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.

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.

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.

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.