Writings

When I started hostessing at Sofia’s, it was your typical New York City moonlighting-gig. Sofia’s was the quintessential Upper East Side pizzeria and hot-spot, populated by modern-day debutantes, celebrities and heiresses. The place was abuzz with fashion and the “latest thing.” With the eye makeup on, the right clothes and the right walk, with fashion-camera confidence and runway arrogance, I made myself a few bucks here and there. But this was New York City, after all, and even budding supermodels need night jobs. And that’s what brought me to Sofia’s.

Every model was a hostess, and every member of the wait staff was either a struggling actor or illegal immigrant. The New York City restaurant world was propped up by illegal immigrants, sweating away in underground and backdoor kitchens, bussing tables, and, if lucky and able to erase their accents, raking in the big bucks by waiting the tables of America’s rich and famous. Restaurant life was a hustle, and at the same time you were hustling the city, it was hustling you.

This is what I was thinking when Anthony, that night’s manager, stopped by my hostess stand and snapped his fingers loudly in my face. “Wake up, girl! What’s the matter with you? You depressed?”

My eyes came back into focus and I looked at Anthony’s scruffy hair and lazy smile.

“Com’mon girl, you have a beautiful life.”

***

“Would you ever consider marrying someone to help them with their papers?” Sharon whispered, sticking little nose above the pile of laminated menus I was carrying.

“I don’t know, I never thought about it. Maybe if he was my best friend or something.” I answered.

“Oh,” Sharon looked disappointed and embarrassed and fiddled with the pad of paper sticking out of her left pocket. Suddenly I was curious about the details.

“Why? Do you know someone?”

Sharon lowered her voice into my menus again. “Don’t say anything, but its him.” She threw a nod over her left shoulder in the direction of the waiter’s station. I followed it with my eyes, and couldn’t believe them. There stood Samurai.

Samurai was known for moving around the restaurant with the agility of a boxer and the direction of a martial arts expert. He was tall with closely shaved brown hair, hooded eyes, and the muscled body of someone obsessed with the gym. Instead of saying hello, he’d ghost-box you, and say in his molasses voice, “Samurai’s takin’ care of business.” He was like an Eastern European Rocky….and he wanted to make me his bride.

“There’s money involved.” Sharon followed my eyes. “I would do it, but my boyfriend would kill me.”

I wondered if mine would, if it were clearly stated that this would be a Business Partnership, a means to financial stability in a city that was running me dry, an experiment, a big middle finger to the institution of marriage which I was undecided about. I didn’t foresee my boyfriend and I getting married anytime soon. I wasn’t sure if I foresaw myself getting married at all, with all that white-frocked hub-bub which to me seemed an extension of a rather patriarchal ritual. I was in debt, and what little I knew of him told me Samurai was a nice guy. He’d even met my parents once when they’d come to visit me in the city. What more did one need before tying the knot?

“Tell me more.” I put down my menus and huddled with Sharon, right there, by the pizza oven.

***

Turns out Samurai, whose real name was Fabio, had gotten himself into a bit of an illegal-alien bind. His kind was a dime a dozen in the city, especially in the restaurant world. He had come to NYC four years ago from Eastern Europe under the guise of a student visa. But now, after 9-11, the government was cracking down, and he’d backed himself into a corner. The only way for him to stay in America, to maintain his quality of life, to stay with his friends, his house, his car, was to marry an American woman. And I was just about as American as they came. As I learned more about the situation from Sharon, I thought I could feel my Puritan ancestors rolling in their graves.

“You’d get married at City Hall in a short ceremony. Then, you two would be interviewed at some surprise time by government officials checking out the marriage. Then, it would just be a matter of having a few bills sent to his house, and keeping all this up for a year and a half before you can get a divorce and he could keep his citizenship. He’d be indebted to you. When I was thinking about it, he offered me a car, but I told him I don’t need a car. So he offered to ‘take care of me’, whatever that means. I’m sure you could name your price. In the other restaurant where I used to work, one of the busboys offered me 8 thousand dollars. Too bad I’m such a traditionalist.”

Sharon cocked her eyebrow as the owner walked by. “Let me think about it,” I said, walking back to my hostess station. I looked back at Samurai, whose hulking shoulders were at work, lifting a high chair into place at table 57. ‘Mrs. Samurai…hmmmm….’

***

“Bella, can I buy you dessert?” Samurai came over to my table and lowered himself to my eye-level, bouncing up and down on his black sneakers. This guy was always moving. He had never offered to buy me dessert before on my break, so I figured Sharon must have talked to him.

“Yeah, chocolate cake,” I ventured. He didn’t even flinch. He was serious. I was already being wooed.

“So, bella, you heard about my situation?” Samurai’s eyes darted around the room as if the place were wired with government operatives ready to pounce.

“I did,” I wound a spaghetti strand around the prongs of my fork. “I talked with Sharon a bit. I don’t know if I can do it, Samurai, but I’ll think about it.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be much work for you. A 15 minute ceremony, an interview which we’ll prepare for. You already know about me, bella. I’m a nice guy, I like to work out at the gym. And I’ll take care of you, don’t worry, anything you need. I make good money here, and you’d be saving my life. Anything.”

To a girl who’s broke and half-broken down from working as a hostess for a year and a half when she has aspirations other than restaurant life, Anything was a comforting word. I knew it shouldn’t be. I realized that while this action would, perhaps, flaunt my independence in the sense that I would be using “marriage” as I wished, I’d be forsaking some for the arrangement of a man taking care of a woman. Though without the usual love, commitment, God, or a shared past, this arrangement would be traditional in that the man would be financially supporting the woman. But then again, I’d be supporting the man by giving him his entire existence in this country. I swallowed hard on my meatball.

“I feel weird taking money from you, Samurai,” I played nice and naive. I didn’t want him thinking I was a golddigger, or anything.

“Please, Bella.” he sighed. “It’d be the least I could do. Anything you need. Do you have a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’d have your cell phone bill sent to my house, or something, so it looked like you lived there. And I could just take care of it for you, if you want. We’d have to open a shared bank account, but we’d keep our separate back accounts, too. We’d have our story ready for the authorities. And that’s it. Your life wouldn’t change that much, you’d just have those few small things to take care of.” Samurai looked up and scanned the room of customers he was neglecting. “But what about your boyfriend?”

Samurai knew I had a boyfriend, a man I’d been dating for three years. His name was Karlos. A first generation American, I wondered if Karl would understand the plight of the illegal immigrant. After all, his parents had been illegal before he’d been born and legitimized them. Karl and I were in love, but neither one of us was ready for marriage. Most of the time I was relieved by that, and happy to enjoy my minimally attached state. Other times, especially when I was run down by the rest of life and wanted to feel madly, passionately loved and needed, I felt mildly frustrated that he wasn’t banging down my door with a ring. As if wedding bells or the promise of them would uplift my situation and save me from myself.

“I’ll talk to him about it.”

Samurai winked and bounced up, heading toward a frazzled customer at table 55.

***

When I got home, Karl was playing video games, as usual. You’d think a 30 year old man would be over moving cartoons, but ever since he’d found a way to hook his XBox up to his brother’s via an internet connection, he stayed up till all hours of the night, playing Tennis3000.

“Hi honey, I’m home.” I plopped down my yellow Sofia’s bag of leftovers and then plopped myself down on the bed.

“Sweetie!” Karl pressed “Game Over”, sending a message to his brother that he was through, and popped up off the floor. “How are you?”

Karl gave me a bear hug and kissed my neck. He could be as sweet and open as a child, or a total enigma. I figured I must be the same way toward him.

“I’m good.” I whispered into his neck.

Karl pulled me away. “Uh, oh…what happened?”

Karl excelled at reading the tones of my voice. It was almost annoying. It was impossible to hide anything from him.

“Well, I have to tell you what happened tonight. I was offered something.”

“A lucrative Sofia’s raise?” Karl’s eyes danced. 99.9% of the words out of his mouth fell into the categories of joking, mocking, or teasing. This could also be annoying, as I often wanted to be serious.

“Samurai asked me to marry him.” Karl knew me well enough to know I wasn’t joking.

“And…?” he asked.

“Well, he needs help with his papers so he can become an American citizen, and he asked me, and offered to help me out financially. At first I thought, ‘no way,’ but now I’m kind of thinking about it. I mean, I’ll help him out, and he’ll help me by paying me thousands of dollars. In a year and a half we’ll get a divorce, and the business transaction will be completed.”

“Business transaction? What do you mean by thousands of dollars?” Karl’s sweet and open demeanor seemed to be wearing off.

“I don’t know the exact numbers. He offered to buy me a car, or ‘take care of me’, or give me a lump sum, maybe 6 thousand? We didn’t talk specifics, I wanted to think about it first. I know it sounds crazy, but think about it. We’re not planning on getting married, I’m in debt and could use the cash…”

“Don’t be crazy.” Karl’s sweet demeanor had officially worn off. “I mean, if he were a close friend or something, maybe I’d understand. My parents were immigrants, so I get his situation, but..you just don’t know him well enough! What if you get married then he refuses to grant you the divorce? What if he sues you and tries to get some of your family’s money? You’ll have to go over to his house and stuff. What if he ends up being into you? You’re getting yourself into an awkward situation.”

“Well, I didn’t think about that stuff,” I admitted. “I know I don’t know him all that well. How do you feel about it, though? Would it bother you, as my boyfriend? I mean, you’d be cool with me being married to Samurai just as business, right?”

Karl looked off into space. “This is weird. I don’t know if I could date a married woman, even if it is just for show. Don’t you have any respect for the sanctity of marriage?”

“Karl, we’re not planning on getting married, right? I mean, we’ve talked about that…at least we’re not for now. You know as well as I that what deserves “sanctity” is up for interpretation. If you and I agree on our arrangement, than who cares what the world says? We know we’re in love, and Samurai is just a source of income, as well as a favor for a friend, or, an acquaintance.” I paused. “Would you really break up with me?”

Karl was looking more and more uncomfortable, as if he was about to break out into a sweat. “Well, I don’t know. How am I going to know how it is or how it feels until we get into it? But I might have to. I mean, are you that hard up for money? Is it that bad?”

I looked into Karl’s big eyes. “Well, it feels bad to me. I have debt. This would help.”

“If adventure is what you’re looking for, this would do it.” With that, Karl went back to his video game, leaving me to question the situation in the shadow of his back.

***

What kind of woman did I want to be? One who used her womanliness to gain material
stability or success? Who manipulated men’s weak spots, working my way into their lives and their wallets for a particular pre-calculated goal? Or one who followed her heart, listening to and honoring the process of it more than shooting for a particular outcome? I had always considered myself of the later variety. But life in the “real world” was panning out differently than I had planned. New York City was more superficial than I had first realized from my small town home. From there, I had only seen it as a beacon of independence, open-mindedness, diversity, and artistry. And it did prove to be all those things. But, in the mundane struggle to pay bills, something I hadn’t truthfully included in my small town daydreams, questions of modern existence came into focus. Primarily, what kind of woman did I want to be?

In my restaurant every night, I had a bird eye’s view of the kind concerned with wealth, with financial security. These women played the game, this place was the Olympics of golddigging, and traditional gender roles. They were glossed, padded, and groomed, with long shiny hair, big boobs and small waists. They had lacquered nails and glossy lips and rested, youthful faces. They wore fashions that the other by-the-book fashionistias admired and the men, usually clueless as to the latest fashions and only eager to see a woman’s shape, would still drool over. They did it all, and it took effort, I knew, but they never showed that. Their package was one of ease and beauty, like a summer’s day, and the work men, hungry for luxury and respite, ate it up. All it cost them was their wallets.

Could I be like that? Cutting the shirt a little lower, wearing the skirt a little higher to cut myself a break? I knew I was more naturally beautiful than some of these dolls, but simply wasn’t schooled or practiced enough in the beauty arts that created their illusions. Could I simply study up, apply what I’d learned, and try to vengefully win myself some kind of compensation for the fact that I was a woman? I mean, I was going to be hit on anyway, why not get a free drink, free dinner, a free ride, or Samurai’s “Anything” out of it?

***

“I don’t mean to be mean or anything, but I can’t stand this fucking place,” Sharon nestled up to me at my hostess stand and, under the din of the restaurant, began to spill all her secrets. “I mean, what a bunch of fuckers.”

Sharon might be small, but she could hold her own.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Oh, same shit, different day. You know. The men in here are such bastards. They’re hitting on that new bartender chick like crazy and giving me the play-by-play. I mean, I don’t want to hear about her big tits or nice ass, you know?”

“Yeah, I know…”

“And then I asked them why they have to act like animals, and told them my boyfriend doesn’t do that shit. They didn’t believe me, and when I insisted, they began making fun of my boyfriend like he’s a whimp or something. Acting like he’s gay. What do these guys know about real love, when they all have wives and kids at home and still treat women like this on the side? Like pieces of meat?”

“You know, this is really nice to hear because I stand here and listen to the waiters hit on women all the time, and then hear what they say behind their backs, and I thought I was the only one getting pissed off,” I said. Sharon and I leaned in closer, partially to ignore the restaurant and partially to guard our conversation from the snooping ears of the nearby waiters.

“Working here long enough makes you really start to hate men,” I said. “I swear I’m less trusting and have more of a chip on my shoulder after hanging out with these macho guys day in and day out. And I feel like I’m developing a complex, too, like I should be showing my cleavage more often, like I should have designer bags and constant manicures, too.” I admitted this all, hoping I wasn’t revealing some unknown lack of self-esteem.

“Of course,” Sharon instantly quelled my fears. “You can’t be in this kind of place every day and not get affected by it. These guys are assholes, and because we’re working with them, we really get to know that intimately. And the only girls who get attention in this place are the ones showing their bodies. It makes you feel like you’re not a woman if you don’t do the same. But at the same time, you don’t want to get that kind of attention and be that kind of woman. At least I don’t.”

“I know it shouldn’t get to me, but it does.”

“I know.” Sharon lowered her voice. “This is gonna sound really mean…God, this is gonna sound mean, but you know the new bartender, Chrissy?”

“Yeah.” I glanced over at the bar and looked at the new girl. I’d seen her three times now, and each time she was wearing a very low-cut shirt that showed off half of her big breasts. The shirt was always cropped, as well, revealing her tight stomach and little belly button. Her lowrider jeans hugged her slim hips. She wore Gucci pumps even though no one could see her feet behind the bar. Her hair was platinum blond, except at the roots, where it was dark brown, and her eyes were lined with so much makeup. She reminded me of a Vegas showgirl. Once when I was looking at her, I spotted a cab outside the restaurant window with an ad on it for “The Gentleman’s Club.” Chrissy looked exactly like the girl in the picture, only her blond hair wasn’t blowing in the wind of some photography studio’s fan. But it could of been her sister.

“What about her?”

“Well, honestly, without all that makeup and hair-dye and the fake boobs and the little outfits, she wouldn’t be attractive. I mean, look at her. Its all show. Its a powerful show, but she’s not beautiful. You’re much more naturally beautiful than her or any of the other girls in here. And you don’t look like you’re trying too hard. Listen, I understand how it can get to you, how it can get toxic, but you are more beautiful.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear, cause I admit I don’t always feel that way after standing in this place for 8 hours.”

“Its so crazy to keep up all that work,” Sharon glanced Chrissy’s way. “I mean, look at all that eye makeup. And what happens when you get older and your breasts start to sag and you get a wrinkle or two, or you have a baby and get fatter?”

“Breast lift, face lift, liposuction,” I replied. Sharon rolled her eyes.

“I read in New York magazine the other day that more and more Manhattan women have C-sections in their eighth month just to avoid putting on the last little bit of fat.” Sharon said.

“Oh my God.”

“I know! That’s sick.”

“What’s sick?” Jerry stuck his pointy nose in between us, his eyes sparkling. Jerry was the head waiter, but acted like he was five.

“You are, you sicko.” Sharon glared. I smiled at her audacity. It seemed a much healthier way to deal than my sulking.

“What’s this?” Jerry reached into Sharon’s back pocket and grabbed a small silver wand.

“Excuse me,” Sharon snatched it back. “Some little kid left it in my section, so I took it.”

Sharon lowered her voice and began to wave it around. “I cast a spell on you……”

“That would work better if you were naked,” Jerry said before walking off to wait on a table.

Sharon and I looked at each other. Her wand seemed to wilt in her hand. “See what I mean?” she said.

***

Cab rides home from Sofia’s lately consisted of a bag of chocolate to nibble on. And it wasn’t even good chocolate. It was the kind from the corner store, sold in bulk and scooped out with those big silver spoons. I ate because at 1 in the morning I needed something to wake me up, and I wasn’t a coffee drinker. I ate because I needed some treat, something to soothe me after a night of hustle, bustle and rudeness. Chocolate covered….marshmallows, cookie dough, orange peel, raisins, graham crackers. Chocolate covered everything.

After I paid the cab driver my ten bucks and started walking towards my door, I decided to call my friend to see if she was up. I sat on my doorstep and speed-dialed her.

“You what??” Angel shrieked over the phone in a peel of laughter. “Girl, you are always getting yourself into some kind of trouble!”

Angel was my good friend and reality-check, my keeping-it-real.

“Hmm…it does sound tempting though. How much did you say?” And she was as broke as I was.

“We didn’t specify, but thousands. He said he’d ‘take care of me.’” I was always talking to her from the streets of New York. New York apartments were too small for privacy, so I’d always end up on the street. Hundreds of strangers must have heard my dramas over the years, but I didn’t know them, so it didn’t matter. In fact, it made me feel more connected to my city. The city streets and the strangers walking by had held me during various monumental conversations, emotional ups and downs.

“Girl, I couldn’t do it, but I understand why you’re thinking about it! The money!”

“Why couldn’t you do it?” I asked my alter ego to help me see.

“I’m just not that kind of girl. Make your own money, you know? I mean, it’s not that easy, and it’s not as quick a fix as this, but I can’t use another person straight up for money like that!” She paused, as if she were worried she’d offended me. “But I know lots of girls who do it.”

“Do what?” I ventured.

“Girls who don’t mind taking money from guys. Who let guys pay for dinner, or drinks, or even some of their bills. Hell, even girls who go out with guys JUST for the free dinner. Like, life is hard enough for women. We don’t make as much money, typically, we have to prove ourselves and strive to be taken seriously in a world where men check out your legs like they’re reading FHM. Some girls feel its payback time when it comes to dating, that they need help, and they’re gonna take it from the brothers. I understand that temptation cause I’m broke as hell, but I don’t want to do that to another human being. Its bad karma. And at the end of the day, how are we gonna get respect if we allow ourselves to be seen in that light, to play that game?”

I knew she was right, and I felt her words as if they were my own. But only in half my heart. The other half was confused, angry, exhausted and, to be honest, vengeful. I wanted my break. I wanted to be, even, careless, and rebellious, and worrisome, and self-destructive, and shocking. What the hell? Life in NY had eaten up my savings, I was totally confused about marriage and what I wanted. My boyfriend was sweet, but home playing video games instead of working on larger goals which included me. I felt alienated by the city, by him, by myself. Fuck family. Let’s use marriage for a pay and run.

***

“Bella, how are you? I haven’t heard from you in ages,” Samurai drawled into the phone, acting as if we spoke outside the restaurant on a regular basis.

“I know, I’m sorry Samurai. I’ve been so busy.” ‘Avoiding your calls,’ I added in my head. Samurai had left me three messages that week, and I still hadn’t called him back. I just didn’t know what to say about everything, and really needed the space to think it all over.

“Too busy to call your Samurai? I don’t believe it.”

“Sorry, Samurai. What’s up?”

“So, have you been thinking? Do you have anymore questions?”

I knew Samurai was anxious to know whether or not I’d marry him. More importantly, he was anxious to know whether or not he’d be an American citizen.

“Of course, I’ve been thinking.” I cleared my throat.

“And?” I could almost hear Samurai’s ears perking up.

“Hell, let’s go for it, Samurai. I want to help you, and you can help me. Let’s make a deal. Let’s get married and make you an American citizen!”

“Bella, you mean that? Girl, you are making my dreams come true. Are you at the restaurant tonight?”

“Yup.”

“I’m gonna buy you dessert. This is a great day. See you then!” And with that my groom-to-be hung up the phone, leaving me a little stunned and shaky. I still wasn’t one hundred percent sure about this, but figured maybe this was one of those decisions where you have to take the plunge when you’re up to about seventy-five percent sure. I began to get ready for work, thinking how absurd it was that I would be awarded for my decision with a piece of Sofia’s greasy chocolate cake, slid onto a plate.

***

If you’ve ever worked in the restaurant world, you know that the position of Hostess is a bit of a revolving door. It has the highest turnover of all the positions in a restaurant.
This night welcomed me with a new Hostess-in-training, Nadia. Nadia was tall, about 5’10, and naturally beautiful with long dark hair, big, wide-set eyes, and Steve-Tyler-from-Aerosmith-lips. Next to her I felt like a midget with shiny skin and red hair. As I stood on my toes to feel more her equal, I began to think she looked familiar.

“Do you model at all?”

Nadia smiled. “I did that model thing.” Nadia had this dry, gritty voice that made her even more attractive.

“Who did you model with?” I asked, meaning, to the laypeople, ‘who was your agent?’

“Oh, Boss, then ID…I made a series of bad decisions.”

“But you gave it up?” I tried to keep the conversation rolling…it made the hours roll by, too.

“Yeah, you know, I couldn’t take running around the city anymore. For each job, you have to spend hours running to castings. And I was doing mostly showroom stuff, it wasn’t that great.”

“I used to model with ID, too…mostly commercial stuff,” I added, not wanting her to wonder how I could be a model and NOT be 5’10.

“Oh, you did?” Nadia looked at me for the first time. “You do look kinda familiar,” she said, but I didn’t believe she meant it.

“Yeah, I worked with Kevin Dean. Do you know him?”

Nadia’s face suddenly came alive. Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes grew wide, as she slammed one delicate hand down on the reservation book. “Yes! Of course! Kevin is so weird.” And with that, Nadia’s eyes began to wander the room again.

“Yeah! Did he quit or something? Whatever happened to Kevin?”

“I don’t know, but I still have his number in my cell phone. Wanna call him?” Her eyes danced and she seemed ready to pounce on her purse, hidden around the corner.
I laughed. “I still have it in my phone, too! How was ID for you? Did you get a lot of jobs?”

Nadia seemed to make the decision to commit herself wholly to the conversation. She turned her back on the customers, something I excused her for since she was new, and looked me in the eyes.

“I worked mostly with Robert, do you know him?” I nodded. “But Kevin took a liking to me too. I feel like Kevin takes a liking to certain girls, and I was one of them. He got me a handful of jobs, but it wasn’t enough at the end of the day. I ended up getting a real job. I work in fashion marketing, now, and plan to work here Saturday nights. But Kevin was weird. He had this office away from all the other agents, and he seemed to have his own girls he represented, or something. And then one day he was gone. I think they fired him.”

“Really? I thought so, but I never heard for sure. I worked mostly with Kevin, he took a liking to me too. We went out for drinks sometimes –“

“You did that?” Nadia’s eyes scolded.

“Yeah, just drinks. I always wondered about him, too, with his own girls, like he had his own division.”

Nadia leaned in close. “SHADY…..Terrace?” she asked.

“Yes, terrace.” I instructed, and Nadia left to seat a party of six in the terrace, in
Samurai’s section. I watched her sashay ahead, holding the menus. It was obvious from the way her body moved that she’d been a model.

Nadia returned with more menus, collected from her rounds, and more thoughts.
“My roommate I have now used to be with ID, too.” She said. “She got kicked out because she got fake boobs.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She was 16. She’s 23 now, and has a real job, too.”

Just then this Ethiopian girl bounded into the restaurant. She was a regular, but I didn’t know her name. I had seen her eating with the restaurant owner a few times, and all the waiters assumed she was sleeping with him. I assumed so, too, since after a few months of knowing him, she acted as if she owned the place.

The girl pushed past a rather large bar crowd and a small group of people waiting for tables. “Hi baby!” she exclaimed, kissing me on both cheeks as if either of us were Italian. She didn’t know my name, either, but had seen me enough times to recognize my face. “I need six. Six.”

“Hey! How are you? I don’t have six now. Can you wait ten minutes?”

Her small lips formed a fake pout and she began making these really annoying whimpering noises. “Baby! Can’t you do anything? I have a party!” She rolled her eyes towards her entourage, a motley crew of men and women who didn’t seem quite chic enough to be seen with her.

Feeling a tantrum coming on, I touched her shoulder. “I’ll get you the next table. Don’t worry!” I almost called her ‘Baby’ too, in the heat of the moment, but my sanity got the better of me.

Once the fire was put out and the Ethiopian girl was settled in at the bar with her group and a few drinks, Nadia leaned over to me and hissed, “I hate that girl!”

“You know her?” I asked.

“She’s how I got this job…tell you later!” and Nadia went to check on available tables, leaving me to wonder at her fountain of gossip, and the six-degrees-of-separation theme in our conversation.

After the Ethiopian girl was seated with her six at a big round table, Nadia explained. “I was hanging out with my roommate one night….the fake boob girl I was telling you about….and we all came here to eat. That girl was here and started hanging out with us. She’s dating the owner, you know? And he was there, too, and I mentioned to her that I needed a job, and he heard and hooked me up. So I kinda got the job through her.”

“Why do you hate her?” I asked.

“She’s just so hyper! She’s too much. As the night went on, she came out with us dancing and got so drunk and acted like a fool. I can’t fucking stand her.”

“At least she got you a job, though,” I consoled.

“Yeah, but she pretends she doesn’t even know me when she sees me now. Bitch.” and Nadia began organizing the matches on the hostess stand.

***

Being a new hostess at Sofia’s means one thing: Fresh Meat. As a new hostess, you are guaranteed to get hit on by everyone from the manager to the waiters to the line cook. You will receive a free drink, and if you’re really cute, a free snack, and if you bat your eyelashes and play along, you may even be able to get a free meal or two out of it.
When Anthony showed up to manage that night, he was looking ragged and tired, as if he’d been up all night the night before partying. He was unshaven and his eyes were sleepy, and began talking about getting a drink almost as soon as he arrived, something he usually tried to stave off until about 11 PM.

At the sight of Nadia, Anthony must have silently elected to become the third hostess. As the crowds arrived, I found myself squeezed along the wall as Anthony directed traffic, handing Nadia menus and flirty looks. “She’s hot,” he whispered to me as she sat her first table of four. I’d been there way too long to be considered “fresh meat.” I was more like one of the guys, and was served Anthony’s vulgarities, the day’s special.

Nadia didn’t seem to mind, and when she caught me rolling my eyes at one of Anthony’s lame pick-up-lines, she scolded, “He’s nice! Com’mon!” So it was no surprise, really, that by the end of the night she had plans to meet him the following for drinks and whatever. Except I guess I was hoping, as a fellow ID-model and someone I apparently shared six-degrees of separation with, she was smarter than all that. But you know what they say about models.

While Nadia was on her break later that evening, Anthony proceeded to get three more girls’ digits, informing me on the down-low, “These bitches love me…must be the facial hair.” Disgusted and weary and stunned, I left to take my break at 10:30, and collect on my free cake. I definitely needed some comfort-dessert.

And there he stood. My night in shining armor. Holding a cake with two candles in it. He later told me they symbolized him and me, but he told the rest of the staff that it was birthday, and got them all to sing to me. It was mildly embarrassing. I sucked it up, though, just to get to the cake. Boy, did I relish that cake, letting my feet rest and hearing my ears buzz from the noise of the night and my tiredness. I watched Anthony follow Nadia around from my corner table on the terrace. I looked over at Sharon, who winked at me as she took some little spaghetti-faced kid’s plate away. I watched Samurai dart in between the tables like Karate Kid, handling the plates with precision.

And all I could think was that I wanted to dart. I wanted to pick up and run out, screaming, fueled by the sugar-rush of the cake. Or I wanted to slip away quietly to the restroom, past the little triangle-skirt lady on the door, hoping she’d keep my secret. Then, I’d open the small window high above the sink, climb up to it, and slide myself out, becoming a Samurai in my own right. No one would notice I was gone until some whiny customer would complain that the door was locked and with no answer. Then Anthony would pry open the door to find the window open and the toilet paper fluttering in the breeze, the only remnants of my escape.

“Bella,” Samurai hopped by my table on his way to another one.

“Fuckers,” Sharon scowled under her breath, and I couldn’t help but lump Samurai into the collective adjective.

“These bitches love me,” Anthony chimed in, as Nadia unconsciously wiggled past, an unfortunate legacy of her modeling days that kept all kinds of unwanted men scurrying after her behind.

Sofia’s chocolate cake was slimier than I’d remembered it, as if it’d been covered with tin foil in the fridge for too long and had collected the trapped moisture and humidity from the foil along its skin. The candle in front of me sputtered, trying too hard to be romantic.

And that’s when it hit me. I couldn’t marry myself to this place, this place I’d outgrown and grown to despise. And Samurai was yoked to Sofia’s in my mind. I was constantly plotting to quit, and when that plan eventually became a reality, I didn’t want any part of it following me around into my next life. I wanted a true clean start, or at least the possibility of that. And Samurai, nice as he could be, was, by association and default, just one of these fuckers after all.

Sharon told me later how she saw it. Two people hunched over a candle-flame, a piece of half-eaten cake between them. Eyes looking intently into each others, then darting away. The hushed voices. Then Samurai bouncing up, sheepishly smiling, nodding, and walking away. For the first time ever, Samurai’s fighting shoulders hunched. It was the look of two countries remaining separate, of the institution of marriage, whatever that was, being upheld. It was the first time I had ever felt my foot inching toward the door.

Sarah Herrington is an accomplished poet and fiction writer. Her poetry appears in the anthology Bowery Women alongside writers such as Sapphire and Anne Waldman, and her fiction in the upcoming book Just Like A Girl. She has published work in dozens of print and online journals including SmallSpiralNotebook, Poetry Motel, and Altar Magazine. Sarah has worked in the editorial departments of Scholastic, Inc, Viking Children’s Books, and for New York City’s largest Creative Writing school, Gotham Writers’ Workshop. Sarah currently works with Girls Write Now, teaching and mentoring teenage girl writers. She is a regular reader at the Bowery Poetry Club, Cornelia Street Café, Halcyon, St Marks Poetry Project, and other venues. Her poem-videos have appeared on YouTube, and she has been featured in Venus Zine. She received her degree in English and Creative Writing from New York University. Sarah lives in New York City and online at www.sarahherrington.com.

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