I bartended yesterday and made a lot of money. I happened to be on Facebook, when someone posted they needed help at their art party, and got in touch. She needed 2, so I brought a sober friend.
It was a celebration of "lofty and beautiful things"; we wore red capes, and served Absinthe made by upstate witches; black cats appeared and mingled shyly.
The hostess seemed to have a charmed life, and I had a blast serving the 100 most interesting people she'd met in New York. My tip jar piled up - some of her friends asked me in how I'd gotten the job, and one in particular seemed ridiculously jealous and possessive. "What was that?" I asked my friend. "All these scenes have queens", she knowingly replied.
I came home flush, and considered how more money could open my life, revitalize and sustain my me.
I woke up today, and worked again, for a poet in the program who was leaving her apartment of 10 years, and her husband. She was getting rid of so many things, and let me know she'd need me on an ongoing basis. Though I tried so hard, I wasn't sure if that would be the case. She didn't pay very well, but mentioned she had some things to give me, but when I'd asked for something, she seemed hesitant, and I demurred. I left, and it was rainy; I felt poor and used again, and wished I had taken it.
I waited for the G train for a long time. A girl on the platform was dressed normally, but had an odd expression on her face. I watched her as she did pirouettes over and over again.
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