Aiyani Mersai

Now, to be fair I did not study the ways and methods of EVERY Mother in NY.  This is what I’ve seen.  Whether it be in my neighborhood, on the train, near work, on the East Side, in a restaurant, in a bathroom–this is what I’ve noticed.

Note: I don’t DO the politically correct thing like African American.  If you are in America I’m going to assume, safely, you are an american.  That’s going to make it easier to just name it as the whities, asian, black and those like me: half-breeds.  If you take offense, just don’t read anymore and you’ll be fine.

The mothers on the East Side have nannies.  These nannies are black, or asian, or hispanic.  Whether they are from Mexico, Dominican Republic, Cuba, Columbia–and anywhere else they speak those foreign languages–some of them are nannies.  I’d like to add, they probably also make more than me per hour.

The mothers that have to take the trains are the incredible hulk ones.  they lift those strollers complete with diaper bags, baby, their purse and any other bag they have with them, and walk down those stairs like it’s nothing.  I’m terrified one day I’ll see one fall.  TERRIFIED.  But they all seem to be pro’s.  Which could possibly be confirmed by the 5 other children walking down the stairs next to them.  Often, I see a stranger helping the mothers lift the strollers and walk them down, or carry them to the top of the stairs, to ground level.  New Yorkers aren’t mean, they just can’t be bothered for the most part–or so I’ve noticed.  But they seem to help each other out.  Just as much as they seem to bitch each other out.

There are teen moms.  Teen mom’s will soon take over the planet unfortunately because there are so many of them.  There are young moms.  These mom’s look like they are in their early twenties.  Neither the teen or young moms can be bothered by their children without flipping out.  It is…constant.  By constant I mean, there is a constant form of “discipline” or lack-thereof that these teen/young mom’s are throwing at their kids.  These mothers ignore their screaming kid in the stroller on the train by putting their earphones in, closing their eyes and pretending to block it out, literally plugging their ears, and my favorite: yelling at the kid and covering their mouth or trying to shove some form of binki or bottle-thing in their face.  I never know what the kid wants, but I know that ignoring or yelling at them is not going to make them stop.  And many…many times I sit there and watch.  I just…stare.  I stare at the kid in amazement of their lung capacity and volume and the size of their tears can only be measured agains the obese man sweating next to them just from walking down the stairs to get to the train.  I stare in aw at the mother thinking…why are you a mom?

Did they choose this?  Were those kids planned?  For the most part, I’m going to simply guess “nope.”  I’m going to go with what it seems to me:  It seems to me they are bothered by their kids.  They don’t want to be parents, they don’t know how to speak to them, or discipline them–they don’t want to learn this either.  They have no patience of the children.  Their ways of speaking to them are including but not limited to (as I have noticed and experienced):

“shut up!”

“Don’t f*cking touch my bag”

“Sit still, or I’ll smack you”

“Don’t f*cking touch your sister or I’ll pop you one”

“I don’t have diapers so you’ll just have to sit in your own sh*t”

These are just the ones I can remember.  Today I had a lovely (not the sarcasm) experience with a young mom and her two young daughters.  i’m guessing they were perhaps 2 and 3.  These little girls were screaming and fighting with each other, bothering the whole train.  And the mother yelled “SHUT UP.” Loudly, for all of us on the train to hear.  Moments later the little girls were playing again, roughly and one went to try to hide under Mom’s bag.  The young mother had her earphones in, eyes closed, and was slumped over perhaps trying to take a nap and she was (perhaps) woken up by the little girls and yelled out “Stop it! Don’t f*cking touch my bag”  The little girls settled, again and then one pushed the other to the floor off the bench.  The mom opened her eyes again when the little girl was crying and screaming for her dad (who was not present) and the young mother yelled more telling her to get her “little black ass on the f*cking bench and stop playing”

When is it okay to step in?  It seems we all have our limits–mine approached.

Again, the girls started playing around and fighting over some toy.  The young mother opened her eyes grabbed the toy and started smacking the girls over and over on their arms and legs telling them to stop.  I stood up quickly saying “woah woah woah, you can’t hit them like that” The young mother stood up from the bench, shorter than me–most of them are–and she started telling me it wasn’t my business, and I needed to back off (or something) to which I immediately cut her off with “Stop Talking!  You can’t smack them like that, or *I* will smack you as though the hand of God came down and knocked some sense into you”  She rolled her eyes and put her hand up to my face as if to childishly say “talk to the hand” (remember that one?…from..Junior High?)  She said she could do whatever she wanted, their her kids and I corrected her and said something like “they may be yours now, but if you keep that up–they’ll be taken away from you”  She stood there and stared at me; glaring at me as the train came to a slow and approached my stop.  She told me I better watch myself–and before she could finish I said “Everyone is watching YOU now.” And I got off the train.

Everyone has an opinion on how to raise kids.  Everyone.  Everyone thinks they will do it better than whomever is doing it “wrong” according to them.  I was taught not to hit people smaller than you.  Only fight back, if it truly is self defense.  Stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves.  And trust your instincts.

I’m positive I wasn’t the only one who wanted to say something.  I’m sure others wanted to and asked themselves the same questions I did “is someone gonna say something?”  or “does everyone else see this happening?”  or “when is it okay to step in and say something.”

All I know is, It’s not the first time I’ve said something, and it won’t be the last.

He says the right things…every…single..time…

No matter if I am sad about life.  Or if I misunderstood something he said.  He does not raise his voice or roll his eyes to me.  He puts his hand gently on my chest where my heart is and reassures me.  He rests his head against mine and holds me.  I am the safest I have ever been in a relationship.  I am also the most myself I have ever been with someone.  If I bring a fear or doubt to him, he listens.  He doesn’t tell me I should know better, he will just reassure me again.  He doesn’t tell me what I’m feeling or thinking isn’t okay, in fact he says he understands.  And that we’ll get through it together.  I want him near me, always. And so–soon he will be.  Soon my home life will change because he will be a constant in the room at the end of the hall.  It will be *our* room.  And when we’re ready to move on, or move out, or move forward–we’ll do it together.  I’ve never felt more sure of anyone in my life like this.  I sleep better with him near me, and I never used to be a cuddle-r. We laugh…alot…about all kinds of things.  There’s more…there will be much more.

It’s been brought to my attention several times that I am quite mysterious about my job.  Most people know that I was an Esthetician in CA and that I’m in the middle of trying to get my Temporary License here in NY.  Most people know that for my first year here I was in school full time and working full time–they just don’t know where.

This was on purpose.  There is a sort of privacy that I like to keep when it comes to certain things.  One may notice how freely I give up other pieces of information, that’s because other pieces I’m actually proud of.  Like going to esthetician school, passing a state board exam and working for myself.  It is an accomplished feeling.  That said, I think it’s time to let you in on something.

From July 2004, until April 2008 I worked for a company I still will not say the name.  But everyone always guesses if I say to them “I schlep beverages for the caffeine deficient while Sporting The Green Apron.”  When I moved to NY I had secured a job at The Restaurant (no name on purpose) but when that was over I needed a job quickly, and I had decided to return to The Green Apron.  Having been excellently trained and being someone who liked to know more than others I was a catch for the manager to re-hire me.  She soon learned that I knew more than probably any other employee in her building.  The Macy’s at Herald Square building.  As in …The Macy’s on 34th street.  Yah–I work, in THAT building.  There are four of these Green Aprons in this building and over the past year I’ve learned where everything else is as well.  And I answer the question “Where is the bathroom?” More than I blink in the 8-12 hours I spend there per day.

Why am I telling this NOW?  Well, I’ve decided that The-More-You-Know and shooting star moments need to be explained more specifically in order for my complaints and venting session to be made valid.  Most people can relate to “eh, It was just a stupid day at work.”  But I’m betting there are only a handful of people that have yelled out “It’s not in my contract, Alex!” for a reason I will share shortly.

I started STGA (Sporting The Green Apron) on the 5th floor.  They are located on the first, third, fifth, and sixth floors.  The Fifth and Sixth floors are like “express” stops.  As in–there is not a seating area.  It is designed so people will stop and get food and drinks and keep shopping.  I’m okay with this, because it’s less for me to clean.  The stores I worked at previously were of fair size and I also don’t have to clean any bathrooms.  So that’s nice.  (Note that that’s not a win, it’s just nice).

Now, that Macy’s building is over 100 years old.  There are nine shopping floors, 8 elevators, 4 sets of escalators, 3 express elevators, The ladies rooms are located on the Cellar, 2nd, 6th and 7th floors (and when I tell women this I follow it with “that alliteration should help guide you while you shop) and the Men’s rooms are on the Cellar 7th, and 9th floors.  The Macy’s building is an City Block big.  It is the entire block of 34th street between 7th avenue and Broadway.  It is air conditioned, on most floors, fairly well–and it sort of trickles out on other floors.  There is a bar & grill in the cellar, the Macy’s Cucina is in the Cellar.  Jimmy’s Pizza, Ben n Jerry’s, and Aunt Annies Pretzels is on 4, McDonalds is on 7 and Au Bon Pain is on 8.  There IS a floor 1 1/2 in the 7th avenue building and what they call the “balcony” in the Broadway building.  There are hallways upon hallways that are inside the building that are for employees to get around without being on the floor.  It is a labyrinth of dirty….filthy walls and garbage, and cages of storage and my favorite piece of this story–mice.

Rodents are not strangers to New York, if you’ve lived here you already know this.  If you’ve seen a movie or TV episode that actually shows you what NY is actually like (Friends doesn’t count…but Law & Order does) then you know what I mean.  The subways have rats, the streets have rats, buildings have roaches, waterbugs and mice–it’s all…just…very exciting let me tell you.

I have seen mice in this building, backstage in the labyrinths.  I have also seen mice scurry across the actual floors of Macy’s.  Most if not all places that have food in this building also have mousetraps strategically placed and there are pest control guys that come out weekly to check these traps.  However, there are not enough traps in that building to catch all of these creatures.  No way.  They reproduce quickly, it’s an old building, they have made their own tunnels and mazes to get around–it’s just something we have to accept there.  It can be startling to be sitting in the back counting money, or putting orders away and see movement in the hallway crawling quickly to a cage.  It can also be flat out gross.  It can be even more gross when you know there is a dead one near by, because you can smell it.

The smells of NY are specific.  When you pass by a restaurant you can smell the food and distinguish what kind it is.  You can tell the difference between a gyro, or dirty-water-dog.  You can tell the difference between pretzels and nuts.  You can smell a homeless person from several yards away, and you can tell when what you smell is a dead mouse.

Now, I typically close my store during the week, and open on sat/sundays.  Which means someone else closes. The girl who closes (I’m referring to the shift supervisor) every night before I open the store–sucks.  I always come in and have to finish her close, before I can do my opening procedures.  It was while stocking the small fridges that I smelled the dead.  I looked over at Alex, the girl opening with me and she could tell on my face that something was wrong.  I told her I smelled something, but the fridge was clean.  She knew…exActly what my thoughts were as well.  She came over and knelt down next to me, took a couple breaths , stood up and said–yah…something’s dead down there.  I stood up quickly and closed the fridge and said I couldn’t deal with it right now.  I finished  doing other opening procedures like counting the money and tills, organizing the fridge and setting up stuff then I finally…finally put on three pairs of latex gloves and jumped around as if getting myself focused or psyched for the job at hand.  The metal trap is a box that these mice can get into, but can’t get out–so they die in there.  End of story.  I knew how to empty it, but I’d never had to do it.  We always had someone else around to do it.  I had to sack-up and take care of it.  I grabbed the trap, tipped it over the trash and opened the sliding door and heard a small *thump* which told me the dead mouse was now in the trash.  It also wreaked so much that I started to gag.  Then I yelled out “IT’S NOT IN MY CONTRACT ALEX!!!!”  She just kept saying I know I know!!!!  And there were customers around, and Macy’s employees around by now.  Just a few–but I didn’t care.  Professionalism doesn’t have a category to or policy to go by when one is emptying a mousetrap when they shouldn’t have to.  That’s my theory.  I quickly closed the trash bag and threw the trap back under the counter and walked the trash bag down the hall to the trash drop off.  I gagged the whole time.  Then I returned to the floor, ripped of my 3 pairs of gloves and went to the bathroom and threw up.

Yah.

Then I went back to work having washed my hands several times, rinsed out my mouth and was sucking on a pill that helps my stomach calm down after I’ve tossed my cookies.  I then continued to clean the sanitizer–because it was gross, and no one else does it but me, then I smelled something gross under the sink.  No, it was not another mouse.  But the plumbing is not great on our floor…any floor for that matter…and I opened the cabinet and took all the cleaning stuff out to find a huge puddle of murky water.  This is not the first time I’ve found such a puddle.  In fact, it’s not the second or third time either.  I’ve been on the 6th floor since January and it’s been at least once a week I’ve cleaned that stupid thing out.  I’ve called facilities to fix it several times.  It’s always fixed for a few days, then it happens again.  So I’m cleaning that out and the new assistant store manager from the 3rd floor comes over to me and asks me if I have my hat an apron….yah–it’s over there (and I point) she then goes on to tell me the policy about when I’m supposed to wear them and I cut her off with “look…i’m cleaning, i’m not ON the floor.  I just cleaned out the big fridge, took out a dead mouse, threw up, I’m cleaning THIS flood now, then I have to put the order away in the back, do the deposit and get change and THEN I’ll be on the floor–I’m not putting my hat on until then.  Without offering to help, and without asking why there was a flood under my sink, and without saying anything about throwing up and a dead mouse she looked at me blankly and said “put on your hat.”  I stared back at her, said nothing and continued to clean.  Look unless I’m dealing with food or drinks–I’m not wearing it, end of story.  And quite frankly, that’s her freebie.  She tries to pull that shit on me again, I’ll hand her my keys, my apron and my stupid effing hat and tell her she can run my store.  Then I’m going to clock out, get my bag and go have mimosas and pancakes.

I just want to be able to like what I do, and have people that have my back at work.  People that will help me.  There’s 3 other girls on my floor that would help, but there’s 50+ employees that stga in that building.  Some of them hate me.  Some of them love me, few of them have my back.  I make less than $250 a week and my taxes go to helping people collecting unemployment who sit around and do nothing and say bullshit things like I don’t have time for a full time job.  And here’s the best news I can give you about unemployment in NY, it is based on what you made before and you get more than what I make schlepping beverages for the caffeine deficient, cleaning, emptying mousetraps, and arguing over uniforms per week.

From here on out, you should understand why I complain about my life, my job and why I ask that ever lasting questions “why am I in New York?”

It’s 2:15pm.  I finally slept last night curled up with My Darling Sam after stuffing fried wantons and pork dumplings in my face, and we drank a bottle of wine that I called Labia because the brand is “Luscious Lips”  Yes, I went there.  Times are changing.  New York has added five years of age to my face in one year.  I’d grab the reins and pull if I could find them, but it’s too cluttered and if I move around to much I sweat WAY more than one should.  I’d audition for plays if I could, I’d audition for TV/Film if I could–but right now I’m the person who has to do anything I can to barely get by, live on food other people buy me and take any open shift that is available so I can keep a roof over my head, my phone turned on, and enjoy that indoor plumbing–or I’ll end up living with those rodents.

I’m pissy.  I’m allowed to be.

I referred to a restaurant last year that I worked at as The Restaurant.  My experience of that place is also written somewhere in these online pages.  This is a story about The New Place.  That’s what I called the restaurant I was hired at as a new server.  That is not the actual name of said restaurant.  However, protection is important and since I can’t blame my experience on the restaurant, or owner, or even the kind person who hired me, I won’t name any of them.

I will however tell you the person who ruined it for me is named Maria.  An older woman–not ancient, just older.

I will also tell you that the beginning of my friday when all of this New Place Stuff went down went like this:

*Alarm sounds at 8am, I hit snooze for an hour and get up at 9am to be at East Harlem by 10am for a Food & Safety test required for me to take for my current position at my original job. It was already in the 90’s at this time.

* I waited underground for 20 minutes for my train.  Think of a hot muggy place you hate that smells like homeless people and rat pee, and dead rats, then enclose yourself in it until it feels like a small 5×5 space.  That’s what it felt like–and I was stupidly wearing jeans.  I have no shorts and I knew if I wore a dress or skirt my thigh would be sweaty and gross and rub together too much and create a small fire by my spooch.  Yah, I just said that.

* Train to 116 then go above ground and wait 5 minutes for the cross town bus.

*Arrive, take my exam that I am not prepared for, and pass–win.

* Walk 5 blocks to bus stop, it’s over 100 now.  No breeze of any kind.  Just a still unmoving heat the weighs on me.  Jeans sticking to me creating a think denim blanket–trapping the sweat and heat in one place.  Get. On. Bus with A/C

* Bus breaks down 2 stops later, we all get off the bus and wait another 7-10 minutes for the next bus.  I am one of the first people on the bus and secure a seat.  This bus is better air conditioned.

* Gets off bus and heads down to train and waits 20 minutes (yes I watched the clock) for the train to arrive.  Remember what that heat feels like, and what I’m wearing.  Yah.

*Gets off train and barely walks home.  I am dehydrated and hungry.  I must also do laundry.

* Stairs up to the fifth floor, naked time infront of a/c unit, then laundry. Down the stairs, outside, next door.  Laundry in Washer.  Outside, back to my building, up to the fifth floor.  30 minutes later. Down the stairs, outside, next door.  Laundry in Dryer.  Outside, back to building, up to fifth floor.  45 mintes later.  Down the stairs, outside, next door.  Collect hot clothes and walk outside, back to building, up to fifth floor and dump hot, dry clothes on bed.  Do not put anything away–it’s too hot to move.  Stand in front of a/c.  Moments later gets ready for work–at The New Place.  Two days of training and trailing, now it was my first day on the floor.  Puts. On. Hot-fresh-out-of-the-dryer black pants for work…

:::::::::::

Now.  To bullet point the *highlights* of my evening at The New Place, starting first with a little description of the place itself.

It is small and quaint.  Maybe hold 40-50 people until it’s considered crowded.  There is a bar (not a fully stocked bar, but a bar that’s stocked enough I suppose)  There are stools at the bar for maybe 8 people.  The close quarters of this place make it a bit difficult to get to the computer to put orders in without being int he way of everything else people may need ie stuff from the bar, cups, napkins, silverware.  The kitchen is 3 steps away from the computer and it’s stupid hot in there, duh–they are cooking.  I am under the impression there are 3 Managers on Duty that sort of rotate.  At least one of them is there on any given evening, there are 2 servers total, the bartender, and the busboy.  The Manager will play hostess, seat people, take reservations, and answer the phone and standby and watch to make sure things are running smoothly.  The servers will take drink orders, and food orders.  The bartender will make all drinks.  The server will run her own food and help bus her own tables.  The bus boy will help with water, clearing and re-setting tables.  And he will also help take out food to tables, only if the server asks for help.  If not, let the server do her own thing.

I arrived at The New Place at 3:15 pm.  The manager on duty, Maria arrived by 4:30pm and it took her an hour and a half to get me in the system with an employee number so I could take tables.  Under no circumstances was I to share an employees number (as in don’t ring on the other servers number).  The restaurant opened for dinner at 5pm, and I was finally taking tables by 6pm.  The other server, I will call her Lisa (and no that’s not her real name, you only get Maria’s real name for this one), ran the entire floor.  She played hostess, seated everyone, got everyone’s orders and drinks, took out all her food and I stood and watched going …well that WOULD be my section, if I was allowed to take tables.  SO! 6pm rolls around I get some tables finally and it’s running smoothly.  I go to close out the checks and the button I need to settle the table is not showing up on the screen.  This, to me, means I am not in the system correctly.  It has been my experience that if an employee is restricted from anything, it’s because they are not in the system correctly.  This *knowledge* I attained from working in hotels, and The Restaurant.  It took Maria….Two…More…Hours to figure out WHY.   She actually didn’t know what to do, so she called the other managers and they tried to walk her through stuff, she called the owner who did not answer and she left a message for the owners assistant.  The owners assistant was out of town, but she still called Maria back and walked her through everything. By 8pm I was in the system, able to close my tables and open new ones.  This was just in time for me to have a table of 3, a table of 2, and a party of 8–all sit at the same time.

The rest of this story will be bullet pointed…

The Mystery Man is no longer a mystery.  We video tape ourselves during our outings, and take pictures and are in-love-in-a-movie.

The Reveal

The Mystery Man, an artist that said “imagery comes naturally to me, but words do not,” wrote me this:::::

Lighthouse

Will this love be a north star to my heart?

Or this vess’l crash’d to the oceans wave?

Doubt spews fearful storms to tear us apart.

Conceiving this ocean a welcom’d grave.

Hearken, a light in darkness glows dimly.

A glimmer of hope to show me the way.

Without a home, at sea, lost aimlessly.

Your lighthouse, I find, a welcoming stay.

In this rooted lighthouse I find solace.

Bluest skies, Green pastures, in which I rest.

Together we grow and build a fortress.

I invoke that we tour a lasting quest.

Love has been so harsh to us in the past 

I want this truest love to be our last.

Remember…I never finished all these vacation stories.  I have these notes, and because I don’t want to keep this in the “draft” section, I’m going to bullet point the rest of my vacation days from my June 2011 visit

* I woke up and packed my bags, Rik got home in time to hug me goodbye.  Man he’s cute.  Maamm took me to the airport.

*  As I was waiting in line to check my bags I heard someone say “your forgot this.”  I turned and it was Ginger!  She showed up with *our* ringpops.  That’s how we committed ourselves together forever, via ringpops.

*  I checked in, and we got breakfast wraps at the little store in the little SLOville airport, and I bought some tic tacs for like….a dollar fifty.  THEY ARE TIC TACS for crying out loud.  I also knew I’d be smooching the Mystery Man upon arrival, so it was a fairly good investment albeit expensive for what it was.

* I got through security check and hugged Ging and then stood on the other side waving to her, and her to me, for a few more minutes.  People thought we were hilarious.  oh good.

* I barely had time to pee at the LA airport before boarding for the flight to NY.  The dramamine had kicked in so I slept most of the time.  There was a baby crying a bit on the way home to NY but I fell back asleep and missed the worst of it, or so I was told

*  Manhattan looks pretty amazing from the sky.  The lights are bright.  The park is HUGE and it really is just a dinky little island.  heh.

*  I landed, texted the family in CA I was home, got my bags and walked out of baggage claime–and there he was…

Standing in a blue long sleeve shirt and jeans with a backwards hat on.  He smiled and blinked slowly– I walked towards him and he to me and I removed all my luggage draped on my and wrapped my arms around him.  He smelled good, and he felt like home feels when you wake up with no worries.  He pulled his head back a bit and planted his fooking beautiful mouth on mine and told me he missed me.  I freaking win.  We got in the car and as I was about to say I was hungry so I’d need to eat when we got home, if there was something near by, he said ‘I don’t know if you’re hungry, but I made you these”  They were homemade falafels.  With a homemade tahini dressing.  I don’t remember how many there were, I remember leaning over and kissing him and saying thank you–then shoving them in my mouth and licking the dressing off my fingers.  Damn good.  He drove us to my apartment, found parking and helped me carry my bags to the fifth floor.  Then I got ready for bed and curled up next to him.  Intertwining my legs with his and resting my head on his chest and wrapping my right arm around him, while both his arms wrapped around me.

Home is where you lay your head.