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.

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.

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.

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.