I think that a regularly recurring realization that you're a dumbass is probably a healthy way to exist. I'm not saying you need to be reminded every day, or even every week, but it's probably sometimes a very good thing to be brought back down to a level where you can see yourself in a more realistic light. Or maybe that just goes for me. This entire summer has been an exercise in humility for me, which I'm both coming to terms with and becoming grateful for. It's good to be reminded that the world is so much bigger than me, and that there will always be someone somewhere better at anything than I am. I'm not necessarily talking about anything particular - although realizing last night that there was a subway stop so much closer to Park Slope than I thought there was certainly made an impression - just that I'm often forced to recognize talent and intelligence far above mine.
Yesterday was a bit of a rough day. I was sent over to the Park Slope Naidre's - the smaller one, but the one which does more business - to close train with Jesse. Having really considered the situation deeply, I still just can't get a read on Jesse. You guys know how rare that is; I form fairly accurate opinions of people very fast. So I don't like him. But I also don't dislike him exactly - it's a very odd reaction that I have to him. I think maybe it's because I feel like he's very fake? The only moments yesterday that I wasn't completely "askew" with him were moments when we were discussing the special people in his life. On the one hand, I think my canted impression of him may be very reasonable - I'm mostly certain he's married, but in talking to him fairly in-depth about his "special someone," he never once referred to her as his wife. He talked about her as being "complicated," repeatedly. Yet when I asked the woman on the other end of the work line who was calling, she fairly clearly said "his wife." He's incredibly flirtatious - which I'll mostly write off as being a byproduct of essentially flirting for tips, something all good baristas will admit to doing - but I don't think that's it exactly. Something about him just makes me wary.
Getting back on track, working an eight hour shift at a fairly busy, completely new-to-me location while having a micro-managing sketchy manager over my shoulder the whole time, while being the most home-sick I've been so far - that was not a fun night. I shouldered through with minimal pathetic texts to people I needed comforting from. After that, I walked up to Perch (which is about four blocks away) and spent the next three or four hours hanging out with Joe (the bartender), who was working his last shift. Joe's a super great guy, and we've always had a great rapport (as you should always try to have with your bartender). So I ordered some penne pasta with scallops and spent some time relaxing with my book. Quite lovely.
So I stayed around while he and Kate (the really sweet server) were finishing up, and by virtue of the fact that they both really like me and I offered to help with a few details, I stayed post-closing. Everyone's out, the door's locked, and Joe goes, "alright, Rachel, we're doing a shot." Now mind you I don't really drink - I've had bottles of alcohol laying around my house for months at a time (all left by other people) that I haven't touched, since my only craving is typically a few inches of red wine to complement my dinner. That's not to say I'm a lightweight, but I've certainly never done shots before (lack of urge, not lack of opportunity). But it seemed appropriate, so I took my first-ever shot of bourbon with the first person I've ever termed "my" bartender, in celebration of his last day. It seemed a bit like a moment - we had times. He said I took it like a pro, which made me a little bit proud. I still don't exactly have a taste for it - give me my liquor on the rocks, to sip slowly - but it felt like a moment I'd kind of like to remember.
Point of interest - walking over the gates that line the New York City sidewalk makes me inordinately nervous. I'm fully aware that those gates swing up and not down, and that it's actually basically impossible for one of them to collapse underneath me. And yet every time I walk over one of them, I think to myself, "not this time, not this time," and try to step lightly. I guess I find the fact that there are giant holes cut through the concrete walkway kind of intimidating, even though there are giant steel doors covering them just as securely.
Also, I find smiling at train conductors to be incredibly rewarding. I feel like they really get ignored at best - whether because some of them suck or because their job seems easy on the surface - and often times treated worse. So when I see one of them going by while I'm on the platform, I make direct eye contact with them and smile. I swear to God I think it brightens their day.
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