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Monday, December 27, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 18 Enter the 9th Circle



The taxi races through several red lights on its way across town. Holding tightly, my hand is wrapped to a strap attached to the top of the door and I become slightly airborne when the driver takes the corners. I’m not sure he knows that I was not in danger when I yelled at him to drive. 


“Good God, what a night!” I think to myself. How do I process any of it or make any sense out of what I just went through? It was a total freak show! A truly wonderful freak show, but still a crazy whacked-out nonstop freak show. I really have a lot to think about before I go back. Can I do it again? 


“Boy, was that place crazy,” I say to the driver. He looks at me in the rearview mirror and nods his head. I can tell that he doesn’t understand a word I am saying or could care less. Now don’t get me wrong. I loved every crazy minute of it and will be counting the moments until I get to go back. Well, that also has a lot to do with Bob.

The cab pulls up outside of my “new” apartment and screeches to a halt. I hand the money to the driver over the front seat and slide out. The place I am staying at this month is the only high rise located on Astor Place in The West Village. It is very clear to the doormen that I don’t have the income to stay in a building like this. My friend Susan who lives here is working out her inheritance and is currently in Los Angeles, so I am staying at her place, paying a low rent and taking care of her two cats, one of them being a 14-year-old Siamese. It was kind of a last minute thing.

I have another friend staying in my apartment. That apartment is the amazing carriage house located on 13th Street. Actually, technically it is now a sublet of a sublet, but my friend seems happy with the arrangement. As long as someone pays the rent, everyone in town looks the other way. I know that it sounds confusing, but in New York it appears as though everyone has a special deal worked out.

This building is the first high rise in The Village and it caused quite a scene when it was built. All I see coming and going in the building are rich socialites and their drivers, and older men in suits with young girls on their arms. Every time I walk into the lobby of this building on Astor Place, the doormen ask me who I am here to see. It gets really tiresome really fast, but they seem to enjoy it. Tonight there is a new twist to the routine; the lone doorman asks me for ID as well. I have repeatedly told him that I am living in Susan’s apartment while she deals with a death and is out of town. I know it’s a lie. I know that she is in L.A. drinking and having a party, because she calls me slurring twice a week, but I figure I shouldn’t share that part of the story with him.

I take the elevator up the twelve floors and step into the hallway. It’s a quick three steps to the apartment. Fumbling in my bag, I pull out the keys, turn the lock in the door, and step inside. The apartment is dark, but slightly illuminated by the light in the boa constrictor’s tank. Her name is Jasmine and she is my baby. I look at her, she is three feet long and tonight has her head tucked into the folds of her body. She is fast asleep. I have had her since she was little and I’m surprised at how affectionate she actually is. I throw the keys onto the counter and they scatter to the floor. I am too tired to bend over and pick them up.

The apartment is a one bedroom with a loft. The view from the living room is breathtaking. The apartment has floor-to-ceiling windows and the ceiling is about 20 feet away. New York is beautiful, and tonight I can add dangerous and scary to that list.

I pull off my clothes and climb the ladder to the loft. Once up there, I have to crawl on my hands and knees to get to the bed. My head hits the pillow and I don’t wake up until the alarm sounds.

Being jerked awake, I sit up quick in bed; the ceiling is directly two inches above, so I am always careful not to smash my head. I am so groggy, I feel as if I never went to sleep. “What a crazy night,” I say out loud to myself. I replay it in my head.

I have a busy day ahead of me and I run through the mental list of what needs to be done. Today before I go to work at Uncle Charlie’s, my agent got me a go-see today at 1 p.m. Yes, I have an agent. I got him through a friend of a friend. Another New York deal. A Japanese company is looking for American models to star in their ad campaign. I have to call him to double check that it’s still on. I have a little bit of time before I have to be there, so I should make the call in the next hour. Next on the list, I plan on taking a couple of dance classes and I have a musical theatre audition. I feel a day of rejection coming my way. 


I crawl out of bed and across the floor on my hands and knees to get to the ladder. Once there, I have to turn around to go feet first down the ladder. The same windows that gave me such a beautiful view last night gives my neighbors and the people of NYC the view of my legs kicking while hanging over the side of the loft as I try to get my legs on the rungs. The people of NYC also get a good view of my underwear. It is a skill I am learning. You sort of have to kick your feet out in the air and grab the top of the ladder. It is taking me awhile to perfect this technique. 

I reach the ground floor safely and the cats are racing around to get fed. I have brought my two over here and now there are four of them needing my attention. The poor Siamese is sitting on the couch crying. I go over to her and pick her up. It’s then that I realize that she has pissed on the couch and has been lying in her own filth. “Why is everyone around me lying in their own piss lately?” I say out loud to no one. “God damn it,” I scream in frustration. Now I have a huge chore to do before I can even get out of the house.

Jasmine the Boa Constrictor is awake and pushing her nose against the top of her tank. A thin screen held in place with clamps placed atop her aquarium stops her from wandering around the house. She has gotten out on several occasions; this makes the cats very nervous. I add a mental note to the list, “Got to go to Petland and buy a rat. It’s time to feed Jasmine.”


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 17 Enter the 9th Circle



I can’t believe that Bob is concerned about me. I just met him, I know nothing about him, and suddenly here he is, standing right in front of me and telling me that he is concerned about me. The bar is in complete chaos and punches are being thrown. Chrissie Hynde’s “Message of Love” is playing on the jukebox.

Over the roar of the crowd I tell Bob to go to the other end of the bar near the exit and I will meet him there. A wooden chair gets launched out of the crowd and hits the floor about a foot away from me. “Having fun yet?” Don yells at me while scooping up patrons’ drinks in the hopes that they don’t become additional weapons. “I love it,” I respond as I run behind the bar. I reach the end, use the sink as leverage, and hop onto the bar. Sitting on my butt I swing my legs over and land on the floor. Then I follow Bob out the front door.

Bob stops on the sidewalk right in front of the stairs. “Exciting night, huh?” Bobs says. Somewhere inside the bar a chair smashes to the floor. His eyes twinkle while he talks. “I’ll never forget it,” I say. Bob chuckles. “Neither will I,” he says putting his hand out, reaching for mine. I grab his hand and stare into those eyes. “So blue,” I think to myself. “Are you working tomorrow?” Bob asks. His eyes glance at the building and at the Ninth Circle sign. In the distance I can still hear the fight going on. People are running out of the building as if it’s on fire. “Not here,” I say hoping that he can’t hear the sadness in my voice. “However, I will be at Uncle Charlie’s.” Bob smiles and says, “Good, I will see you there.” Bob takes a slow step back, releases my hand, turns and heads up the block. He turns around twice to make sure that I am still watching. I am.

I turn back to the bar and take a step up the stairs when Brian appears, dragging someone down the stairs. He hoists the guy up in the air, and throws him into the middle of the street. Then as if he is in a movie, he brushes his hands against each other. Brian then turns around and points his finger directly at me. “You ever pull the plug on my game again and I will kill you.” “Got it,” I say out loud, secure in the knowledge that I will probably have to do it again sometime.

I walk back up the stairs and into the bar. The scene is grim. The bar looks exactly like a place where a huge fight just happened. People are sitting around nursing wounds and nursing drinks. The party is pretty much breaking up, and the people who didn’t run out during the fight are now starting to leave. Scott walks out of the bar with Dennis. In between them, and being supported by them, is an old man who can barely walk. “He’s loaded,” Scott says as he walks past me making the “he’s got money” sign by rubbing his fingers together. The old man’s feet barely touch the floor, and are being dragged behind him. As I watch this old drunk deer being led to the slaughter, I stand in silence. “Good night boys,” is the best that I can muster up.

I re-join Don behind the bar and help clean up. It has been quite a night and I am wiped and ecstatic all at the same time. I begin to pile chairs on the bar and Brian slithers up behind me. “What are you doing later?” Brian asks. “Going home,” I respond. “My home or your home?” Brian says with a slimy grin on his face. I can feel a look of disgust cross my face and I do nothing to hide it.

For the next twenty minutes Brian follows me around the bar asking this question a million different ways and gets the same answer every time. I bid good night to Don and head out to the sidewalk. Brian runs out after me and grabs my arm; we walk together to the corner. Once there I put my hand in the air and a cab screeches to a stop. Brian motions for me to get in, and being the gentleman he is, opens the door for me. I climb in, grab the handle, slam the door in Brian’s face and quickly push down the lock. “Drive!” I scream to the Cabbie. The driver does not have to be told twice and hits the gas. As we peel out, I look out the back window and see a new look cross Brian’s face. The new look is called shock.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 16 Enter the 9th Circle



Don goes through the various gins he has behind the bar. I resist the urge to order a glass of warm piss to dump on this patron’s head. The bar is packed to overflowing, naked stripper boys are dancing on the bar, the basement door has a steady stream of people heading in and out of it and the women’s room has a line waiting to get into it. In my experience the women’s room in gay bars is usually the place where people go to do their drugs without fear of a female actually needing to use it.

Suddenly, I hear a loud screaming match starting between two patrons. This quickly escalates into the pushing of each other and chair throwing. The whole room seems to be moving with the chaos as the bar crowd is pushing back and forth, now punches are being thrown. I see an old blue haired queen stand up on his chair, afraid of being caught in the middle he flutters his hands in the air. “Get Brian,” Don yells to me.

I climb up and kneel on the bar and begin searching the crowd for our bouncer. The fight is so out of hand at this point that people are ducking for cover as the crowd is pushing back and forth. I spot Brian in the corner, he’s on the pinball machine. 


“Brian, Brian!” I start screaming. Brian is clearly involved in his game and can’t hear me. The fight is only about twelve feet away from Brain, but he doesn’t even notice or seem to care.

I squeeze through the crowd all the while ducking punches and push my way over to the pinball machine. Yelling to be heard I scream “Brian, there’s a fight and we need your help,”. Brian’s eyes are glassy and he mumbles, “I just put a quarter in the game.” “Brian, I say, did you hear me? There’s a fight going on and we need your help!” “Did you hear me? He yells, not looking at me “I just put a quarter in this game and I want to finish playing!” I look at him and I can’t believe what I am hearing.

Reaching behind the machine I find the cord and follow it   to the wall. Grabbing it firmly, I give it a snap. The plug flies free of the socket, shutting the game down immediately. Brian pauses as if caught in headlights and begins flicking the flippers, then turns and looks at me. “Fucker!” he screams, his face immediately turning crimson. He lunges and I duck backwards into the crowd. As I run towards the fight, I am again ducking blows. Brian is right behind me and, as luck would have it, Brian gets punched squarely in the face. That’s all he needs to release the rage he has inside. Suddenly, bodies start flying around. Its like watching a Popeye cartoon.

People are flying through the air and I can see Brian in the middle. I head for the safety of the bar. Directly in front of me on the other side of the bar is Bob. “I heard that there was a fight, I came to make sure that you were okay,” he says, adding a smile and slips his hand over mine. In the middle of all this chaos, I am frozen to the spot.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 15 Enter the 9th Circle



“How’s the freak show downstairs?” asks Don with a smile. “Better looking than up here,” I say. “I love my job,” Don says with a laugh, throwing a bottle in the garbage. “Oh hey, take this to the table against the wall,” he says, handing me the now-familiar Sidecar. I place it on my tray and head into the crowd. I get felt up crossing the crowded bar and I can’t tell who has grabbed what at this point. I put the drink down in front of an old man and notice that a young kid of about fifteen is sitting at a table in the back in the dark. He has curly black hair, a muscular build, gray muscle shirt, and shorts. At first I don’t see him as much as I smell him. This is my first meeting with a male prostitute who has been given the nickname “Stinky” by the bar staff. Stinky has one arm around this old man’s shoulders and the other on his lap. 


“Hey, you’re kinda cute,” says the old man through squinted eyes. “How much for a dance?” he asks, lurching forward, almost falling. “Really,” I think to myself. “What does he think, this is 1930s Berlin?” I am suddenly reminded of a Donna Summer song and want to tell him it’s ten cents a dance, but I let it pass. Stinky waves his hand at me and tells me to “move on.” “Aren’t you fancy,” I mumble under my breath to Stinky. Stinky shoots me daggers with his eyes.

I move back into the crowd and someone grabs my arm. “I want a beer,” the man says to me. “Okay,” I say squinting at the bar and hoping to read the bar taps. “What kinds of beer do you have?” he asks, looking right into my eyes. “I’m not really sure,” I respond. “I’m new here”. “Well, can you go find out?” he says, sounding slightly irritated and raising his voice. “Of course,” I say, using my best Snow White voice, and head to the bar. In time I find out that this man is a regular at the bar and years later will be nominated for a Tony Award, but tonight he is on his best behavior and his anger medication seems to be working.

I head over to the bar, and Don can see which table I just came from. “Watch out for that one.” he says, swirling one finger counter clockwise around his ear. “He wants to know what kind of beer we have,” I say. “That one? He’s here nightly. He knows what we have.” I look back at the table; the guy is staring at the ceiling. “Oh, okay,” I say. “Would you like me to tell him that?” I say, my voice dripping in sarcasm. Don rolls his eyes and starts naming all the beers and I begin writing. “Got it,” I yell, and head back to the table. On my way there, Scott pops up in front of me.

“I have something to tell you,” Scott says, and I lean in. He proceeds to grab the back of my head and kiss me right on the mouth. I try to pull back from him. This is a little strange and I am completely uncomfortable, but flattered. I quickly imagine what kind of life we will have on the run. Scott pulls back, looks into my eyes, and tells me that I belong to him. With that, he turns on his heel and saunters away. I feel branded and a little tarnished. I walk back to the table feeling a little dazed as well. 

“What took you so long?” the Tony nominee-to-be asks. Jesus, so many people to answer to. I am completely exhausted. “Long beer list,” I say, not missing a beat. “Well good, because I now want something with gin instead.” “What kinds of gin do you have?” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. Resisting the urge to slap him across the head, I just wander away from the table and head back to the bar.

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 14 Enter the 9th Circle



“I want to tell you one of my favorite stories,” Scott says, turning my face to his, “now that we’re new friends.” “Hello, Miss Thing,” Dennis yells, moving in right behind me. I mentally check to see where my wallet is.

“I once had this roommate who was a 300-pound tacky black drag queen named Laronda,” says Scott, getting an evil look in his eye. “Anyway, she comes to me one day and I tell her that I need a favor.” Dennis snickers behind me. “So, I tell her that my father is sending me money by Western Union and I can’t pick it up.” Scott looks around me at Dennis and they both begin laughing. “So, Laronda says that she will pick the money up for me.” “Delicious, just delicious,” says Dennis twirling the back of my hair with his index finger.

“The day arrives and I send Laronda to Western Union.” Scott pauses and looks straight into my eyes. “Oh, did I tell you that Laronda was illiterate?” Dennis is giggling louder. “She can’t read or write a word.” “So I tell Laronda that she needs to hand the teller this note to get the money.” “Tell him what the note says, tell him what the note says,” blurts Dennis, tugging on my sleeve. “The notes says, ‘My name is Laronda, gorilla woman, give me all your money, I have a gun!’ ” With this Dennis and Scott fall off their stools and begin rolling in laughter. They are falling all over themselves. “The cops…, the cops…, the cops took her away!” Dennis and Scott can barely breathe and are slapping and clinging to each other.

“Can you imagine the look on that teller’s face when a 300-pound tacky drag queen with crooked stockings handed her that note?” says Scott, now red in the face from laughing. They continue laughing and slowly climb back onto their bar stools. I feel as if my mouth is hanging open. Don’t get me wrong, it took years for me to laugh at that story, well okay, weeks. If that story is true, what are these two truly capable of?

An old man squeezes between me and Scott; he is listing from side to side. Scott bounces him like a pinball. Then Scott looks around me at Dennis and whispers loudly, “Oh look, fresh fish!” It’s about this time that I remember I am at work. I have very little money in my pocket and I am not here for a picnic. “Hey guys, I have to get going.” I say.


Scott and Dennis are no longer looking at me and have moved on to greener pastures. Scott is pressed up to the guy from the front and Dennis has his hand on the guys back pocket, encasing his wallet.

I jump off the stool and head back to the stairs by way of Bob. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me and has a smile on his face. He is softly laughing and shaking his head side to side. I point to the stairs and tell him to “Come up and see me sometime.”

Slowly climbing the stairs, I become overwhelmed. I am suddenly aware that I am in a den of prostitutes, thieves, cut throats, drunks, drug addicts, and probably killers. But I have to tell you, I am having the time of my life. Oh sure, I am fresh off the turnip truck from Upstate New York, but I’m not that naïve, or at least I don’t think I am.

I walk back into the bar and Don immediately spots me. I push through the crowd. The jukebox is playing Joan Jett for the fiftieth time that night. Funnily enough, it’s “I Don’t Give a Damn About My Bad Reputation.” Somehow, that seems very fitting at this moment.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 13 Enter the 9th Circle



“Frightening,” says Don as I walk back around the side of the bar. “You don’t know the half of it,” I say, lifting up the side entrance. “Trust me, I do,” responds Don, handing me a shot. “I’ve had to go up there myself on occasion.”

I don’t even ask what I am about to drink, I just throw it back. The dancer is now sitting down on the bar completely naked and smoking a cigarette. “I’m on break,” he says to me with a wink. There is a really old man leaning on his leg and looking into his eyes. “Isn’t a naked dancer illegal?” I whisper to Don. “Lots of stuff here is illegal,” Don whispers back.

“Okay, so what’s in the wooden boxes I serve with the boilermakers and who’s the old man upstairs?” I ask, looking at Don. Don puts one finger up to his lips. The phone rings and Don grabs it. He looks at me and points to the basement door. “Tree wants you downstairs.”

I walk out from behind the bar. “Be careful,” Don says with a laugh, “there are more monsters in the basement than there are upstairs.” I flash him a “you’re real funny” smirk and cautiously approach the basement door. It can’t get any worse, I think, can it? I grab the handle and yank it open. 

The noise level is louder in the basement and the lights are much brighter than in the upstairs bar. The staircase is actually pounding and vibrating in time to the music. I slowly walk down the stairs, waiting to see what this next adventure will bring. The place is jumping. It is fully packed with lots of old men and very young guys. I see that Scott and Dennis have cozied up to an old man at the bar. Scott, ever on the prowl, sees me and raises his drink in my direction.

Tree is behind the bar holding court; he waves me over. “Geoff,’ I want you to meet some friends,” he says, a big smile crossing his face. “Geoff, this Carl,” Tree says, putting his hands on the shoulders of one of his bar patrons. I put out my hand to Carl and he shakes it. Tree moves further down the bar to the next patron. “Geoff, meet Neil.” “Nice to meet you, Neil,” I say, extending my hand.

“And Geoff, this is Bob,” Tree says with a smile. I turn and find myself eye to eye with a blond tussled muscular surfer with killer blue eyes. Words fail me. “Hi, I…, I…,” I mumble. “I am Geoff,” Bob says, finishing my sentence and grabbing my hand in his. I can’t look away from his eyes, and then a perfect smile appears on his face. His teeth are straight, white, and he has a twinkle in his eye. 

I stand there not moving for a good three minutes. “Let go of his hand,” says Tree out of the side of his mouth, causing Bob to laugh.  You know that part in the movie when the wave crashes on the beach and the music begins to swell? Well, this was that moment for me.

“I hear this is your first night. Are you having a good time?” Bob asks. “Uh huh,” I respond. In my mind we are slow dancing. Everyone around Bob begins to laugh. “Wow, you cast quite a spell,” says Tree to Bob. Bob doesn’t move, he just stares deep into my eyes and keeps the smile on his face. “I…, I…, I am very pleased to meet you,” I say, still looking into his eyes. Bob keeps holding my hand and I feel the warmth of his hand in mine.

Slowly, I pull my hand out of Bob’s, realizing that I am making a fool of myself. “What…, what…, what do you do for a living?” I stammer, still looking at Bob. “Bob’s a lawyer,” Tree says quickly, “corporate law,” adding a wink at Bob. The wink escapes me as I continue to stare at Bob.

“Oh Geoff, wait. Robin!” Tree yells, waving across the bar. “Robin, Robin!” he yells louder and waves his arms like he’s landing a plane. I really don’t need to meet anyone else. But Robin Byrd looks over at Tree, acknowledges him, and begins to walk in our direction. She is wearing her trademark look, a string bikini and cowboy hat. I notice that the bikini is not really holding that much in. She saunters up to the bar and flashes a smile.

“Robin, I want you to meet Geoff, he’s new here,” Tree says, reaching across the bar and pushing me forward. Robin looks at me and I notice she has an eye that sort of just wanders off. She puts her hand and out and says, “Nice to meet you.” “Nice to meet you,” I quickly say. “If you need anything Robin, just ask Geoff,” Tree adds. Then he quickly blurts out, “He’s not from New York City.” Robin smiles and I take a step back. It’s then that I realize I am pushed up against Bob, I can feel him behind me. “Nice,” whispers Bob and puts a hand on my hip. I almost faint.

“Hey, new kid,” someone screams across the room, breaking my moment. I realize its Scott. He motions me over with his ever-present riding crop.  “Excuse me,” I say to Robin and Bob. Bob flashes another smile at me and I take a few steps backwards. Quickly I turn and walk right into one of the patrons. “Hello cutie,” the patron slurs. I can smell the booze emanating from him as he is teetering and trying to put his arms around me. I suddenly hear the crack of the riding crop as Scott brings it across the old man’s head. “Move along grossy-grosserson,” says Scott, hitting him with the riding crop again and again. The old man lunges and staggers away from us. Scott grabs my arm, pulling me to the side of the bar, and yanks out a stool. “Have a seat,” Scott says, dusting it off with his riding crop.

I steal a look back in the direction of Bob. He is staring at me with a big smile on his face. “Oh, you like ‘em big and cute?” says Scott, placing the riding crop under my chin.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 12 Enter the 9th Circle



“Fuck you,” I think to myself, but I don’t say it out loud. The cigarette smoke encircles my head. It actually improves the smell in the apartment. The ever-watchful cats track my every move with their eyes. I flick the ashes into one of the jars filled with yellow liquid and the smell it returns confirms my fears that the jars might be filled with urine. Now mind you, this is years before we have the show “Hoarders” or anyone knows about how Howard Hughes lived. The term we used back then is “eccentric.”

“Have you eaten?” I ask him. “What the fuck do you think?” he responds. He moves his arms like a spokesmodel on The Price is Right. “Do you see a skeleton lying here?” he asks, spraying spittle into the air. I can see the top part of his dentures lying within arm’s reach; they have unidentifiable fuzz sticking to them. “How long have you lived like this?” I ask. “How long have you been a jackass?” he mimics me. 

I let out a heavy sigh to clearly signal that he is annoying me. So many questions run through my head. What am I supposed to be doing up here? Why me? Who takes care of him? Does he ever leave here? Who is he? While I am trying to gather my thoughts, he takes the cane by his bed and sweeps it across a pile of books, sending them crashing to the floor. “Do I have your attention?” he says and then cackles. “Toothless old fuck,” I think to myself.

I look around and take in more of the room. “Is there anything I can get you?” I ask. “Yeah, you can get the fuck out!” he adds with his now-familiar cackle. “With pleasure,” I sing, turn on my heel and head towards the door. I look back at the bed and he shoots me the bird. “Dear Lord, please strike him with lightning,” I pray under my breath. I close the door and lean against the frame. Inside something crashes against the wall. It’s very clear that he has thrown whatever it is in anger.

I head down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I pass the office and glance in again. This time someone is sitting at the desk; their head is down but I can clearly see a straw up their nose. They keep leaning forward and I can see them snorting white powder off a mirror. They glance up, look in my direction and catch me watching. I quickly pull my eye out of the crack in the door; I have had enough drama for the night. Actually, I have had enough drama for several nights.

As I continue down the hall, The Staff bathroom door slides open and about eight people pile out. They are laughing and extremely animated. “Hello!” I say and continue on my way. I get to the door at the bottom of the stairs and wait. I begin to slowly count to ten. Then grabbing the knob, I push the door open.



The first thing I see is a skanky go-go boy standing on the bar. His underpants are around his ankles and he is surrounded by men. He is stirring a drink with his dick. I hear someone yell out “Now this party’s starting!”


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 11 Enter the 9th Circle



I reach out and search the wall for a light switch. “Don’t turn the fucking light on!” he screams. “I… I… I… can’t see,” I say.  “Don’t turn the fucking light on!” he screams again. “I can’t see,” I say again, raising my voice. “Don’t turn the fucking light on, don’t turn the fucking light on, don’t turn the fucking light on!” he screams louder, beginning to slap his hands on the bed again. I start to feel intense pressure and can hear my heart beating faster. “Oh for Christ’s sake, shut up!” I scream, surprising myself.

My hand begins to move faster over the wall searching for the switch, the panic in me rising again. I find it and bring my hand up fast, the familiar “click” sound bathing the room in yellow light. He screams as if he is being doused in Holy Water.

I look over at the bed, where he is writhing and screaming. What I see in front of me is a shriveled old man with yellow skin. He is wearing a filthy stained t-shirt. His hair is short and standing up in all directions. His fingernails are long and broken and he is lying in his own filth.

What really shocks me is that one of his legs is black and swollen, and I swear I can see the bone. The putrid smell is overpowering and I can feel the room spinning. “Oh my god, you need a doctor,” I mumble. “What I need is some fucking water, some fucking quiet, and for you to turn off the fucking lights and to get the fuck out of my house!” he hisses at me.

I run back into the kitchen, open the fridge, find the ice, throw it into the Mason jar, and run back into the bedroom. I climb over all the garbage, come to the side of the bed and extend my hand to him. His hand wraps around my wrist and he pulls himself up to me. He reminds me of a sick bird whose claw has wrapped itself around my arm. I force myself not to scream. He grabs the jar and begins to drink the water, spilling it down the front of himself.

“I need a cigarette now,” he says, spitting water on me. “What you need is a doctor and a shower,” I shoot back at him. “You’re pretty mouthy,” he growls at me. “I am also obviously the only one who’s walked this far into your house in years,” I say, standing back up. I grab his cigarettes and light one. “Who the hell said you could smoke in my house?” he screams.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 10 Enter the 9th Circle



I am frozen to the spot. I can feel the sweat forming again on the back of my neck. I want to drop the tray and run for my life. Whatever this is, it was not worth it. “My… my… my name is Geoff,” I stammer. “Don’t just fucking stand there, get me some water,” the voice demands. “Ice is in the freezer.” I still could not see who it is I am talking to. The smell of death and decay is clinging to everything.

I walk around the piles of newspapers, magazines, and rotting clothes. The cats watch my every move. I am standing in the kitchen, or at least what I think is the kitchen. I can see the fridge, so somewhere there must be a stove. I spot what looka at one time to have been a white microwave oven. A thick layer of grease covers the top and sides, giving it a slightly brownish-yellow “sticky” look. 

I place the tray on top of several of the half full mason jars. The smell in the apartment is burning my eyes and nose. “Hurry the fuck up!” the voice yells “I…, I’m going as fast as I can,” I say. I have to keep repressing the feeling that I am going to vomit at any minute. A cat walks on the counter in front of me, dragging its tail under my nose. “Rowr,” the cat says, pausing briefly in front of me and looking into my eyes. Then it turns and makes a return trip. 


I am definitely standing on things that have been laid on the floor. If I have to guess I am suspended about five inches above the actual floor. 

“Do you want the water they sent upstairs with me?” I ask. “Do you want the water they sent upstairs with me?” he mimics me. “Fucking genius,” he snarls, sounding like steam escaping a tight valve. “Use your fucking brain.” He hisses. I am listening intently, trying to figure out where the voice is coming from. 

My guess is that he is behind the slightly closed door twelve feet away from me. Slowly and as quietly as I can, I begin walking over and around the mounds of garbage on the floor. “What the fuck is taking so long?” he screams.  Somewhere in the room with the slightly closed door, objects hit the floor. In his anger he is throwing things everywhere. 


I can hear myself breathing as I reach out with a trembling hand and press one finger to the door. It moves slowly inwards but not before letting out a loud creak. “Where is my water? Where is my water? Where is my water?” He begins screaming and slapping his hands on the bed. 

The door opens slowly and the smell I first encountered when I entered the apartment is suddenly much worse. I squint into the room. I can’t see anything. The room is dark and the blinds are pulled. The only light is coming from a street light outside. 

I see a figure lying on what must be a bed in the middle of a pile of garbage. Leaning up on his elbows he looks at me; I still cannot see his face. “Where the fucking holy God dammed hell is my water?” he screeches. My urge to drop the tray and run is now stronge
r than before.  


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 9 Enter the 9th Circle



The next thing I know, I am standing in front of a door that has a “Do Not Enter” sign on it.  Underneath is a hand-written notation that adds the words, “Fuck Off”!  I’m guessing this is in case you missed the first message. How did I get here? 


Only moments ago that buzzer sounded and everyone at the bar had jumped into action. Don immediately took an old bedside tray from behind the bar and on it he placed a clean empty mason jar, a mason jar filled with water, two jars of baby food and a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes. He hands me the tray, points to the door next to the stairs, and tells me to go stand there. When I do, he pushes a buzzer and signals for me to push the door open. I go through the door, but block it open with my foot. I look back at Don pleadingly. He laughs and says, “You’ll know when you get there,” as if he already knows the question I’m asking. Then he makes the sign of the cross and laughs. I glare at him.

Behind me in the dim lighting I can see a staircase; there is no where else to go but up. With my knees knocking, I find it hard to steady the tray as I climb the stairs. On the second landing there is a bathroom that has a sliding door and a sign stating that it is the “Employee Only Bathroom.” 

At the end of the hall is the business office. The door is slightly open and I can hear the sound of a far off television set. I look in and see no one in the room, so I continue my climb.

On the third floor I come to the door with the “Do Not Enter—Fuck Off!” sign on it. I hold my breath. There is nowhere else to go. Lifting my knee, I balance the tray and I knock. I hear nothing, so I knock again. Again, there is no answer, so I reach out and turn the knob. I am not prepared for what I see, or worse, what I smell. 


The first thing I smell is cats. My guess is maybe a hundred cats live here. Pushing open the door, I can see that there are cats, all right. Cats are everywhere. There are cats sitting on the table, cats on the fridge, cats on the floor, and cats on the windowsill. 


There are thousands of mason jars everywhere. The jars are all half-filled or overflowing with a yellow liquid. The mason jars take up every single inch of free space there is. That is, if you ignore all the newspapers and the overflowing ashtrays strewn in between. The heat in the apartment is overbearing. All the windows are closed and steamed up.

I resist the urge to vomit. “Hello?” I call out, feeling like I am in the movie The Last House On the Left. I receive no answer, so I call out again, “Hello?” 


A voice that sounds like it is spoken through rotting leaves answers me from another room. “Who the fuck are you?” it says. 


I look down as a cat wraps itself around my ankles.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way!Part 8 Enter the 9th Circle



All night long Brian is on me like white on rice. Peter Pan’s shadow spent less time attached to Peter than Brian does to me. The longer the night gets, the drunker Brian gets. He starts slurring, “You’re so hot,” which ends up sounding like, “Er so snot.” I am constantly removing his hands from me.

I am very busy all night long trying to get people served and trying to learn all their names. It is the strangest mix of people I have ever seen: everybody from the homeless to Wall Street traders and everyone in between. They are all there under one roof. It takes me about twenty minutes to realize that I am indeed working in a hustler bar. Young twinky boys are hanging off old men, acting like they had the money of Leona Helmsley when they order their drinks. Every now and then someone snaps their fingers to get my attention. The place is so loud you could bang a gong to get my attention and I still wouldn’t hear you.

I found that tonight, I was actually having a blast! I was loving every minute of being here. I have always had friends from every spectrum and corner of life and to have them all in one room was wonderful. It was one of the very reasons I moved to New York. 


Two of my favorite customers tonight are clearly hustlers. Their names are Dennis and Scott. Dennis is tripping his brains out on LSD and Scott is dressed somewhere between a Nazi guard and a German youth. He is wearing black knee boots, a white shirt, long tan trench coat, and he sports an Arian youth haircut. Tucked under his arm he holds a riding crop. He snaps the crop on my ass to get my attention. “Oh, Boy,” he calls, waving his crop at the table, “How long do I have to wait to get served?” My reaction is not what he expects. I burst into laughter and Dennis, tripping his brains out next to him, giggles along with me.

I introduce myself to the two of them. Scott extends his hand as if I am helping him out of a hansom cab and Dennis just stands up and wanders away. Scott goes on to tell me that he and Dennis had just picked up an old man who was blind drunk at another bar, caught a cab and headed to “their apartment” in Harlem. When they got there they took the guy’s wallet and pushed him out of the cab. The cab driver then sped off and Scott and Dennis split the money they stole with the driver. To celebrate what they did they headed here. “The funny thing is,” Scott says as if it’s an important point to his story, “I don’t even live in Harlem!”

I don’t know what to do or say when I hear this. I am both shocked and again, intrigued. I have never heard or seen anything like this. Of course, stuff gets weird at Uncle Charlie’s, too, but this takes things to another level. Scott reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. “Two vodka-and-sodas with a twist,” Scott says, throwing the money on my tray. “Coming right up,” I cheerfully respond. “Beware of that one.” Don says, pointing to Scott when I return to the bar. “Way ahead of you,” I respond.


Although I didn’t know it yet, this is also the night I will meet my long-term friend Mitch. I am standing at the end of the bar when I feel a tap-tap-tap on my shoulder. I turn around to find this short, zaftig, and very blond kid standing there. He is listing from foot to foot, a huge grin on his face. 


“Hi, you’re new,” he says to me; his eyes are slits. “You’re very cute and I love you.” With that Mitch pitches backwards taking three bar stools with him and hits the floor. “You’re making quite an impression,” Don says to me with a laugh.

Then the buzzer starts going off………….. BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ………., BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Don looks at the buzzer, then looks at me. “Sorry, Geoff,” Don says, “Welcome to your baptism by fire.”


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 7 Enter the 9th Circle



My first night at The Ninth Circle I show up an hour early for work. I want to show them that I can do the job and that they can count on me. Standing on the sidewalk, I summon my nerve and walk up the steps. “Hi, I’m Geoff,” I say, extending my hand to the doorman. He’s sitting on a stool and I need to talk to him to get past and into the bar. “Huh?” he says looking at me, his mouth hanging open. A little toothpick dangles out the side of his mouth. “Hi, I’m Geoff,” I repeat, holding out my hand. “Wha?” says the doorman. I try again, “I’m new here and tonight is my first night.” I speak a little louder this time, thinking he can’t hear me. “I’m covering for one of the waiters.” I am now yelling. I figure that he must be hard of hearing because he just keeps staring at me. 


He reaches up and pulls the toothpick out of his mouth. “What are you doing later?” he says to me with a leer and a wink. “I have a feeling I’ll be avoiding you,” I quickly respond and turn on my heel. “Saucy,” he says running his tongue across his mouth. “Ick,” I think to myself, “serious ick.”

“Pay no attention to him,” says one of the bartenders, waving me in. “That’s Brian, our doorman, and he’s not too smart,” he says, pointing to his head and sticking out his tongue. “I’m Tree,” he says, offering his hand, “and this is Don,” pointing to another person  behind the bar. “I’m Geoff,” I say, extending my palm, “and it’s nice to meet you both,” I say, shaking hands.

“Tonight’s a big night,” Tree says as he starts wiping the bar with a cloth. “Robin Byrd is having a private party in the basement and it needs to be perfect.” “Who’s Robin Byrd?” I ask. “Doll, where are you from?” asks Don, laughing. “Guilderland, New York,” I say, “between Albany and Schenectady.” I point a finger in the air, as if that will help it make sense. “Oh,” says Don, coming out from behind the bar. 


He walks over to the jukebox. “Come over here Geoff, and play what you want.” Don opens the jukebox and begins to push hundreds of song selections. “We play what we want and by the time people put money in to hear their songs it will be closing time.” With that said, Don closes the lid.

“Where’s the basement?” I ask. Tree points to a door in the wall. “That’s the door to the basement and that other door leads upstairs. If you need to piss, use the upstairs bathroom, it’s semiprivate, staff only.” “Thanks,” I say with a smile.

“Do we close down for the party?” I ask, walking back towards Tree. “Why do you ask?” inquires Tree. “Well, because there is no one in here right now,” I respond. “Oh there will be, there will be,” says Don with a chuckle.

About twenty minutes later the place is packed and jumping. A woman in a mesh bikini and a cowboy hat walks by me. “Robin Byrd,” Tree mouths and then winks. She heads past the bar and into the basement. Tree follows right behind her. As he passes, he tells me to come down when I get a chance. “I’ll introduce you,” he says.

The bar is dark now. They have turned down the lights as low as they can go without being off.  I can’t see faces unless they are standing directly in front of the bar or next to the jukebox. My first table waves me over. It is so dark that I extend my hands like a blind man searching for something. I touch someone’s arm and yell into the dark in front of me, “What can I get you?” I scream over the music. Joan Jett is singing about her Bad Reputation. “Two boilermaker specials,” requests the faceless voice. “Okay, coming right up,” I yell back.

I go to the bar and ask for two boilermakers. “Did they ask for the special ones?” Don asks. “Oh yeah,” I say, feeling bad for not knowing there are special ones and not special ones. Don puts two beers, two shots, and a wooden box on my tray. “That’s the special part,” he says pointing to the box and patting me on the shoulder.

I turn from the bar, tray in hand, and almost run smack into Brian. “What are you doing later?” Brian asks, putting his hands on my waist and trying to pull me in. “Getting a penicillin shot,” I say. “Suddenly, I have the strangest itch I can’t get rid of.” “Really?” says Brian with a wink. “Need a ride?”

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Monday, October 4, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 6 Enter the 9th Circle



Jerry-Poo looks at me, looks at the buzzer, then back at me again. As the frequency and insistency of the buzzer increase, sweat begins to form on his upper lip.

“Jesus, Jerry,” one of barflies yells out, “He don’t sound like he’s in a good mood.” Jerry-Poo waves me away with his hand. “I’ll see you on your shift and don’t be late,” he adds, jabbing one bony finger in the air in my direction. I turn around, stumble down the front stairs and out onto the street. An old woman walking a dog passes me. The dog pauses, looks at me, sniffs the air and continues walking. 


One thing I honestly love about New York City is that you can have the most bizarre experience, turn around, and step back into normalcy. It’s like being on Star Trek and walking through their doors. One moment it’s calm, and the next minute the doors open and chaos ensues.

Strangely, no one passing me on the sidewalk crosses to the other side with a crucifix clutched in their hand while looking up at The Ninth Circle bar sign.  I feel that I have truly been in a den of evil. Thinking of going back there, I am strangely both repulsed and a little excited to return. “Hmmmmmm” I say aloud to no one at all, thinking it over.

That night, I walk into Uncle Charlie’s and look for the waiter who asked me to work his shift at The Ninth Circle. I find him trying to avoid me. “Are you out of your mind?” I ask, blocking his escape. “Why?” he answers with a giggle, knowing that I went there. “Well, I’m not going; you can find someone else to cover for you,” I say. He looks at me and summons up his best impression of Bambi; his eyes get all big, and he talks in a baby voice. “Oh please,” he begs me. “You promised, and it’s only for a week.”

 

“No Way!” I respond. He walks towards me and puts his arm around my neck. His face is two inches from mine. “Come on, you promised, a deal’s a deal,” he whispers. “First,” I say, stepping back a little, “why are you so close?” Then I take my hand, place it on his chest and move him back further. “And second, why do you want me to do this for you?”

“Because I trust you,” he says, looking directly into my eyes. “You’re not like the other people here, my job is safe with you, I know you’ll give it back.” Years later, I learn to identify bullshit, but like I said, back then I was just starting out.

“Ok, you win.” I say, feeling touched and slightly defeated. “Hurray!” he yells, throwing his fists in the air. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks. “Drinks are free,” I remind him. “Well, not free,” I finish. 


Uncle Charlie’s staff had adopted the “Don’t ask, don’t tell policy” when it came to drinking at the bar. This was long before President Clinton gave it to us. Our policy is that we’ll drink, but no one tells the management.  


I have three nights before I have to officially return to work at The Ninth Circle. I begin to silently pray.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 5- Enter the 9th Circle



A year earlier, one night a waiter at Uncle Charlie’s bar asks if I will cover his other job at The Ninth Circle Bar. It will be for a short time when he goes out of town. I figure that I can use the money; my rent at the carriage house is $560.00, a staggering fee for New York City. 


The carriage house apartment is interesting. To get to it you enter through the main entrance of an apartment building on 13th Street, located between Greenwich and 7th Avenues, and head into the courtyard. In the courtyard is a three-story carriage house where the original owners used to store their horses and their carriage. Clearly they were rich! Sadly, it is without “real” electricity. It’s wired with various cord and plugs and every time I plug something in, all the lights dim. 


I live on the second floor, and to get there I walk up a circular staircase that is about ten inches wide. In true New York fashion, I am subletting the apartment from a friend of a friend. I am told that I need to pretend to be the brother of the original tenant, if I’m ever asked who I am by anyone who lives there. 


The interior of the apartment is one room with a bathroom. I can actually sit on the toilet and do the dishes in the sink at the same time.

In preparation of going to The Ninth Circle, I ask around Uncle Charlie’s to see if anybody has been there. Almost everyone looks at me like I just got off the turnip truck. I thought that I had seen the seedy side that life has to offer, but that is before I enter The Ninth Circle Bar.

I go there during the day to meet the head bartender/manager and to tell him that I will be subbing for one of his waiters. Little did I know at that time that the waiter would never be coming back to work there and my sense of loyalty would keep me there a little longer then I planned. 


The Ninth Circle Bar was allegedly named in honor of the book Dante’s Inferno. In Dante’s Inferno the ninth circle is the lowest form of Hell. The sign outside said it was a Steak House when I arrived. The logo was Eight 0’s and a 9. 


Even during the day, the bar lived up to its name. It was quietly located off of 7th Avenue South, right across the street from the fire department. I had been told that the place was a hangout for Janis Joplin at the height of her fame. Somewhere they had a picture of her allegedly sitting at the bar. I never saw it, but everyone knew the story.

I walk up the front steps and enter a dimly lit room that smells of day-old smoke and vomit. I squint both my eyes and let them adjust to the light. The bar is directly in front of me and I can barely make out that there are about ten old barflies sitting around the bar. The smoke hangs thickly in the air. I thought I’d noticed windows when I stood on the sidewalk but on the inside no external light permeates the bar. “Hey Cookie, look what the cat dragged in,” one of the barflies croaks. “Meow,” says another scratching the air before him and leaning on the back of his hand. I slowly walk up to the bar, feeling like a virgin bride at a vampire convention. “Hi,” I say, my voice shaking, “I’m looking for the manager.” 


“Jerry-Poo,” one of the old drunks yells out, “Your date’s here.” “Hold on,” someone yells, the voice coming from the back of the room.

At a speed-walking pace, out comes the person I believe they just referred to as Jerry-Poo. He is sporting a blown-out perm, a tight t-shirt and matching jeans, a little gold chain, and I believe he has a cold because he can’t stop sniffing.

“Who ah you, who ah you?” he says in a rapid fire progression as he lifts the little bar gate and slides behind the bar. His voice quickly betrays a thick Bronx accent. I put my hand out to shake his, he looks at it, then looks around at the barflies, and decides not to shake my hand.

“Whadda ya want, whadda ya want?” he shouts at me, wiping his nose on the shoulder of his sleeve. I can hear someone at the bar begin to titter as I feel fresh the sweat on my neck start to slide down my back. Finding strength, I say, “My name is Geoff,” “and I am here to sub for one of your waiters.” “Fresh meat,” a barfly yells out, slapping the bar with his hand.

“You awr, awr you?” Jerry-Poo says to me. “How do I know who sent you?” Jerry-Poo snaps, his eyes getting bigger. Suddenly a loud buzzer goes off, Jerry-Poo’s eyes dart around the room. “Shit, he’s up,” he yells out …

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 4 Enter the Ninth Circle



I make a loop through the club, knife held high and muumuu billowing. “You look really scary!” Mitch says, “Just like Piper Laurie.” “You look great!” Steve adds. Various patrons begin filling my head, telling me how great I look. “Get to work,” says Seth, coming around the corner and pointing to the trays sitting on the bar. “Damn,” I think to myself, he shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. “Nice costume,” I say to Seth out of the corner of my mouth. “Idiot,” he says to me, “I’m not wearing a costume.”

I grab my tray and turn on my heel. I walk over to a large bunch of people sitting near the door. I look around at all the various “sexy costumes” everyone is wearing in the group. One of the group jumps when he looks at me. “Yikes,” he says and waves me away with his hand adding the word, “Go.” I see him call over another waiter dressed as a sexy caveman. Undaunted, I move on.


“Hi,” I say to another group. “Can I get you ahhhhhhhh?!” I stop in mid-sentence; someone has stepped on the back of my muumuu, causing my head to snap back. I turn around and try to drag my costume out from under his foot. The guy standing on my muumuu is paying me no attention, so I begin tugging at my dress, trying to free it from under his foot. This causes the corner of it to rip. He then looks at me, annoyed. “You ripped my dress,” I say to him.  Unfazed, he wrinkles his brow “You look nothing like Stevie Knicks,” he says to me. “Are you drunk?” I respond, “Its clear that I’m Piper Laurie from Carrie.” “Never heard of her,” he responds turning on his heel. ‘Are you out of your miahhhhhhhhh!” Someone else has stepped on the side of my muumuu, causing me to drop my tray and pitch off balance. “Thank God I have no drinks on that tray,” I think to myself.

All night long people have been stepping on my costume, so now I am standing in the ladies room, dressed in tatters with my wig on crooked. The ladies room is the only place that everyone goes to do coke, so I am not alone but no one is bothering me. Every now and then the occasional lady has to use the bathroom to pee, so people have to clear out. 


“Honey, you ok?” a drag queen in a sexy witch costume asks me. “I have had a rotten fucking night; the only money I made was when someone paid me a quarter to go away,” I say. “Ohhhhhh, honey it’s alright,” she says to me, patting the side of my head where the fall is now sitting. “I hate to do this,” she adds, “but can I borrow that quarter? I have to make a call.” “Seriously?” I say, handing over the money.

She runs out of the bathroom and down the stairs. I begin to put together what’s left of my dignity and remove my costume. Underneath, I’ve had the good sense to wear a black t-shirt, shorts, and little boots. I tie a knot in my t-shirt and walk downstairs dressed as a sexy barmaid.

Almost everyone has left, except for our regular inebriates. “Have a shot,” Steve says to me with bloodshot eyes. “Can I have four?” I ask. I look at my painted gravestones; some stupid queens have written their names on my work. Most of the gravestones now say, “Paul + Nick” or “Bobby loves Neil.” It’s been such a lousy night; I have no costume, no money, and no buzz. It’s time to go home.

Tomorrow night I get to work my other job at The Ninth Circle.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 3 Enter the Ninth Circle



Honestly, I think that it was my fault when I got kidnapped from Uncle Charlie’s. There was a patron who would find out I was working and make sure that “he was there”. I started to see him every night I was working. This went on for several months, at first causing me to think that he was just always there. Uncle Charlie’s had its regulars. Afternoon and night, you could rely on the same people to be there nightly hanging out drinking. 


I did think that he was a really nice guy. I would laugh at his jokes and tell him that I was flattered when he would tell me how “cute” I looked or when he would bring me a little gift. The fact that he would tip me heavily every time I brought him a drink would make me look around for him when I started my shift. 


I was even flattered when he asked me to work a desk job at his construction company. When I asked him what I would have to do at this desk job, he responded with a wink, “Answer phones.” 


“Right,” I thought to myself, just answer phones. Is this because he could tell how lovely my voice was as I screamed at him over the loud bar music night after night? Truthfully, I paid a lot of attention to him because, like I said, he would have order five drinks and tip up to twenty dollars per drink. The night I got abducted he was tipping fifty per drink. At fifty dollars a tip, I paid extra close attention to his stories.

Everyone in the bar was laughing the night he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. He had been drinking and decided that I was going to go home with him. When he marched me out of the bar, the crowd was laughing even harder. Even though I was screaming “Help, this is serious, I am really being kidnapped!” no one did anything. They must have doubled over in hysterics when he pulled me through the door and started running up the block. All the while I was fighting and struggling to get free of him.

When we get to his car, he fumbles for his keys while pinning me to the door with his body. He gets the key in the lock, opens the door, and pushes me in. I watch out of the passenger window as two bouncers and assorted staff tackle him and slam his body on the hood. 


Suddenly it becomes a blurred sea of faces bouncing off the  passenger window. Every time someone jumps in, he flicks them off like a fly at a banquet. I climb into the drivers seat and push open the drivers side door and climb around a swirling mass of arms and legs that have travelled over the hood and ended up on this side of my escape. Suddenly, his bright red face comes within inches of mine; someone’s arm is around his neck cutting off his air. “Get back in the car!” he gurgles to me. “Fuck you,” I respond and slide out of the car.

I run through the mass of people who have gathered and head back into the club; the manager has called the police by this time. When the police show up, they don’t want to take a statement from me and they let the guy go. They figure that this is going to be a lot of paperwork and it’s low on the crime list. “Another brawl at a gay bar. Alert the media,” says one of the cops out of the side of his mouth.


The next night when I show up for work, the owner summons me to his office.  He yells at me for leaving the club during my shift the night before. I explain the kidnapping, the cops, etc., but he is mad that a good paying customer won’t be back.

To make it up to him, the owner gives me a new chore. He wants me to bring people into the club. “I really don’t understand,” I say. “Where am I supposed to find them? I have seen the same people here night after night.” I have yelled out “Merry Christmas,” “Happy New Year,” and “Happy Thanksgiving” to the same motley bunch every holiday. Sadly, new faces appear only on the weekend. “Well, we need to get more people in the club,” he snaps and dismisses me with the wave of his hand.

I am not alone in my first task. My friend Mitch and I get the job of decorating the club for Halloween and then handing out fliers for a party. I met Mitch at another bar I worked called The 9th Circle and got him a job here at Uncle Charlie’s. Mitch and I are the perfect people to be given this job; Halloween is a favorite holiday for both of us. 


We are given a budget and we run to the store and buy plenty of day glow paint, cobwebs, lights, and assorted skulls. We have decided to make the video room into a graveyard (sadly, lately not too far from the truth on a nightly basis). I get to the job of painting tombstones all over the mirrors and Mitch installs yards of cobwebs. We have only one day to start and finish the task. The club will be filled in the evening, because in the Village, Halloween is a huge celebration. I mean, just give gay men the chance to dress up and become anything they want to be, and the sky’s the limit.

I paint what feels like hundreds of tombstones and my arm is tired. I have written most of the staff’s names on the grave markers and Eric (one of the newest waiters) tells me that he can’t find his name. Eric stands at about 6'7" and his arms dangle from his shoulder sockets. I write, “Eric the Fish” in bright red paint on a grave and call it a day. He demands to know why I call him “Eric the Fish?” Just the fact that he gets annoyed when Mitch and I say it is enough joy for me. I finish up and run home to get into my costume. I have worked for weeks on it and it is perfect.


Most everyone in the club is planning on going as a sexy nurse, sexy kitten, sexy pirate, or sexy construction worker. I, on the other hand, am going as Piper Laurie from Carrie. I have taken two ratty falls and combed them out so they are enormous. I attach them to my head. I’m wearing a big pink muumuu that billows when I walk. I am impressed with what I have accomplished and get the desired effect when I walk down the street brandishing the knife above my head. “Oooooohhhh, you go scary girl!” A scraggly looking Queen strolls past me.  Then Sexy Batgirl calls to me as she passes. “Work it out Mama!” I am feeling good and looking fabulous when I enter the club.


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "A Day in the Life". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

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