It took about six weeks for me to understand Midtown bartending was not for me.

I landed the job through a friend in SF, whose father was part owner.  One week after touching down in NY, I met him there for an interview over a cold beer.  He took three deep gulps to empty his bottle and told me, on the good faith of his daughter,  I could start that weekend.

The place was ostensibly civilized – loyal, well-heeled clients, martini cocktails, Central Park adjacent, et al. An Irish pub with a touch of authenticity – all the waitresses were named Geraldine or Patty, and they all ate Weetabix every morning, before their lunch shift – but, not too much – you could order anything from a shepherds pie to a quesadilla, a Guinness to an Appletini.

I felt fortunate as hell to find a job so quickly and to be bringing home a bunch of cash every week.

But, eventually, the charm went bankrupt, and the money gave off a certain stench.

The breaking point came on a Thursday, during a busy, happy hour shift. A woman in her early 50s, dressed in pearls and silk, sat down alone at the bar. She immediately ordered a Champagne, in what I thought I detected as a remotely European accent. When I returned with her Chandon (sorry, not a Champagne kind of place) and leaned over to deliver it to her coaster, a generous waft of amber and musk hit me, and I had to suppress a cough while she retrieved cash from her bright, crocodile clutch. She then began to slowly empty the split with the pace of a woman awaiting a guest.

Beyond this, I paid her little mind.

Until a few minutes later, when midway through a pour, I heard gasps from the other side of the circular bar. By the time I made my way around, the bar manager, Kevin, a five-foot-five jovial Irishman, was trying his best to make his way through the gathering crowd. The Chandon woman, before so composed and calm, was now flailing her arms in the air as a man of about 40, clad in banker shirt and tie, was choking her. The buttons of his shirt defied physics, as they held the cloth together across the meridian of his very round belly.  His tanned and shiny mug twisted up in rage, while his giant hot dog fingers forced themselves around her neck. A scene that had me in stupefied awe. Suddenly, the two dropped their struggle to the floor and out of my sight line.

A very long moment later, Kevin and some patrons, managed to pry the man off his victim and collectively force him out the door. When the woman finally rose above the bar’s horizon, blood was falling from her forehead. The result of a wound, suffered on the ground, from broken bottle shards, her attempted retaliation to something – nobody surveyed, knew exactly what – her assaulter said. An act which launched him into such fury.

Outside the large windows that overlooked the avenue, I witnessed the swollen and sweaty perp huffing and hollering something into the glass until, finally, he pivoted and marched up the avenue.

The following night as the shift was winding down, I spied Bill Murray through those same windows.  He stood on the sidewalk, watching the bar television. His image, augmented through the thick glass as it reflected the news broadcast, gave off a spectral aura. The serenity in his face and the stillness of his posture cast a profound ripple of calm over me. He lingered until the commercial break, then turned, and glided down the avenue. I resisted an urge to leap over the bar and follow him.

I quit that week.

I now work weekends at a popular diner, an eggs and toast kind of place, in the LES. I’ve made two great friends there, Beatrice and Dustin.  We pass the time between tables by checking out the clientele and hypothesizing which of our coworkers are certifiably crazy.

Less cash flowing in, but I’m happy. I’m more of a downtown-egg-slinging-kind-of-girl, anyway.