prospect Park, it seemed like every jerk in Brooklyn with a camera phone asked me to flash him. I guess I'm just afraid of what would happen if my father found out. He's pretty old-fashioned."

"Wouldn't your father have to buy the porn magazine you posed for to find out you posed for it?" Simone offers.

"I don't know, I never thought it out that far. I just know I would never go ahead with it, and I'm a little jealous that you have the guts. So I say, you go get naked, girl!"

Simone finishes cashing out, and takes off. I dive into my shift, wondering if I'm the only twenty-something woman in New York who's not a wannabe porn star, and trying not to picture Simone naked.

"Do you suppose she talked to Lanie or Victor about it first?" Vince asks me a little while later.

"I don't know - but do you really think the magazine is going to mention the Bar? I thought they make up fake stuff to say about the models."

"I don't think that'll matter if someone comes in here and recognizes her from the photos."

"Oh. I hadn't thought about that." I've certainly thought about it for myself, in the context of my blog, which is one reason I won't post photos of myself here, but even that may not be enough to prevent me from being "found" eventually.

"Yeah, but at least she isn't planning to run for president." He wanders off to collect glasses.

I stand there wondering how much it would affect an aspiring novelist's career to have posed for nude erotic photos - and for that matter, how much money I would have to be offered before I'd consider not turning it down.

Wednesday evening I'm working at the Bar with Jocelyn, and it's a pretty good crowd for a Wednesday - maybe because the weather's somewhat warmer than it's been, so people aren't quite so single-minded about going straight home from work. My friend Dara is also hanging out at the Bar tonight, because it's been a long time since we've caught up, and because her boyfriend Dennis is out of town for the week on business.

They're moving in together very shortly; he's bought an apartment on Central Park West, and he wants them both to move in at the same time. I open another bottle of Magic Hat #9 for her, and hand it off. "You're crazy, you know that?"

"I know it. I know it. But it feels right, that's all I can tell you. I'm scared, but I'm so excited it's ridiculous."

"And that has nothing to do with how rich he is?"

"Debra, he's not rich, he just does well for himself."

"Dara, Warren does well for himself. Buying a Classic Six in a pre-war with views of the park is not doing well for yourself, it's rich."

"Okay, maybe, but in this city it's all relative."

"Are you done packing yet?"

She laughs. "I don't have to pack anything! The movers he hired are going to come do it the day before the move."

I shake my head and refrain from commenting. I'm happy for her, but sometimes there's something to be said for getting your hands dirty. Right about that moment, Jocelyn's boyfriend and Bar regular Mario comes in with his brother Angelo, and they take seats at the bar, where Jocelyn immediately starts pouring drinks for them.

"Hey, Debra, congratulations on your little nephew!" Mario shouts over to me. I wave and smile, and thank him.

"How is he Debra's nephew?" Jocelyn asks. "That would make him Debra's brother's or sister's baby, and she doesn't have any brothers or sisters."

"Right," confirms Dara. "He's Debra's second cousin."

Angelo chimes in. "Isn't your cousin's cousin your second cousin?"

"Hey, guys," I interrupt. "Thanks for your good wishes, and he's my first cousin once removed."

Jocelyn looks confused. "Are you sure about that?"

"Pretty sure," I nod. I don't bother mentioning that my father (for whom Aidan is a grand-nephew), being a Trusts & Estates attorney, has to understand this stuff impeccably, and has explained all of it to me a dozen times.

"Hey, speaking of brothers, did you hear about that shit A-Rod's been saying about Derek Jeter?" Mario has a way of moving on quickly and efficiently.

Angelo replies, "Yeah, they really need to ditch that guy. I don't care how good he's supposed to be, he keeps putting together record-setting slumps in the regular season and then chokes in the playoffs."

Mario nods. "You know what amazes me? I swear to God, if it were Billy Martin managing the Yankees, he'd have lost his job two or three times already in the last seven years, but Joe Torre's got some kind of bullet-proof armor. The guy can do no wrong."

"Your first problem," his brother starts, "is that Billy Martin's been dead for twenty years." That gets some laughs. "Your second is that Joe Torre's been a fantastic manager for the Yankees. Did you know that they've been ahead in games at some point in their last twenty-eight playoff series in a row? That's a record, and it's no accident!" Mario just nods and shrugs.

As I stroll past them to take some orders at the other end of the bar, I pause long enough to say, "Angelo, in the last six of those playoff series in a row, the Yankees gave up their lead and lost the series. And guess what? That's a record, too." I go serve some other folks, and when I return, the brothers are arguing.

"I just think A-Rod's got no right to air his beef with Jeter in the press. So what if they're not the best of friends? As long as they respect each other enough to play together effectively, that should be enough," Mario says.

Angelo adds, "Yeah, the guy's a son-of-a-bitch, that's for sure."

Jocelyn smiles. "Does that make his cousin the bitch's nephew?"

Mario laughs. "Either way, it wouldn't break my heart if he gets once or twice removed."

Dara waves me over again. "Debra, would you do me a huge favor?"

"Of course, honey, what is it?"

"Would you go with me when I'm moving into Dennis's new place on the first of March? It would go a long way to help me be less nervous."

"Are you kidding? Come with you to drink iced tea while we watch a few large, burly men follow your orders for a couple of hours? I wouldn't miss it for the world." She squeezes my hand.

It's early in the morning on Tuesday, January 2.

I'm at Mario's apartment with Mario, Jocelyn, Amy, Mario's brother Angelo, Vince, Jill, and a few of Mario's friends - and we're still celebrating. Since New Year's Eve is the one night Lanie and Victor don't allow staff at the Bar to drink while on duty, there's traditionally a pretty serious afterparty, and when I say pretty serious, I mean we're still celebrating early in the morning on January 2. Mario offered to host as soon as he found out that Jocelyn intended to partake of this tradition, and nobody put up much of a fight. So we've been here, drinking and partying more or less non-stop, since about five in the morning on New Year's Day. The crowd has gradually thinned to its current state from a couple of dozen at the start.

I've been valiantly fighting a cold since right after Christmas, between the ridiculous changes in the weather and the stress of working the holidays. But I guess somewhere around the fifth or sixth glass of wonderful champagne, I laid down my king and accepted my fate. Now it's early in the morning on January 2, and I'm sick. I consider myself lucky for the moment that I'm not the kind of sick I've gotten in the recent past from drinking too much, but this kind of sick isn't much better. Whatever has been in my nose for the past week or so has now found its way into my lungs, and I can't stop coughing. I can only hope I haven't infected the Bar's entire New Year's Eve clientele; that would be a poor showing of gratitude for the ridiculous sum I walked away with in tips.

My coughing fits have become a source of amusement for the assembled group, all of whom are stumbling drunk or stoned or both. But this one is making my eyes tear and my chest hurt, and I start to head for the bathroom. I never quite make it, though, because as I heave myself one good lungful of air and try to expel whatever gunk is in there, my day suddenly gets much worse. With one wrenching cough, I feel my neck spasm, and I cry out. I lean against the wall and slide down to the floor, holding my neck.

Most of the group laughs, but Vince is there almost immediately, looking me over. He's got some First Aid training, so I let him check me out while I sit there with my eyes closed tightly in pain. "You probably just pulled something, Debra, but you ought to get it checked out."

I squint at him. "Do you think they'll give my lungs a good vacuuming while I'm there?"

He smiles, then just as quickly he stops. "Hey, open your eyes all the way for a sec, okay?" I do. "Okay, I'm taking you to the hospital. Jill," he calls over to his girlfriend, my roommate, "can you get my stuff? I'm taking Debra to the hospital." He's this serious seldom enough that Jill barely hesitates. Both of her. I'm seeing two of her. And of everything.

"Vince, I'm seeing double."

He's already putting on his jacket. "Debra, don't be alarmed - it's probably nothing serious - there's blood in your eye."

"I've been awake for almost two days and I've been drinking and smoking pot all night."

He leans back down. "You're not just bloodshot, there's blood in your eye." And now I'm panicking. Vince tells me to close my eyes and try to relax, and he lifts me up in his arms. All I can do is cry and keep coughing.

A few hours later, my father is standing next to my bed in some hospital's emergency department, holding my hand. They've given me a narcotic - I can't remember which one - that has the marvelous multiple effects of suppressing my cough, easing my neck pain a little, and calming me down. There's a bandage over my eye. I'm sure my father is supposed to be at work, but I'm glad to have him there.

Finally a doctor stops by to do more than just poke and prod at me. She says, "Debra, we don't think there's anything seriously wrong with your eye; you probably burst a blood vessel from the stress of the coughing, and that should heal and reabsorb on its own in a few days. The double vision concerns me a little bit, so we're going to have an ophthalmologist come down for a consult, but it's likely just part of the same trauma."

"What about her neck?" asks my father.

"Well, we ruled out a bunch of things with the X-ray, so I'm going with good, old-fashioned whiplash."

"What?" I squeak.

"It's actually not that unusual to have whiplash outside the car accident arena. It's a soft tissue injury caused by sudden reversal of neck movement, and I've seen it from coughs, from sneezes, even from rough sex." My father clears his throat. "Plus, people with long necks and lower body mass are at higher risk for it, and you're in both categories." I pull the sheet up a little higher over the evening gown I'm still wearing from Sunday night, and I wonder who's got my shoes. The doctor goes on to prescribe rest, drugs, and physical therapy.

"So can I go home soon?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, after the ophthalmology consult, I'd like to admit you. From your X-rays, I'm also pretty sure you have pneumonia, and between that, your neck, and your eye, I think you'd be best off staying with us for a couple of days."

"I thought people catch pneumonia from being in the hospital," my father says.

"Daddy..."

"I'm sorry, what kind of attorney did you say you were?" the doctor quips.

My father smiles gamely. "Trusts and estates. But I have friends."

"Well, I can appreciate your concern, but given your daughter's overall condition I think we're in a better position to care for her than she is to care for herself right now."

"Daddy, I have to get someone to cover my shifts."

"Hush."

It would be the weekend again before I made it home.

It's a busy Saturday night at the Bar. I'm on with Jocelyn and Amy, and Vince is barbacking. Mario is here with his brother Angelo, and they're having a grand old time catching up on their mutual friends and their extended family. I never did get a detailed report on Jocelyn's big dinner with the two of them last month, but I did hear that it went well, and Jocelyn and Angelo are friendly and casual with each other. Given how nervous she was, that's nice to see.

At one point, a newcomer to the Bar makes his way through the crowd at the bar and flags me down. "I'll have a False Start," he shouts.

"I don't know that one," I admit for the first time in months, and I lean forward.

"Oh, it's a great wintertime drink," he says. "A shot of bourbon, half a shot of apple brandy, and the juice of half a lemon in a rocks glass, fill with apple cider, neat."

"That does sound good. Coming right up!"

While I mix, Mario, who's been listening, asks the newcomer why it's called a False Start. He shrugs. "I have no idea. Maybe because football season is good weather for it?"

Angelo says, "There should be other drinks named after penalties. Hey, Debra, I'll have an Offsides!"

"And I'll have a Delay of Game," adds Mario.

Newcomer laughs and quickly joins in. "A Pass Interference, barkeep, and make it a double!" The three men laugh.

Jocelyn, who's passing by with some beers, asks what's so funny, and Mario explains. Without missing a beat, she says, "I'll have a Facemask with a twist," and the men start laughing again.

As I start to hand the newcomer his drink, he invites me to have a taste, so I grab a straw and oblige him. It's good, all right - and even though it's not heated up, it has a warm feel to it. Mario and Angelo quickly include Newcomer in their conversation, and I move off to serve some other customers.

When I return to check on them a little while later, they order a round of False Starts, and it's obvious from his smile that Newcomer feels pretty welcome. A couple of rounds later, I learn that his name is Sean, and he's visiting from Florida for Sunday's Giants vs. Eagles football game, and staying in a hotel nearby. He's from New York originally, and he's been meeting a friend from Philadelphia at the game every year since they graduated from college a couple of decades ago.

"So you fly all the way up from Florida for a football game, and he just has to drive up from Philadelphia?" Angelo asks.

"Not exactly," says Sean. "He moved to New Mexico a while back. I think I have the better end of this deal."

Mario whistles. "That's a hell of a football rivalry."

"It's a hell of a friendship," nods Sean.

There's a loud crash from the back of the Bar near the bathrooms, and Vince goes scurrying to find out what's happened. Before long, we can hear cheering. Vince reappears, carefully guiding a woman with him who's holding something to her head, not walking very well, and - well - half-naked. He steers her off to the back room, where we keep our first-aid kit. A moment later, a small crowd emerges from the back of the Bar, with one man in the front struggling to pull his pants up as he walks. A few men around him are clapping or patting him on the shoulder.

One of the men approaches the bar, and after he orders, I ask him what happened. "Oh, they were getting it on in the ladies' room on a dare, and the stall broke. I think she cut her forehead or something, I'm sure it's nothing."

"The stall broke?! What the hell were they doing?"

He grins. "Do you want a description or a demonstration?" I shake my head in disgust and go retrieve his three bottles of Bud. After he's paid - and left me a massive one dollar tip - I explain to Mario, Angelo, and Sean what apparently happened.

"Dude, sex in a stall in the ladies' room of a bar? That's an Illegal Formation, or at least Illegal Use of Hands," Angelo says.

"He was well on his way to Encroachment," adds Mario, and the men start laughing.

"If she's underage, make it Illegal Receiver Downfield," responds Angelo.

Sean adds, "A gang-bang makes it Too Many Men on the Field."

I decide to try one. "If she's a prude, it could be an Illegal Block Above the Waist." The laughter kind of dies out, and it's clear from the looks on their faces that I didn't quite hit my mark. I shrug. "Spearing?" The men start laughing again, and I smile and wander off to the back room to see if Vince needs any help.

Tuesday night I'm on with Jocelyn, and it's my first opportunity to see Diego work a solo barback shift. He's a whirlwind. He's got the sink filled with empty glasses before I even realize they need to be collected, and we don't run out of anything all night - and not for lack of drink orders.

Jocelyn stops him for a second. "Diego, you're never going to last through close if you work this hard!"

He shrugs. "I just want to do the best job I can."

"Well, your hustle is amazing."

Grinning, he says, "Like Charlie Hustle, right?"

Jocelyn looks at me. "Who?" No help, I just shrug.

"Pete Rose," says Mario, who for these last couple of weeks, has more often than not been back on his rightful stool at the Bar.

"The manager who got banned from the Baseball Hall of Fame for betting on his own team?" I ask.

Mario sighs. "Yeah, and before that he occasionally did things like, oh, I don't know, get more hits than anybody else in the entire history of the game."

Jack pipes up, "Sure, but he did it by having more at-bats and playing in more games than anybody else in the entire history of the game."

Mario turns to Jack. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Jack shrugs. "I'm just saying."

"They called him 'Charlie Hustle'?" Jocelyn asks. "Wasn't he kind of pudgy?"

"It's because he tried to climb the fence to go after a Mickey Mantle home run once, even though he knew it was gone," replies Mario.

"Are you sure about that?" says Jack. "I heard Whitey Ford gave him that nickname because he ran to first base on a walk - during spring training, no less."

As the incredibly compelling argument continues, I watch Diego refill the cooler even though not a single brand of beer has been depleted by even half. "Diego, you know you still get the same percentage of our tips no matter how fast you work, right?"

He stops, stands, and holds a cold Bud Light up to his cheek. "You think your tips are based on how sexy you dress, how nice you are, how good you are at mixing drinks, and you're right. But you think those tips won't go down if you have to wait for a clean glass, the right brand of beer, a new bottle of chardonnay?" He points at my bare navel. "I can't control how much guys lust after you, I trust you to take care of that part. This stuff - I trust myself."

I nod, and he kneels back down.

"No, no, no," Mario is saying, "the Reds didn't retire his number! They're not allowed to retire a player's number if he's permanently banned!"

Jack gestures wildly. "But nobody's worn it in all these years!"

"Sure, but that's just out of respect, it's not official."

Diego lifts his head above the bar. "Hate to disagree, my friends, but Reds number fourteen was worn for eleven games in 1997."

"What? By who?" demands Mario.

"Pete Rose, Jr.," grins Diego, and he drops back down out of sight as Mario, Jack, and several other guys let out a collective, chagrined groan.

Jocelyn and I glance at each other and smile. I love the Yankees, and by the transitive property of Yankee-loving boyfriends, so does Jocelyn, but I don't think I will ever understand the instinct to learn every last detail of the history of an entire sport.

And now, I'm off to Warren's for a dinner date on my night off...

I honestly don't remember if it's state law or just Bar policy, but although we're allowed to drink on the job, we're limited to two drinks per hour. There's a reason for this limit.

Saturday night I'm on an 8-to-close shift, taking over for Jocelyn at 8, and I'll be on with Maya. When I arrive, it's busy, but not terribly so.

Jocelyn can barely keep still. She took an earlier shift tonight because Mario wanted to take her out to dinner with his older brother Angelo, who also lives and works in the city. It was remarkable enough that he told her he loved her when he came back on Halloween, she says; he's never introduced any woman to his family, and his brother is as good a start as any.

"Debra, I feel like I'm going on an interview - everybody keeps telling me to relax, including Mario, but I'm really scared I'm going to say something stupid and blow everything, just when everything is going right."

"I don't know," I say, "I've never been big on meeting the family. I've never had a relationship get that far. At least it's not his parents, right?"

"True enough," Jocelyn nods.

"You want to know what I think?" pipes in Vince, who's been filling the cooler with bottled beer.

"Yes," bounces Jocelyn.

"Right now, Angelo is probably also thinking of it as an interview - he's the older brother, he's probably protective of Mario, and this is the first time a woman's had her hooks in Mario deep enough for him to meet her. So he's skeptical, and he's planning to grill you like roadkill."

"Not helping, Vince!"

"I'm not done yet. That's only right now. The minute he sees you walk into the restaurant, he's going to see your enormous breasts, and he's going to forget all about quizzing you on the finer points of gold-digging. He'll spend the next hour and a half being completely self-conscious, and trying not to say something inappropriate in front of his baby brother."

She laughs. "You think so?"

"Jocelyn, let's face it, your tits are the ultimate ice-breaker." She laughs again and kisses him on the cheek, then finishes cashing out and leaves for the night, her chest preceeding her.

Sometime around 9, Former B-List Actor comes in with a couple of friends, and Maya defers to me, since FBA knows me (and more importantly, knows Warren). I serve them some drinks, and FBA asks me how things are going with Warren.

"I was kind of hoping to ask you the same thing, to tell you the truth," I shrug. "We don't get to see each other very often, but it's good when we do. Has he said anything to you?"

"Hey, listen," he says, "Our guy isn't exactly a master of exposition on matters of the heart, if you know what I mean. But I will tell you one thing, Debra: It's been a couple of years since his divorce, and he told me that you're the first woman he's been on a date with since then. That can't be too bad a sign, right?"

I didn't know that, so I can't help but grin, and wonder silently if I'm also the first woman he's slept with since his divorce. Then I decide that it doesn't matter much, and just like everything else, if he wants to tell me, he will. FBA buys me a couple of fingers of Balvenie for every round he buys himself and his friends, and I drink and tend bar happily.

Or at least I do until about 10:30, when Peter walks in. I'd thought I was done hearing from him after I hung up on his ill-advised booty call a few months ago, but apparently I'd been wrong. He strolls in like he owns the place, and hanging on his arm is a blonde so thin she'd probably snap in a stiff wind, dressed in a midriff shirt, an open leather jacket, and low-rider jeans so tight I'm surprised I can't make out the veins in her thighs. I put on my best "You're not a part of my life anymore, so I don't give a shit" smile, and say, "Hi, Peter - what can I get for you two?"

"Set us each up with some Johnnie Walker Blue, would you please, Debra?" I raise my eyebrows. Johnnie Walker Blue is by far the most expensive Scotch we carry, even though it's not a single malt.

"Really?" Peter's smile shrinks a little bit, so instead of questioning him further in front of his lady, I shrug and go to pour. He's got a gold card in his hand when I return. Peter, who was one year ahead of me in the editorial slave mines at the publishing company where I worked for a year right after college, until taking this job at the Bar, has a gold card.

"Start a tab for me. Pour yourself whatever you like, too, Deb. We're celebrating. It's been a really good few weeks for me."

"Well, thanks, and congratulations!" I say as sincerely as possible, and treat myself to my fourth helping of Balvenie, which, let me tell you, goes down quite smoothly after the first couple. "What are we celebrating, exactly?" I ask when I return to the bar.

Peter looks at Stick the Skank with a "We know, don't we?" shit-eating grin, and says simply, "Suffice it to say, it's been a very good fall." And he just couldn't let it go without coming around to rub it in my face, goes the unspoken part of that story. He holds up his forty dollar glass of blended whisky in a toast, and Stick and I clink with him. My stomach turns a little, and I slurp down half my Scotch in a go.

It's then that Peter sees Former B-List Actor sitting there. "Jesus Christ," he says, "it's that guy who was on [Sitcom]. You're still alive?!" He laughs.

FBA looks up at me - probably for some clue as to what kind of person this is, since it's obvious I know him - and I shake my head and roll my eyes as subtly as possible. Then he turns to Peter. "That's what they tell me. I'm even employed, and allowed out on my own, and cool stuff like that."

"Hey, that's funny," Peter says, then turns to Stick. "Randi, you're too young to remember, but this guy used to be somebody." Wow. Peter was a bit of a jerk after he showed up at the Bar this summer, and I was upset over how our relationship ended three years ago, but I don't remember him ever acting like this much of an ass.

"Peter! That's not nice," Randi the Stick says, showing her first signs of having some sense thus far.

"Hey, he knows I'm kidding. You know I'm kidding, right? Listen, let me buy your next round for you and your friends."

"Thanks, buddy, but I'm fine." In fact at that very moment, I'm sliding him another Jack Daniels Manhattan to replace the nearly empty one in his hand.

"What, you're too good to drink with me? Come on, now you're not being nice." He tips his head toward me. "Debra, put that last one on my tab, okay?"

"I said, thanks, buddy, but I'm fine," FBA says a little more firmly, stopping me in my tracks, and I shrug at Peter. I can't force a customer to accept a drink from someone.

Peter glares at me, then leans in to FBA. "You've got Debra well-trained. You and she...?" He makes a non-descript gesture with his hand that, along with the inflection, is clearly meant to imply I'm sleeping with FBA. I down the rest of my Scotch, and this time, as long as he's being such an ass, I fill my glass to the top, hoping to test just how flush he is. Without really thinking it through, I start sipping from the new glass, too, the burning sensation decreasing with each swallow.

"That's not a cool thing to ask where I come from," FBA says, and then he stands up from his stool. He's not very tall. Peter looks him up and down, and laughs.

"You gonna defend her honor? Is that how things work where you come from?"

Randi pulls Peter's shoulder. "Peter, come on --"

He shrugs it off. "It's okay, honey. I should have told you before we came over here, Debra and I used to be an item, but that was a long time ago."

She looks at me with surprise, then back at Peter. "Really? You were dating a bartender?" What the fuck? Who does she think Peter is?

I throw back the rest of my fifth or sixth Scotch of the night, my head starting to float a little. "No, Randi, I wasn't a bartender at the time, I worked with him at the publishing company. He dumped me because I became a bartender."

Peter turns to me. "Now, hold on, that's not what happened --"

"You're right! You're right, Peter, when you're right, you're right. Randi, he didn't dump me because I became a bartender, he dumped me --" and I look very deliberately at the chain hanging down from her pierced navel, with a few inches of skin visible both above and below it, "-- because he didn't want me showing a lot of skin at work and attracting all sorts of sleazy guys." I stumble a little as I spread my arms wide so that all involved can see that I'm wearing a respectful, button-down black shirt and a pair of jeans that didn't require a crane to put on. Peter's starting to turn a little red.

Randi places one hand on her tummy, palm down. "Really, Peter?"

"Well --"

"And you know what else?" I lean forward and raise my voice, enjoying myself a great deal. "This summer, three years later, he tried to get me to fuck him even though he hadn't changed his mind about my job one goddamn bit. That was in... let me see, late July, I think. So, Randi, just how long have you been seeing our boyfriend here?"

Vince runs over and steadies me. "Debra, come on, be cool."

Peter says, "Hey, Debra, it was for old time's sake, I just wanted us to be friends."

"Friends," I begin, "don't let friends -- fuck assholes. Or something to that effect. Hey, speaking of which! Randi!" I'm practically screaming at this point. "Peter's shy about asking for this, so in case you haven't figured it out yet, he has a lot of trouble coming unless you stick a finger up his ass. Hell, it doesn't even have to be a finger!" FBA covers his mouth, but I can tell he's giggling. Randi von Skankerson pivots and, to the extent one can storm in jeans that have been surgically grafted to your ass, storms out of the Bar. Peter follows her, but not before shoving FBA aside. I turn to jot down my last couple of Scotches on my notes for Peter's tab, and wonder if he'll actually be coming back for the card.

I'm so pleased with myself that I haven't even noticed Todd, the manager, standing next to me. "Debra," he says, "you're drunk. Go home."

"What?! Todd, I had a few drinks, but --"

"Debra, you've had too much, and then you had some more just a minute ago, so it hasn't even hit you yet. I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. Go home." He hands me a ten for a cab, then starts taking drink orders.

I march off to the back room to get my bag, then I try to walk back through the Bar without catching FBA's eyes. Unfortunately he reaches out and grabs my arm. "Hey, Debra, I'm sorry. I'll make sure your boss knows who started what."

I turn to him and sway a little, tears starting to well up in my eyes. "It's been so long, I hate that he still knows how to get to me!"

FBA nods. "Drink a glass of water when you get home, then get some sleep, it always looks better the next day."

I put a hand on his cheek, and implore him, "Please, please don't tell Warren about this, okay?" He nods. I high-five Bill on the way out the door, and take a cab home, where there's more Scotch.

I don't talk about it very much on this blog, but people have posted comments here on occasion that make it quite clear they think they know how I should be living my life. I don't mind advice or suggestions, especially from people who've been through something similar and are willing to share their wisdom so that I can benefit from their experience. I would be arrogant indeed to think that I know all the answers at my age, or that I am even capable of finding all the answers on my own. (Well, arrogant, or a teenager.) But I get upset at people who comment here telling me how to live my life - telling me that what I'm doing is wrong, or a sin, or immoral, or whatever. I don't mind if you have an opinion to offer, even when your opinion is that I did something wrong, but most people are pretty good at expressing opinions as opinions. An obnoxious few are not.

As I said, I don't talk about that very much in the blog itself. I've only had to delete one comment in the entire five months I've been blogging, and I think the rest of the more obnoxious comments sort of speak for themselves. But I do talk about it sometimes with friends. It's good to get those frustrations off my chest, by talking about how judgmental some people are. And although we haven't been friends for very long, it seems that most of these conversations are with Jocelyn. In the few months she's worked at the Bar, she's actually had strangers come up to her and tell her that with breasts so large, she shouldn't be wearing such tight clothing, because it just encourages men to be pigs and may even put her in danger. Or people have told her that she should break off her relationship with Mario because nothing good can ever come of dating someone who's a customer at your place of business. Not advised her to be cautious, mind you - told her to break it off.

So she's with me on the "people telling you how to live your life" thing. And we've had a few good laughs and a few good rants on the subject over the last couple of months as we've gotten to be friends working behind the bar. But she's pointed out quite aptly that my situation is different from hers, because while on any given day there might be a half dozen people around to express their opinions about her life, there might be 2,500 around to express their opinions about mine.

She asked me once what it was like being under that kind of microscope. "In all fairness," I replied, "I'm the one who provided the microscope in the first place. I chose to blog about my personal life, so I guess I have to accept most of the consequences. But in some ways it's like watching a movie of my life and then reading bad reviews."

Last night I'm working a relatively uneventful 8-to-close shift with her, and she says, "Hey, I brought something in for you to read, I thought you might appreciate it." She goes off to the back room for a minute, then comes back with this week's issue of "New York" magazine. There's a really wonderful feature article in it asking the question why Hillary Clinton would run for President when she's got it so good right now in the Senate. And Jocelyn has circled one paragraph in the middle of a section about what other people think she should do, and what demands are being made on her already, two years before the 2008 presidential elections.

Clinton smiles thinly. "No, I don't consider it patronizing," she says. "I'm always interested in what people think I should do. It's like watching this movie that I'm in that I had nothing to do with. I've got my life, and then I've got everybody else's opinion of my life." She shakes her head slowly. "But ultimately, I'll decide what I think is the best thing for me to do."

No matter your politics, or your opinion of Hillary Clinton, I think you have to admire her maturity of attitude and her determination not to let other people decide what she should do. Thanks, Jocelyn - and thanks, Hillary. Rock on, sister!

For the last three years, my schedule has been off from my roommates' in two distinct ways. First and most obvious, because of my job as a barmaid, I don't get home until four or five in the morning several days a week. But second, because I knew I would be exhausted when I got home from working this job, from the very beginning I planned to go to sleep right after I got home, and have my relaxed, social time (and time to take care of other responsibilities) between getting up and going to work rather than when most people have it, between getting out of work and going to bed. It's not always easy staying asleep after the sun has come up, but I certainly never have a problem falling asleep in the wee hours while it's still dark outside.

This week, though... this week, because of the novel I decided to write in November, I threw my schedule off, and forced myself to stay up late Wednesday morning to start writing. When I got home Thursday morning, I did the same thing. Now this morning, when I wanted to go to sleep upon getting home at 4:30, I wasn't able to - I lay there in bed physically exhausted but not drowsy. So naturally at around six, I got back up, and I've spent the last few hours taking care of some personal stuff, doing a little bit of writing, and blogging. My roommates Cassie and Jill were a little surprised to see me when they got up to get ready for work for the third morning in a row, but I'm sure it won't be the last morning this month, either.

The thing is, though, I worry that if I'm actually successful in shifting my schedule to this extent, I'm going to have trouble falling asleep after the sun has come up. And it would definitely be weird for me to get up at six in the evening, have breakfast, and head off to work at the Bar. Bartending has always felt to me like the culmination of the day, and it's one of the things that has always helped it not to seem like an actual job, as much as it surely is one. The serious lack of energy when I arrive home after a full shift at the Bar is not the state I want to be in when there's still a third of my day remaining, when I still have to do cleaning, bill-paying, e-mailing, blogging, and (this month, anyway) writing a novel. And bartending is hard work, so I'm not sure my energy levels will be much better afterward just because I woke up from sleeping more recently than usual.

Anyway, it may be only temporary, but it's not very pleasant right now. They say that jetlag takes one day to recover from for every two timezones through which you've traveled - if this were jetlag, I'd have traveled through about six time zones, so maybe I'll feel better by the end of this weekend.

In the meantime, a few readers have asked me if I could keep a running tally of my NaNoWriMo wordcount somewhere on the blog. I'm not sure LiveJournal has an appropriate place for me to put that where it'll stay in one place - I can say right here that as of yesterday I'd written 3,425 words so far, but next time I post an entry this entry will be further down the page. I guess I can just put my word count at the top of each entry no matter what it's about, if you really want! But in the meantime, you can find a running tally of my word count yourself by visiting my NaNoWriMo profile page, which should be far more easily accessible now that their server has reverted from its molasses pudding state of a couple of days ago. (An excerpt of what I wrote on the first day is also available on that profile.)

3,425 words is still slightly ahead of pace for two days' worth of writing, but it reflects an addition of only 1,430 words on Nov. 2, which is slightly behind pace for a single day. I'm trying to be forgiving to myself where the novel is concerned, but I also haven't gotten much accomplished on it this morning. Maybe I'll have energy for more of it this weekend, and I'll get ahead again.

A bunch of readers have also strongly hinted that I need to get around to talking about what happened with Cassie on Saturday night. It's not that simple - I honestly don't know. She's being very tight-lipped around the apartment this week when I see her, and doesn't seem interested in talking about it. But one thing is for sure, and that's that Olimpio hasn't been around and Cassie is spending every night sleeping here. I'm a little worried about her, but she's a big girl and she can take care of herself. If and when she wants to talk, she will.

On the other hand, Thursday night Jocelyn has no trouble talking about what happened with Mario. She was off Wednesday, so this is the first time I've seen her since Mario's unusual return on Halloween. It's a relatively slow Thursday, maybe because everybody has partied so hard for several days of Halloween, so we have a decent amount of downtime for just chatting while we work.

It seems that on September 11, 2001, one of Mario's best friends was killed in the World Trade Center attacks. It's complicated, but it took Mario a long time to get over what they call "surivor's guilt." What's more, this is a friend with whom Mario used to go to Yankees games all the time when they were growing up, and then a little less often, but still regularly, when they were older. So when Cory Lidle's plane hit that high-rise a few weeks ago, it was already bad enough to trigger some serious depression in Mario - then when those thoughtless idiots in the Bar started putting down the Yankees right in front of him, he took it very personally as a slam on the memory of his friend. He just lost control.

As for why he left and wouldn't come back, and wouldn't talk to Jocelyn or return people's calls, well, Mario told her he's not sure he understands that part himself. He isn't used to losing control, he isn't used to feeling humiliated in front of a woman he cares about so deeply, and he really isn't used to caring about a woman so deeply in the first place. So maybe he just couldn't face her and figured it would be best not to try. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he loves her (which he had never told her before writing it on her toga), and he couldn't keep staying away from her. So, Jocelyn says, Mario apologized to her several times on Tuesday night, and keeps offering to make it up to her in any way she wants him to. She winks at me and says she's pretty sure she'll be able to come up with a few ways.

One last note: Thank you very much to Barmaid Blog reader Echo (seriously, that's her name) for sending me Best American Short Stories 2006 off my Amazon wishlist! I don't know if I'll have much time for pleasure reading this month while I'm trying to write a novel, but I'm really looking forward to digging into it once I do have time. That was very thoughtful.

I'm going to go get some sleep, now. I'm not on until 8pm, but I have plans to meet Warren for a brief date at his place after he's done with work for the day, probably about 6pm. I haven't seen him since lunch on Tuesday, and we haven't managed to be alone together since that Sunday date nearly two weeks ago. Given that we'll have about ninety minutes together, I don't anticipate there will be much in the way of home cooking, movie viewing, or talking about his kids.