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Monday, January 24, 2011

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 22 Enter the 9th Circle

I cannot get out of there fast enough the minute my shift is done. Bob is waiting outside for me with a flower in his hand. We walk around the Village and he takes me to an all night diner. I am enwrapped by all of Bob’s stories. He drops me off at the door of my apartment building at 6:00 a.m. After finding my identification, I am allowed access. When I turn back around, Bob is looking at me through the window. Our eyes meet and he waves goodbye.

I tiptoe into the apartment, hoping not to wake anyone. Climbing the ladder to the loft, I crawl across the floor and fall asleep on the bed in my clothes. Four hours later the three phones in the apartment are ringing. One phone is ringing downstairs in the kitchen, one in the bedroom, and the other right next to my bed. I ignore it but Regina, downstairs in the kitchen, does not. “Geoff,” she screams from the bottom of the ladder, “Your agent is on the phone, and he’s pissed.” Quickly sitting up in bed, I reach for the phone next to the bed.

“Hello?” I whisper. “Where are you?” my agent screams into the phone. “I’m at home,” I answer. I can’t seem to get my voice above a whisper. “I got you an audition for a commercial in one hour and I’ve been calling you all morning.” Richard quickly explains that he submitted my photo to a top photographer from Japan who is here in New York looking for models to be “the face” of a new Japanese company. “Richard,” I croak “where am I going?” 


Searching around the room, I look for something to write with. He gives me the address and I jot it down with a red marker. “Oh, okay,” I say, “I’ll be there.” “Jesus, what is wrong with your voice? Do something about it!” he screams, slamming the receiver in my ear.

I skitter across the floor on my hands and knees and quickly climb down the ladder. Regina is waiting at the bottom. “God, you look awful,” she says as I brush past her, still in last night’s clothes. Looking in the bathroom mirror I see that I have bloodshot eyes, and my hair is standing straight up in all directions. “Oh, God,” I croak again, sounding like Brenda Vaccaro. “I have lost my voice.”

Having little time, I quickly strip and jump into the shower. I’m racing against the clock. I need to be across town in no time flat. Dressing quickly with no time to lose, I hurry out of the building and hail a cab, telling the driver to step on it.

When I arrive at the audition, I find the monitor and check in. I am dressed in a black t-shirt, blue jeans, and black motorcycle boots. My hair is sticking up in all directions and held in place with Dippity-do. Looking around the room, I realize that I’m in a room filled with male models. In my mind, I’m the only one that looks like a real person. Everyone else looks like they have just stepped out of the pages of GQ magazine.

I am called into the room with about twenty other guys. We’re lined up, and the casting director asks for our portfolios. I hand over my picture and resume. One of the guys next to me snickers. Then we’re asked a little bit about ourselves and handed a script. Not only are they doing a photo spread, they’re looking to hire for a commercial training video. They go down the line, asking us to read aloud, one at a time. I am terrified to open my mouth in this group. When it’s my turn to read the guy next to me snickers again. After I’m done I shoot him a look. We’re thanked by the casting director and released for the day. I have to work at The Ninth Circle tonight, so I hurry to catch a nap.

A couple of hours later the phone rings and it’s my agent again. Turns out that the Japanese company is working against a time crunch and they have to cast their project immediately. They tell my agent that they love me and that I have a voice that is perfect for their advertisement and commercial. “Very exotic,” they tell him.

I am so excited and exhausted all at the same time. I look at the clock. I have a couple of hours before work, so I roll over and fall back asleep.

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, January 17, 2011

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 21 Enter the 9th Circle

Two hours before closing time, Mitch passes by me, announcing Bob’s arrival in a loud whisper, “He’s here.” Trying not to look desperate or eager I say, “Thanks,” and continue leaning on the side bar. From my position I can look into the mirrors and see the people in the bar without having to look directly at them. 


Uncle Charlie’s has three bars in one, and has started to add little stages in each room for strippers. I see Bob walking through the front bar looking for someone. Hoping it’s me he’s looking for, but not wanting to seem overanxious, I stop leaning and sneak out through the back bar, scooting into the hallway that connects it to the front. That way I can just “accidentally” run into him. 


Pushing my way through the people in the hallway, I walk right up behind him. He is still searching around the bar when he turns and crashes into me, knocking my tray to the floor. “Holy shit,” he yells, and we both bend over to pick up my tray. A big smile begins to form on his face as we slowly stand up. “I have been looking for you,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling. “You were?” I say, innocently looking around. “I forgot,” I say, “did you tell me that you were coming in here tonight?” I let my eyes stare into his. He laughs his gentle laugh and then sighs. “It’s good to see you,” he says, a smile forming again. “You, too,” I say. “I have met some of the loneliest people in here tonight.” 


I look around. The bar is packed. I’ve always thought it was strange that you could sometimes feel loneliest in a crowded bar. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says with a laugh. “Would you like to talk about it?” “Not right now,” I say. “I only want to talk about happy things.” With this he takes my hand, looks into my eyes, and asks me if I would like to go out with him after I get off work. Trying again not to seem too eager, I tell him that it will be around 3:00 a.m. “I’ll see you then,” he says, cupping my chin in his hand. He turns and heads to the front door. He turns around, raises three fingers and mouths the words, “See you then.” Right at this moment I feel like I’m the only person in the world. 

I turn around and push my way through the crowded bar, looking for Mitch, and I beg him to work the rest of the night for me. He reminds me that he is already working, so it would be impossible to cover my shift. “Crap, you’re right,” I say dejectedly. 


“Oh well then, do you want to play a game?” Mitch asks looking towards the back bar. One of the favorite games that Mitch and I play is called Numbers. Numbers is a game where we walk through the bar, stand in front of a patron, and discuss what we think their faults and their strengths would be. We judge them in beauty and talent, and finish with a number from one to ten. Then we then announce their final number to their faces and wish them all the best in the future. Most of the time the patrons we rate are either falling down drunk, or nodding out because they are on drugs. With luck the person is awake, lucid, and highly insulted. 

Eric the Fish slides up to us. “Oh, giiirrrrrrrlllllllllll,” he says, scanning the crowd, “do you want to play the Numbers game?” He opens his arms to display the crowd before us. “We’re one step ahead of you,” I say, “let’s do it.” Starting against the wall, we find some young boy who looks like he just got out of high school and begin with him. Just our luck, he’s bombed. Eric the Fish grabs his arm and spins him before us. “Throw him back,” I say, “he’s not fully grown yet.” Eric twirls the bewildered boy back against the wall. We take our time going through at least the first ten victims when I realize that I’ve got bills to pay. I become aware of this because I can see Jeff the bar manager looking at me. Eric and Mitch follow my eyes and see him too. We scatter like roaches when someone turns the lights on. “Game over, giiiirrllllllll,” squeals Eric the Fish, ducking out of the room. I make a quick swoop into the hallway and back around to the front bar. 

I cut through the crowd and look for John. I am avoiding work tonight. I want to make sure that he is all right. The last time I saw him was a while ago. Mitch and I meet back around the front of the bar. “Have you seen John?” I ask. “Oh, he left hours ago,” Mitch says. The bar manager comes around the corner causing Mitch and me to scatter again. Looking at my watch, I realize it’s last call — one hour before we close, and two hours before I see Bob. 


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, January 10, 2011

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 20 Enter the 9th Circle


I return to Uncle Charlie’s in the afternoon to work the Happy Hour shift. It is one of the best happy hours in New York City. Everyone is aware that the bartenders tend to have a heavy hand when it comes to making drinks; that and the fact that the bartenders love to overpour. Imagine this deal at two for the price of one. I arrive and the place is quiet. It is two hours before Happy Hour officially begins. Of course, the bar has its regulars who arrive the minute the place opens, tend not to move from their spots, and get asked to leave when we close. As I breeze by them, they yell out various greetings.

“Thank God,” I say as I’m passing through the bar. I see that the usual crew is working. Mitch runs over to me, rolling his eyes. The schedule has gone up and we are both working the holidays. Oh well, I figure that if I have to work during the holidays, Mitch and several of the other employees are people I consider family. Uncle Charlie’s is home for a lot of people who have nowhere to go, both staff and clientele. I spend a lot of time celebrating with the regulars.

I look around the side bar and see Charlie the DJ. He waves at me and Mitch as we hurry past on our way downstairs to clock in. Walking by the office, I see that Seth is working. “He’s in a mood,” Mitch warns me as we pass. “What a shock,” I think to myself. 

Arriving at the lockers, I pull my Charlie’s shirt out of the bag and begin to dress. Several bartenders arrive and begin to change their clothes, getting ready for the shift. One perk of working here is that the staff is beautiful. Most of the time they are hired for their looks and it’s an extra perk if they actually know what a vodka and soda is. Joe, the bartender of “The Pizza Boy Delivers” fame, comes running into the room and hastily strips off his clothes. It is a beautiful sight to behold and Mitch elbows me to make sure I am paying attention. You don’t have to nudge me twice. “Hello Joe,” Mitch sings making goo-goo eyes in my direction. Joe, pulling his shirt over his head, grunts in response. 

Mitch and I finish dressing quickly and head back upstairs to the bar. Thank God there is very little prep work to do. Tonight I am a cocktail waiter. Tomorrow, I am a cocktail waiter and unfortunately, next week I am still stuck being a cocktail waiter. Eric the Fish breezes into the club, waving his hand in my direction. He’s hard to miss, being nine feet tall. He looks like an oddly handsome Joey Ramone.  “Sorry I’m late, ladies,” he squeals as he runs by. I look at Steve the bartender; he rolls his eyes. 

The bar begins to fill up; people like to be here the minute the clock chimes “Happy Hour.” Patrons get their drink on and then move on to the dance clubs. There is no dancing in Uncle Charlie’s. I don’t know if it because of the Cabaret law or because it’s “not cool.” We have a DJ, music videos, and the best looking crowd. 

Hoping to make a lot of money tonight, I approach my first patrons.  It’s a small group of young twinks. They are all looking around to see if they are getting noticed. “Can I get you anything to drink?” I ask as I approach. “I’ll have a vodka tonic,” one of the guys says. The other three tell me that they are waiting for Happy Hour to get going a little more. “Great, more of the stand and stare crowd,” I think to myself. 


“What do you do for a living?” one of them asks me. “I’m a dancer,” I respond. “Oh, really.” he says, a big grin forming on his face. “Where do you dance?” he asks, looking at his friends. Not really sure where this line of questioning is going, I respond, “Mostly musical theatre and dance companies.” “Oh,” he says. “Have you ever danced at the Gaiety?” he asks, his eyes getting big. “Where’s the Gaiety?” I ask. He tells me the address and says that he saw a really great show there just the other night. “Thanks for the tip,” I say and tell them, “I will check it out tomorrow.” 

I walk away thinking about how nice they were but decide to keep the Gaiety to myself. I don’t want to let other dancers working at Charlie’s to know about the place. How great would it be to work as a dancer in New York and not have to go out of town all the time? 

Walking back to the bar, I notice a very skinny boy sitting all by himself. He looks as if he’s been crying and he keeps nervously scanning the crowd. I quickly walk over to him. “Are you okay?” I ask. He looks at me with bloodshot eyes. In between sniffles he tells me that he believes his boyfriend is cheating on him and hopes that he will catch him here. “God, that sucks,” I say sitting down next to him. “Can I get you a drink?” I ask looking around. Then under my breath I add, “On the house?” “That would be nice,” he sniffles in response. “I’m Geoff,” I say thrusting out my hand. “Hi, I’m John,” he says grasping it firmly. 

I walk briskly over to the bar and explain the situation to Steve. Steve looks across the room and shakes his head. “So sad,” he responds. Both Steve and I are bleeding hearts when it comes to someone in distress. This is a common story we have heard once too often while working here. While waiting for the drink, I scan the crowd, hoping to see Bob. Mitch walks by and sidles up next to me. “Looking for Bob?” he asks, placing a finger under his chin. “Why. as a matter of fact, I am. Please let me know the minute you see him,” I reply. Mitch nods and turns on his heel.


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, January 3, 2011

Hey! You! Get Out of My Way! Part 19 Enter the 9th Circle


‘What do you mean I can’t buy a rat if I have to feed it to a snake?” I ask the girl behind the counter at Petland. “Those are the rules and besides, this is a fancy rat,” she says to me, not missing a beat. “A fancy rat?” I repeat, slightly puzzled. “Yes,” she sighs, as if she is pointing out the obvious. “What’s the difference?” I ask. She sighs even louder and rolls her eyes to the heavens. “A fancy rat has long fur and is raised as a pet.” With this said, she tries to walk away from me. “Okay, okay,” I put up my hand to stop her. “What if I don’t have a snake and I just want to buy a rat?” “Oh, that would be a completely different story,” she replies and positions herself in front of the register. “Okay,” I say, “I need to buy a rat.”  “What kind of rat do you need?” she asks. “Oh, anything you have lying around,” I respond, holding my breath. “I have a fancy rat,” she says, motioning to the drawers behind her. There are about thirty rats climbing all over each other. 


Now, I have always been a member of the ASPCA and PETA and this is the downside of owning a snake, but unless the snake is going to eat my cooking, this is what I have to do. “Sold!” I sing out. “You’re not feeding this rat to a snake, are you?” the girl asks narrowing her eyes. Not believing that this is really happening, I cross my fingers in my pocket. “No, no, not at all,” I say, placing my other hand up in the air like a good boy scout. With this she reaches into a drawer, lifts up a big black and white rat by the tail, and drops him into a box, then pushes out the air holes. I hand her money and she drops the box into a plastic Petland bag.

Thanking her, I walk back onto the street and head over to St. Mark’s Place to wander through Trash and Vaudeville. I roam through the racks; the rat is starting to become very active in the box. I am not really seeing anything that I like, and walk into the shoe department. I am delaying my return to the apartment because my friend Missy has moved from Boston to NYC. After a couple of conversations, Susan thinks it’s a great idea to have Missy take over her bedroom and let me keep the loft. Before this time Susan’s bedroom door had been kept locked, so she could travel from coast to coast and have a place to stay. Missy has moved to New York to study at NYU and could actually save a couple bucks living with me. I have no problem with this at all. I would like to give her some space, because today she is studying with some friends. Missy has told me how hard it is to make friends here in the city and I can’t be her only one.

My friend Regina will also be staying in the apartment for the next couple weeks, as she is in between theatre jobs. Susan thinks this is a great idea and pockets the extra income. After a couple of months, Regina and I will end up moving in together at The Imperial Courts Hotel on 79th Street. That is, after we meet Susan’s mother during an unexpected visit and realize that it’s going to become a regular thing.

I have some extra time to kill; I called my agent earlier. My audition for the Japanese company will take place later in the week. I would like to wander some more but the rat is really active. I walk back to Astor Place and show my ID. It’s the same doorman I saw as I was leaving. “What do you have in the bag?” the doorman asks. The bag is out of control, and I have to keep giving it a little shake because the rat is trying to save itself by eating through the box. I shrug my shoulders and ignore the doorman.

Alone in the elevator, I can see the doorman leaning over his post to watch the doors close on me. The ride up is quick. I get to the apartment and unlock the door. Regina is on the phone in the open kitchen. The cord is stretched within an inch of its life. Missy is sitting in the living room, holding court with two other students. “Geoff, I want you to meet two of my friends from NYU,” she yells to me. I wave and let them get back to studying. Regina waves from the stool she is perched on.

I walk over to Jasmine’s cage and release the clamps that hold the lid in place. Jasmine is wide awake and knows what’s about to happen. She begins to climb to the top of the tank. The rat is now out of the box and spinning in the bag.

To feed a captive boa constrictor, you need to stun its food or it will attack the snake, sometimes hurting or killing it. I swing the bag, hoping to make the rat dizzy and stunned, but swinging it causes the bag to break and the rat flies into the air. Missy’s friends just sit there, looking stunned by all of this. I run after the rat, who hits the floor and runs into the living room. Grabbing the box, I chase the rat into the corner of the room and trap it underneath. Regina is sitting on a stool, still on the phone. She has witnessed the feeding of Jasmine on several occasions and this doesn’t faze her in the least. She has however, put one finger in her ear so she can hear her conversation.

I dump the contents of the box into another bag, swing it and bring hard down on the counter. Missy’s friends jump up, grabbing their things, and almost fall over each other trying to get out. I swing the bag again and bring it down even harder. Missy has followed her friends to the door; they are horrified by what I am doing and suddenly have a million reasons why they have to leave. “Hand me the hammer,” I scream, as the rat is fighting for its life. Without missing a beat or getting off her stool, Regina reaches down into one of the drawers and hands me the hammer. This is so not the way I want this to go and it is one of the reasons I will find Jasmine a new home. I don’t have the stomach for this.

I bring the hammer down hard and the rat stops moving. Grabbing the end of the bag, I drop the rat into Jasmine’s tank. Jasmine wastes no time grabbing the rat, and wraps it up with her body. Missy is now an inch from my face. “Fuck you Geoff, you ruin everything!” she screams and walks into her bedroom, slamming the door. The pictures on the wall jump.

Regina and I just look at each other.


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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