Friday Night
It's Friday night and the office is breaking loose.
"Hey Mimi, come out with us, we're gonna grab a couple of drinks on 15th then head over to the East village."
I protest. I have no money after barely managing to scrape the rent together last Friday, and my bank account is woefully overdrawn.
"We're payin'. C'mon."
I follow my coworkers to a bar. A pint of Stella and a Tequila shot is plopped in front of me. A large and tedious man hustles me into a corner.
"So then we decided that we just had to get a divorce, which obviously affected my acting career and which is why I haven't been able to get any work since, however I'm currently working on a theater production where I play a complete asshole, you have to come see it, I have a real talent for playing assholes..."
In my generic experience I have found that most actors have a talent for playing self-obsessed assholes. I'm rescued by a drunken girl I don't know. She drags me outside for a cigarette.
"You see that guy? The dark one with the glasses?"
"Um, yeah?"
"I really like him. You think he likes me? I always talk to him, but he never seems that into me. What shall I do?"
I'm swept up back into the bar, and introduced to Damien, the office heart-throb, who sports Britpop hair and several skinny girls in clickety-clackety heels hanging off his arm like a bad skin condition. One of them is talking in a high-pitched drone which slices through the hiphop with the precision of a nail gun.
"He's a fucking cunt, like, I can't believe anyone would act like such a fucking cunt..."
The trendies all nod in unison, and jostle for a position from which they can admire themselves in the mirror behind the bar. Damien sneers at me, in what I take to be a smile. Juanita the emaciated Guatemalan girl announces her arrival by falling into the crowd, and lying in a giggling heap on the floor. Several nerdy guys from the Sports department eye her in confusion.
"Uh. Are you... ok?"
Juanita launches into a rendition of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. Girl-who-rescued me reappears.
"So, like, do you think he likes me? Shall I go talk to him?"
James, official office gayboy, simpers up, and envelops me in a hug. James is ostensibly married. Attention turns to me. So who do you write for? What kind of articles do you write? Where have you been published? The office is the home of the freelance journalist, and credentials are important for acceptance. I procrastinate, and gibber, and invent excuses, feeling the night take an insidious twist as the lies which wrap around me begin to unfold. Suddenly Juanita bursts into another round of Bohemian Rhapsody. I escape outside for a cigarette. Eduardo, the short, cute Hispanic guy from Sports sits outside disconsolately. In exchange for ex-girlfriend counselling, he walks me back to the subway. I get home at 5am.
It's hard being accepted anywhere, when you're not what people think you are. It's hard to accept yourself. My room feels cool and empty as I slip into solitude. Sometimes, the more people are around you, the lonelier you feel.
Tomorrow I have to write a piece for The Guardian on dating. I have become the English expert on the New York dating scene and sexual habits of the New Yorker, despite the fact that I rarely 'date', and I'm certainly not having sex.
The irony amuses me.
"Hey Mimi, come out with us, we're gonna grab a couple of drinks on 15th then head over to the East village."
I protest. I have no money after barely managing to scrape the rent together last Friday, and my bank account is woefully overdrawn.
"We're payin'. C'mon."
I follow my coworkers to a bar. A pint of Stella and a Tequila shot is plopped in front of me. A large and tedious man hustles me into a corner.
"So then we decided that we just had to get a divorce, which obviously affected my acting career and which is why I haven't been able to get any work since, however I'm currently working on a theater production where I play a complete asshole, you have to come see it, I have a real talent for playing assholes..."
In my generic experience I have found that most actors have a talent for playing self-obsessed assholes. I'm rescued by a drunken girl I don't know. She drags me outside for a cigarette.
"You see that guy? The dark one with the glasses?"
"Um, yeah?"
"I really like him. You think he likes me? I always talk to him, but he never seems that into me. What shall I do?"
I'm swept up back into the bar, and introduced to Damien, the office heart-throb, who sports Britpop hair and several skinny girls in clickety-clackety heels hanging off his arm like a bad skin condition. One of them is talking in a high-pitched drone which slices through the hiphop with the precision of a nail gun.
"He's a fucking cunt, like, I can't believe anyone would act like such a fucking cunt..."
The trendies all nod in unison, and jostle for a position from which they can admire themselves in the mirror behind the bar. Damien sneers at me, in what I take to be a smile. Juanita the emaciated Guatemalan girl announces her arrival by falling into the crowd, and lying in a giggling heap on the floor. Several nerdy guys from the Sports department eye her in confusion.
"Uh. Are you... ok?"
Juanita launches into a rendition of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. Girl-who-rescued me reappears.
"So, like, do you think he likes me? Shall I go talk to him?"
James, official office gayboy, simpers up, and envelops me in a hug. James is ostensibly married. Attention turns to me. So who do you write for? What kind of articles do you write? Where have you been published? The office is the home of the freelance journalist, and credentials are important for acceptance. I procrastinate, and gibber, and invent excuses, feeling the night take an insidious twist as the lies which wrap around me begin to unfold. Suddenly Juanita bursts into another round of Bohemian Rhapsody. I escape outside for a cigarette. Eduardo, the short, cute Hispanic guy from Sports sits outside disconsolately. In exchange for ex-girlfriend counselling, he walks me back to the subway. I get home at 5am.
It's hard being accepted anywhere, when you're not what people think you are. It's hard to accept yourself. My room feels cool and empty as I slip into solitude. Sometimes, the more people are around you, the lonelier you feel.
Tomorrow I have to write a piece for The Guardian on dating. I have become the English expert on the New York dating scene and sexual habits of the New Yorker, despite the fact that I rarely 'date', and I'm certainly not having sex.
The irony amuses me.
MIMI IN NY | 11:30 AM |
