Chapter 2.

I had skin like leather and the diamond-hard look of a cobra

I was born blue and weathered but I burst just like a supernova

I could walk like Brando right into the sun, then dance just like a Casanova

With my blackjack and jacket and hair slicked sweet
Silver star studs on my duds, just like a Harley in heat
When I strut down the street, I could feel its heart beat

The sisters fell back and said, "Don't that girl look pretty"
The cripple on the corner cried out, "Nickels for your pity"
Them gasoline boys downtown sure talk gritty

It's so hard to be a Saint in the city

I was the king of the alley, Mama, I could talk some trash
I was the princess of the paupers, crowned downtown at the beggar's bash

I was the pimp's main prophet, I kept everything cool
Just a backstreet gambler with the luck to lose

And when the heat came down it was left on the ground
The devil appeared like Jesus through the steam in the street

Showin' me a hand I knew even the cops couldn't beat

I felt his hot breath on my neck as I dove into the heat
It's so hard to be a Saint when you're just a girl out on the street

And the sages of the subway sit just like the living dead
As the tracks clack out the rhythm, their eyes fixed straight ahead

They ride the line of balance and hold on by just a thread
But it's too hot in these tunnels, you can get hit up by the heat
You get up to get out at your next stop, but they push you back in your seat
Your heart starts beatin' faster as you struggle to your feet
Then you're outa that hole and back up on the street

And them South Side sisters sure look pretty
The cripple on the corner cries out, "Nickels for your pity"
And them downtown boys, they sure talk gritty

It's So Hard to be a Saint in The City

The cocaine cowgawl survived. Clenched jaw & gagging my way through the afternoon, lucky to find myself alone when I got to the residence. The customers were a friendly couple who worked in the city. The gentleman, who worked in the 2nd Twin Tower, had a minor fender bender on his way to the train station which caused him to run late that morning (Thank God), avoiding the 9/11 tragedy. He was as kind hearted as they come. His wife, equally as altruistic, had one of the prettiest smiles I had ever seen. They started up a support group that turned into a counseling center for survivors and family members who lost loved ones that horrific day. He lives with PTSD and survivors guilt. Amazingly, he shared with me that he has a renewed sense of purpose and ambition. He feels as if he is here for a reason, and that God’s plan for him is to be a vessel of support, service and comfort for individuals in need. To say I admire him would be an understatement. When people push through adversity and come out on the other side emboldened, fearless, and rebuilt – ready and willing to take on new challenges, with a hand outstretched for those who need it….Wow. That strength is devastating. (As I write this, it is September 11th, 2023. We are remembering the sacrifice and bravery of those who selflessly put their lives on the line for the sake of saving strangers, fellow tri-state area brothers and sisters. It’s more than twenty years later, and I hope we never forget the lost, the devastation caused, the lives ruined, and the ultimate sacrifices made to protect us and our freedom. We lost many in our community, many friends, and I think about them always, not just on this anniversary).

I would have liked to see them both and catch up, but I was silently appreciative they didn’t see me like this, and honestly a little ashamed of myself. I worked diligently, quietly, headphones on.

At around twelve I finished up, cleaned up, and headed home. On my way I stopped off in Oakhurst at my favorite bagel place, picked up a toasted everything with vegetable cream cheese, a chocolate milk, and a half dozen mixed bag with a container of cream cheese for later..or tomorrow..or whenever. When it comes to bagels, NOBODY does it better than this place. In all seriousness though, nobody does bagels better than NJ. Period. Run by 2 Irish brothers, it’s been a staple since before I was born. Right next door to the pizzeria run by two Italian brothers where I worked as a counter girl a few years back when I came home from Florida. I stopped in to say hello to Guiseppe and Carlo. They don’t speak English well, which is where I came in – I was a translator of sorts and got a great lesson in Italian while providing impeccable table service (if I do say so myself, haha) to the many who frequented. What surprised me the most were the Syrian Jewish boys who usually spent their summers in Deal by way of Brooklyn, who may have seemed innocent but were FAR from (like I can talk..)! I took one kid up on “hanging out” after work one night. Isaac. The irony will come later when I tie in that Isaac’s grandfather (yes, his 77 year old Shabbat celebrating, pillar of the community, heroin and oxy dealing, crack smoking grandfather) played a pivotal role in my later years. But, until then, back to Isaac (the nut don’t fall far from the tree, btw).

He picked me up from work around 11pm in his 2002 Porsche Boxster. He was 18. As soon as I got in he handed me a small baggie and a joint. I took a hit, impressed with the content, and observed the bag. Then I paused for a second. Why did this kid assume I did drugs? When we talked inside the pizzeria we didn’t discuss mystery bags and buds. We talked about the beach, our family being from different parts of Brooklyn – how good the pizza is…we talked cars. I’m an old soul who loves the 60’s and 70’s muscle cars (as a matter of fact I own an absolute GEM 1968 Olds Delta 88 here in 2023. Runs like a dream with that 455 Rocket, too!), and he said he’s into the uber expensive turbo charged imports. He asked me to “try it out”, meaning driving the Porsche, and I said okay. Who wouldn’t? No, nowhere in the conversation did drugs come up. Should I be insulted? Do I look like some drug obsessed flop? I pulled down the $50,000 passenger seat mirror, careful not to break anything. I peered at my reflection. Isaac looks over and says, you look beautiful. I give him the now slitted side-eye. Who was he kidding? I just stepped out of a pizza joint. I had sauce on my thigh and a flour speck on my tank-top. My hair was in two long braids but the fly-aways from a long night were visible. My eyeliner was smudged so I licked my finger and wiped my lid and my thigh while I was at it. Then I asked him why he assumed I was interested in his pot and his pills. He said quite bluntly, “Who wouldn’t be ”. Hmph.. Then he explained that he and his friends get them from Brooklyn and “have a little fun” when they come down on the weekend.

He didn’t mean to insult me, he said, and looked sincere. The pills were light green. I had seen them at high school parties, and if I recall correctly, had snorted one or two on 420 my junior year. 15’s. So, I did what any self-respecting, moral girl would do. I politely asked him for something hard to crush the pills on and a card. I had my own bill to roll, thank you very much. I had given my two weeks’ notice to the fellas at the shop because I was starting college classes next week at Brookdale, and knew the chances of seeing Isaac again were slim to none, so I decided to let loose a little. We drove to Point Pleasant Beach and walked the boardwalk for a bit. It was nice. He was nice. We talked about family, traditions, religion, and life. He was intelligent, and easy to talk to, and he had a great sense of humor. I got to drive the Porsche back to Oakhurst, where my 1971 Monte Carlo was sitting in the parking lot. I felt way less “wobbly” by the time we left the boardwalk, and knew I wouldn’t get behind the wheel had I felt like I was fucked up. The car hauled. I hit the parkway just to get my money’s worth, and whoa…That’s one powerful piece of German machinery, which I found kind of strange that he owned, considering what the Germans did to the Jews. We hugged goodnight and I never saw Isaac again. His Grandfather, however, I still see in my nightmares. I promise to explain that crazy, crazy scenario. It’s impossible to tell this story without him.

I thought about that night from two years ago as I drove home, and wondered what Isaac was doing. 

And my thoughts drifted to that ‘71 Monte Carlo, who was deeply missed. Man…was she a sweeeeet whip. Yes, she wasn’t perfect, had a few dings, had a few repairs I needed to make, but when my dad saw it for sale he knew I would jump on it, and I did. Him and I shared the love of muscle cars. Unfortunately, after leaving my friend Pat’s house one night I started the beaut of a beast and she refused to move. I’d been struggling to change gears the past few days, but I checked the fluids and all seemed well in that department. I had a feeling the tranny was going, but I refused to believe it. Which was dumb on my part. The noises started the week before and I had a friend who was a mechanic who said he’d look at it Saturday. It was Thursday night. I had it towed to his shop, and after some very emotional deliberations I decided my savings wasn’t going towards a new transmission. I swore I’d own another one someday, and promised myself we would reunite again. Until then, I’d scan the classifieds and ask around. Luckily, I had a good friend selling his ‘98 firebird for a price too good to be true, and I transitioned nicely. Life goes on.

(That’s The Old Girl Below!)

I sat at a red light in the red firebird. That’s my whip in the above pic. Two years later and we’re still rolling. I did need to change the oil, so I made a mental note. I cut down the back road that led to my complex and rolled into my usual spot. Miss Johnson was walking her yorkie. A true beauty, and so confident in herself I found myself gawking. She wore a gold velour sweat suit that accentuated her perfect curves, and her braids flowed halfway down her back. She walked tall in black and gold wedges, sashaying like a model. She had purple hoop door knockers, and her dark plum lipstick brought out her gorgeous complexion and high cheekbones. She waved me over with a big grin and we embraced. She rocked side to side as she hugged me, and I took in her glorious scent of Clinique Happy. Always reminded me of my own mom. She thanked me for sending my dad over, and chuckled as she told me how handsome he is. I couldn’t help but laugh, I had heard that a lot. Hey, he’s a handsome guy, what can I say? Speaking of good looks, I told her how stunning she looked and I asked her how she was feeling. She replied that she’s never felt better. Praise God! She grabbed my hand and we walked up the stairs together. Dre met us in front of their door, sly smile on his lips. I asked him if he could help me grab some bags from my car while I hugged his mom again and told her to knock or call if she needed anything at all. She kissed my cheek and asked Dre why he hadn’t married me yet. We all laughed. My face went red, as it usually does in these types of situations. I’m so bashful sometimes it’s painful. My father called it a blessing and a curse. Miss J called it adorable and walked inside. I forgot my bagels and my bag in my haste so we bounced down the stairs together to fetch them. I also wanted to give Dre a little cut. I didn’t realize how much Lou had given me until I looked again in the parking lot at the bagel shop. I definitely didn’t need to be keyed for 4 days. I unlocked the door, dropped the bags, and filled Dre in on my plans. “Oh, word?”. I cut us both out 2 lines, found a small jewelry bag I had in my dresser, poured some powder in, zipped it and asked if that was enough. He popped his head up, pulled the straw out of his nose and said “plenty, City, plenty”. My nickname. He asked me who I copped from, and since he knows Lou I told him. He said he thought he saw his truck here last night, and I told him he gave me a lift home. He also told me to be careful because he heard about some kid who got pinched and threw Lou under the bus. Ouch. Nothing worse than a rat. I told him I would. His phone rang, he looked at it, grimaced, hit the fuck you button and put it on the table. “Why she gotta ruin my high?” he asked rolling his eyes and shaking his phone in his right hand. I was about to try to answer his rhetorical question but the phone rang again. He kissed my cheek, thanked me, and walked out. I heard him argue about it being his night. Obviously it was his kids’ mom.

I stepped into my “living room” and flopped onto the couch. I had 4 hours until work. I walked over to my “entertainment center” which was a wooden cabinet type thing that held my 20” television on one side, and enclosed in glass on the other was a play station, receiver, cd/dvd player, and a large speaker. Next to the center was a tower of dvd’s and cd’s. I plucked Belly from the tower, popped it in the player, grabbed my bagel and my pillow and my purse and found a spot on the couch. As I devoured my bagel and tried to decipher Sean Paul and Mr. Vegas’s lyrics in “Top Shotter” my phone vibrated in my bag. Lou. He said he needed to talk to me but not via text. Paranoia will destroy ya. I called and he answered first ring. “What’s up?”, I asked curiously. He sounded muffled as he asked me if I was going to be at the cigar club tonight, and I asked him why. He told me he had to talk to me about some things that happened. Apparently he was pulled over about an hour ago, and that’s all he would say. I told him to stop thru around 1am if he’d be around – when the club died down a little. He said he would, asked me if everything was OK, I answered that everything was groovy. I did tell him that Dre told me to pass on to be careful, and he somberly replied, “Tell me about it”. I then asked him to tell me about it later, and we signed off.

Rut-roh. I’m guessing he didn’t get popped, you’re usually not ROR’d that quickly, but I’m thinking someone was and did a little ratting to get out of it. I hate rats. When I was in high school I had “study hall” the last 2 periods and decided to leave school early one afternoon with someone I considered to be a good friend, and some other friends. I’d left a few other times with no issues – I didn’t have to be there, so there wasn’t a problem. We smoked a j, drank an Ol’ E, and popped a xanax we copped from some older kids we knew. I stayed and hung out for a few hours. My friend told me she was hitching a ride home with a kid Joe that she’d been making out with. My “bestie” decided to go back to school (WHY?) and she was all fucked up. School was out, and everyone was hanging in the parking lot deciding where the next move was, which was the typical scene. It was a-typical for someone to be hammered and draw attention to themselves. She fell like three times in the parking lot, prompting the resource officer to come find out what the commotion was. The officer managed to get her in the golf cart and bring her up to the principal where she was interrogated about her reeking like booze and acting a fool. Instead of owning what happened, knowing she was in trouble for being intoxicated on school premises during school hours – (SHE asked to come with us, she asked the kid for a xanax and ingested it herself, and she bought an OE and drank it herself, nobody shoved anything unwillingly down her throat) – she told them she bought the xanax from ME. Then, she told them I gave her pot and booze and she felt peer-pressured so she drank the entire 40, and smoked half the joint. Imagine my surprise when I went to school the next day and got called instantly into the principal’s office where I was accused of selling drugs on school property (which was absolute bullshit), and accused of force-feeding my good pal alcohol and sending her back to school. They wanted to suspend me for the rest of the school year. Now, I was an A student, an athlete, playing varsity softball. I lost it. They called my dad, and he was pretty livid. Surprisingly, not at me (well, not right that second..). He couldn’t believe my “friend” would dime me out like that knowing full-well she was in control of her own actions. No, I am not defending leaving school and smoking pot and drinking, but I am defending that we were both responsible individually for our own actions. Nobody forced anyone to do anything. We made choices. Why am I responsible for her poor choices? I knew not to go back to school. I don’t need negative attention, or to try to look “cool” in front of my friends. That’s not my style. Lesson learned, and you better believe I learned a valuable one that day. Know who your real friends are. My pops told me one day that as you get older you’ll be able to count the number of true, genuine “friends” on one hand. I probably laughed at the time, but to the present moment I am living in damn if he wasn’t 100% correct.

I was able to snooze for about an hour and a half, which was clutch. I woke-up, showered, blow-dried my hair, put a little make-up on and found my little black dress. This was what we wore there. It was a cigar club for the Monmouth County elite, run by a Greek doctor. He could be inappropriate at times, but this was before #MeToo. Let’s be real, though – knowing him, he wouldn’t give 2 shits about any women’s movement unless that women’s movement was jiggling in front of him. He had no problem hitting on you, changing up what he wanted you to wear to work (which usually meant go shorter with your skirt, or lower with your shirt) and encouraging you to flirt with the male patrons who owned humidors on the second floor where a bar and lounge catered to their every need. I was feisty, and had no problem putting him in his place when I felt he was out of line, and it only made him like me more. Imagine that.

I gave Dre a decent amount of my white, but it still seemed like I was staring down at a pile of powder. I fixed up a line in the parking lot behind the club before walking in. After that, I popped an anxiety reducer. I walked in and was relieved to see that Telli wasn’t in his customary seat at the bar, whew! I walked to the bar, clocked in, and put my bag in a cubby between back-up bottles of Jameson and Jack Daniels. I surveyed the landscape and counted 18 patrons. I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned around on my heel to see Matty – my manager and friend. We hugged. He filled me in on what’s been going on since I last saw him, and what was happening tonight. He expected a good crowd late. We had a DJ coming in about an hour from now. I’d work the bottom bar through the dinner rush and head upstairs around 9 to help Marina, the other bartender tonight.

I liked bartending. The money was great. There were some nights in season when I’d walk-out with 350+. I also really enjoyed meeting people, and conversing. I was friendly by nature, so this was a good fit. I also liked the fast-paced atmosphere that bartending offered. Before you knew it the night was done, and you’d met and had awesome conversation with a variety of solid people while pocketing enough dough to pay the bills. Win-win.

Being high while bartending definitely didn’t hurt. I’m already a chatterbox, and the combo of white & blue just made me feel sparkling & radiant! My demeanor was enthusiastic, my energy unstoppabale. It literally blankets you in delerious warmth. I got to work, walking over to a party of four, two couples, mid to late 50’s. They stopped talking as I approached. I plucked four cocktail napkins from the caddy, introduced myself, and asked if I could grab them a refill. The two ladies spoke at the same time prompting giggles. The glassiness in their eyes said they may have been here for a while, although who was I to judge – which I wasn’t, I was observing. The blonde on the left, Laurie, ordered a glass of the house cab sav, as did Jill. The guys were drinking gin and tonics. 4 down, 14 to go. I hurried around the bar, feeling energized. Dean Martin played on the overhead speakers, and I got into a groove. The waitresses and waiters, all good people, approached with orders and we’d chat as I fulfilled them.

I’ve hung out with a few of my coworkers outside of here and enjoyed them. There was a guy, and we liked each other. He was funny, low-key, loved music, and handsome. He looked like Paul Rudd from the Clueless days, and I found that to be kind of sexy. He made me feel like the only person in the room, and when we talked he’d usually be super busy, and customers would wait, and he couldn’t care less. Work is more fun when you have fun. He made work fun. There were a few different staircases throughout the building and we’d find each other in them, and we’d flirt to a painful point where I wanted to just grab him and throw him on the stairs….but that tension only intensified things between us. I almost didn’t want to cross that line – he asked me once about my thoughts on us getting more involved, like relationship involved, and I wasn’t sure if I saw that working. I had just recently been in a long relationship, with someone almost 10 years my senior and I knew I wasn’t ready to get into another one so fast. I was too young to be in that relationship, and he knew it, but thought he could groom me into being ready to settle down at 18. It was hard to think you loved someone, only to find out that you didn’t love enough of yourself to give enough of yourself to someone. I didn’t want to make that mistake again. I needed more time to learn who I was, what I wanted from myself, before I could know what I want from someone else. Until then, I’m going to live, learn, and love…myself, I’m going to learn to love myself a little more. I knew I needed that.