ALISHARONEY

I’d like to talk a bit more about my first job in NYC. (May-July 2011) We had live music 7 nights a week (R&B/Soul/Blues) and for the most part, the musicians and singers were quite talented. But I soon realized: every time I worked, no matter what band was playing, they all had the brilliant idea that Marvin Gay’s “What’s Going On” should start the show.
Every. Single. Band. Every. Single. Shift. 
Soon the line “mother, mother, mother” repeated like a distorted broken record in my head while I was sleeping.

After sleeping on my friend’s couch in Harlem for a few weeks it was time to upgrade to a room.  I actually began the hunt for an apartment in April 2011 with one of my coworkers, but I realized after the 4th time of her ditching on a deposit, the fact that her parents lived in Long Island made it nearly impossible for her to go through with moving to Brooklyn. (Sweetheart though she is.)

I sought a place alone and I found a filthy but spacious room for rent on June 1st 2011 in Washington Heights on St. Nicholas and W 155th.  The first thing I bought was a swifter.  “Moving in” consisted of filling the room with a bed, a mirror, a clothing rack and the swifter. But that was pretty much it, for my first 4 months as a New Yorker.

The guy who advertised the place stayed in the living room and there were 2 other girls living in separate rooms as well.  I rarely saw any of them. Our hallway was long and dark and yes, this place was filled with bugs. NOT bed bugs mind you!!! (Seriously, they are my greatest NY fear.) But definitely bugs that would make you cry for your mother.

Quick side-story: my first encounter with a house centipede (WHICH I DID NOT KNOW EXISTED) took place while I was in my bed around 2 pm watching 30 rock and eating a baguette. (which I was dipping straight into a jar of peanut butter. I never said I was sexy.) I had a second mattress in my room because a friend was giving it away and I was saving it for my other friend from Seattle who was gonna move in with me. As I pointed at my macbook screen and barked with laughter (yes, spewing baguette) I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.  When I turned to see what it was all I could do was moan.

Now I want every single one of you to google “house centipede.”  

Do you see that? DO. YOU. SEE. THAT.

This beast was propped on the corner of that second mattress like he’d been living there his whole life.  I was near tears because I realized there was absolutely no one I could harass to remove this creature and I certainly wasn’t going down that dank hallway in search of anyone. So I took a deep breathe and picked up a book.  I was gonna be strong like my aunt Tzeitel (She was the one who always killed the roaches in Hawai’i while Ash and I covered our faces and squeaked. I doubt much has changed on that island, except Ash squeaks solo.) 

I crept a little closer, armed with a thick novel, and right before I was gonna strike I screeched, “Be like Tzeitel!” and I threw…..my baguette at the centipede. My baguette. :( My poor, delicious, baguette. Baguette.

Well, apparently I have a great bread arm ‘cause this sucker was done. I swiftered him up and dumped him in a potted plant in the kitchen. A right proper grave, I’m so kind.

Back to my original story which may actually be shorter than my side story:

The apartment next door to our apartment was swathed in DO NOT CROSS tape. I never paid much attention to it. I never saw anyone go in or out.

One saturday morning, bright and early, 6 am, our doorbell goes off. I’m not a morning person, though it’s always been a dream of mine. (No pun intended.) Waking up early seriously brings me physical pain.  I also wake to a mean case of bedhead each and every morning. But I was mostly upset because I couldn’t ignore it. My room was closest to the front door and all the other rooms were at the end of that disturbing hallway.  When I answered the door the police officers clearly suppressed a smile. During their “morning calls” I imagine police must relish seeing civilians in their vulnerable, gooey-eyed, drool-crusted, fire-breath state.  I was not impressed.

“Yes?” I asked huskily. (Mornings REALLY just aren’t my thing)The one who seemed to think my face was the funniest responded, 
“‘Scuse me ma’am. Sorry for wakin’ you *chucklechuckle* But have you see dis man?” He pushed a photo towards me. “Have you seen anyone goin’ in or outta dis apahtment?” He pointed at the yellow taped door to my right and I shook my head,
“Nope, never.”  They warned me to pay attention and to keep an eye out for the photographed man.  And when I asked why, they casually said he had murdered someone recently.

I was quite shook up about it, so later that day (at an hour when normal people function) I told my roommate/landlord what happened and asked him why the police would be looking for the culprit next door. He nodded and said, 
“Yeah, that apartment next to us has been empty for about 9 months now…the cops must be worried this guy is holding up in there.” 

I eyed him suspiciously and asked him why the apartment was empty for so long and he shrugged, 
“There was a couple who used to live there. I lived next door to them for about 4 years. They started fighting a lot and dude caught her with another man.  He beat the guy up and then a week later, the lover climbed into his apartment through the fire escape and shot him point-blank in the back of the head while he was writing a letter at his desk.”  

Then he just smiled and started walking away until he saw the look on my face. 

“Oh yeah,” he said, eyes widening, “I forgot you’re from the suburbs…Seattle right?”

I’ve made you all gasp and now I shall make you shudder. But don’t worry! I have plenty of stories to sprinkle amidst these horrid ones that will make you realize why I stay here instead of dashing home as quick as my stubby legs will carry me.

I found a job (Off craigslist, within 2 days upon moving to NYC) and the job ended up being a bar in West Village, a neighborhood located on the lower west side of Manhattan.  If you ask me, it’s one the most diverse areas in NYC.  Not only are you going to find some of the earliest and most famous jazz clubs in the world, filled with artists of a caliber I still dream of reaching, but you’re also gonna find plenty of spots with beer pong, $4 pitchers and college kids on daddy’s dime.  Don’t forget about the huge transvestite community. This is the first and only place I see thugs (I mean, the type of thugs that all thugs aspire to be) holding hands with tall, stunning, black transvestites. Throw in tourists with their worn maps, squinting at signs and talking rapidly amongst each other and viola! West Village. (At least, at night.)

All these people are crammed within about a 10 block radius. 

Now imagine they all pour alcohol down their throats till 4 am when they are abruptly booted to the street and expected to stumble home.

So I worked at this grimy little place with live music 7 days a week. The bathroom at this bar was about the size of a postage stamp.  I mean, you literally just stepped into it and then rotated around to reach everything.  

One day a woman comes in wearing a floaty white dress. Nothing too strange about her. Eyes a little “deer-in-headlights”, but seemed normal enough. She had a few drinks before she pushed herself away from the bar and began to dance. (causing me to almost spill a tray of martini’s) Suddenly there’s a FOUL smell and she gasps and runs to the bathroom.  

Now I’ve been working in West Village long enough to know that something I’m gonna wanna forget in the future is about to happen.  But then, lady comes out. She’s smiling and strutting and she decides to start dancing again, stinky though she may be.

I swear to you, I gulped in fear before opening the door to that bathroom. 

But what could prepare me for….POOP COVERING EVERYTHING?!? 

How? How?? HOW did you get poop all over the walls, the counter, the sink and yes, even splattering the ceiling? Did you take your poopy panties and twirl them over your head like a lasso?

The real kicker? Homegirl had just LEFT her poppy panties there on the ground. Like, “Oh, I suppose I don’t need these anymore…maybe someone else will have better use for them.”

As I headed upstairs to inform our barback/busser ”Mujer”  (5 foot tall, 32 year old man from Mexico, always wearing XS baby GAP shirts and patting at the generously applied foundation around his forehead with a tissue) about our unfortunate bathroom situation I see Poop Lady dancin’ and laughin’ like there’s no tomorrow. Propelling herself around the room with such an expression, in her mind I can only imagine she was Dancing with the Stars.

Then a man clearly caught up in all the magic jumped from his seat, wrapped his arm around her waist and started twirling her around the room.

I noticed the stains on her dress just as he wrinkled his nose.

My first NY mishap happened 5 days after I moved to the city. [Why wait? Dive in!] At first I thought perhaps I should start with a funny story, but NY wasn’t that kind to me, so you’ll have to get a small dose of reality as well

It was my first week working at my first NY job.  I was rudely reminded that bars serve alcohol till 4 am in NYC so I was getting home late (early). It was just before dawn, still extremely dark and I was heading to my friend’s house in Harlem to sleep on the couch..I had not yet upgraded to a room.  I was on the A train playing angry birds and grinning like a stupid loon. I noticed a boy sitting halfway down the the car. Early 20’s, black, pretty, navy peacoat, eyes shut, looked like a student.

I didn’t notice him get off at my stop.

I called my friend while walking “home” [my reasoning for being on the phone was: no one will attack me if I’m on the phone because obviously whoever I’m talking to can call the police] 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. That will not stop someone you dumb dumb. So the entire walk I’m oblivious to this dude following me. I’m in the building now and suddenly I notice him walking behind me. I feel a check in my gut, something telling me to be aware. [let’s be real. My smarts had failed me earlier on my walk home. It was clearly God telling me to get it together] 

I headed up the stairwell. This is Harlem, you’re not gonna get an elevator even if you live on the 6th floor. Lucky for my chunky butt I was only heading to the 2nd floor.  When I got to the apartment door I pretended to fumble with the keys because at this point I was fully aware of this dude coming up the stairs behind me and for some reason I didn’t want to open my door yet. He passed me and started up the next set of stairs.  I told myself I’d wait till he got all the way to the 3rd floor before I opened the door. All the while I’m chatting aimlessly on the phone while fake fumbling my keys. Suddenly, dude was headed back down the stairs. I felt that check again in my gut but thought, “I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt that he forgot what floor his friend lived on” People. Don’t EVER give ANYONE the “benefit of the doubt” in NYC. Suddenly, there’s a hand on each of my butt cheeks and homie is shoving me against the apartment door, I’m guessing he was trying to push me into the apartment. 

Really NY? Within my first 5 days? Fine.

So.  When I spun around I did what anyone in that situation would do.

I channeled my mother.

Have you met my mother? No?

Let’s just say my mom could kick your mom’s ass.  And yes, she’s on a roller derby team.

In other words, the only thing I knew was that I had to gain control of the situation.  I didn’t even think of the other option, because him in control wasn’t an option for me.  While screaming at the top of my lungs and using un-lady like language I lectured this young man on how you don’t touch people you don’t know. Then I escorted him towards the door. Although he didn’t let me get that far before he broke free and ran for it.

They say you should scream “fire” if you need help in NY because only then are people gonna exit their homes to save their own skins.

No one came out of their apartments even though I’m certain I woke them all. I shakily went inside and as the adrenaline drained, I cried and thanked God for giving me the wussiest of all would-be sex offenders.

I did learn my lesson though.  As hard headed as I am, even I learned THAT lesson. And soon I’ll tell you what I did the NEXT time some guy tried to follow me home. 

I promise I’ll make you proud.

Let me start by saying I’m a west coast girl through and through.  I get to my destination slowly and comfortably. 

I’m most at home surrounded by green and blue. I drink esso like it’s water and I don’t carry an umbrella in the spring. I’m your Seattle girl.

But a year and a half ago I sold all my belongings and left my sweet lil studio on Capital Hill. I left all my friends, all my family, my job, blah blah blah. And I moved to a city populated by 8,244,910people in which I knew…..2. 

All for the love of music.

I lived out of a backpack and slept on my friend’s couch in Harlem for 2 weeks. I found a job at a bar within 2 days, then I upgraded to a room I rented in Washington Heights from some random dude off Craigslist [No I don’t know what was I thinking] and I stayed there for 4 months until my close friend from Seattle moved to NYC as well. We shared a room together for a month while searching for a new place in Brooklyn. We moved into a 2 bedroom spot on October 3rd 2011 and we’ve been at the same crib ever since.

Now since I moved to NY I had 3 jobs before I found the “perfect side job for a musician” this last June. At each job, events have taken place that have literally made my eyes bulge. I mean, some absolutely ridiculous things have happened to me since I’ve lived here. I have an archive of stories that will make you cringe, gasp, laugh, and maybe even shed a tear. [Actually, if you cry that’s weird, don’t do it] 

After being told time and time again to document my uncanny ability to attract the weirdos I decided that I should.  All that being said, this blog is going to be an account of my bizarre NYC occurrences. And maybe you can learn from my mistakes [and from my awesome choices!] and I can pat myself on the back for being such a saint and taking the fall first.