I’ve been in New York City for the past ten days on a writing retreat. I used to live here (‘98 to ‘02) and NYC has always felt like home to me. I hated living here when I did but I was young and stupid and oh, who cares. But it’s a great place to visit - especially when the weather is bad and it’s not tempting to want to be outside. It feels good just to be in a hotel in NYC sometimes. I sold a book last year - or I sold the concept of a book. I’m writing it now. It will be published by April 2013. It’s a funny (hopefully) essay/memoir book about how I never wanted to have kids and never thought it was a big deal or even anyone’s business until as I got older, people started interrogating me about my empty womb and so I wanted to put the answers to paper.
I was supposed to shoot the cover of the book this week but everyone involved had sudden family commitments to attend to and so even though this week, I remain in NYC, the shoot is rescheduled.
I have been enjoying writing in my lovely hotel room. If you’re a writer (or even if you’re not) you’ll understand the phenomenon of how ANYTHING is more appealing when you’re not in your own home sometimes. In Los Angeles, I live below a loud toddler who stomps his feet up and down his floor/my ceiling making it hard for me to concentrate. While in NYC, I’m set up at my hotel desk writing but the sounds of the cabs horns, church bells, rain, Russian guys arguing in the hotel room next door, woman faking orgasm in the other hotel room next door - doesn’t bother me - because it’s “new” stimuli.
I wrote all day today (five hours in a row) and decided to forgo room service for food (also I had a sudden fear of choking on my food and not being found until I was cold and blue the next morning by housekeeping) and hit the tavern next door for dinner instead. This tavern is a nice place. It shouldn’t even be called a tavern. It should be called a nice restaurant. I sat at the bar and brought along my Kindle so I could read Johnny Ramone’s newly released autobiography, “Commando.” I was wearing very casual clothes and had no make-up on. If I were on a date, I would find my look unacceptable. If I was in the last days of a relationship, I still would find my look to be the reason we were in the last days. But it was 8pm on a rainy Sunday evening and my hotel restaurant was closed and all I wanted was some salad and an appetizer and to sit and read and rest my brain.
I ordered an appetizer and a salad. I emailed/texted some friends and read my book. The head bartender seemed to have been looking at me all night and suddenly the waiter that took my order originally was gone. The bartender said his name was “Flanagan.” This is true. I won’t say his first name and from now on I will call him “Finnegan.” So, Finnegan asks, “You wanna see a dessert menu?” I say that I’m more in the mood for a nice glass of wine and maybe some cheese? He says, “Where you from?” I say, “Why?” He says, “You a Hollywood girl?” I say….”Well, I used to live in New York City.” (I refuse to be a tourist. Fuck that. I was here on 9/11.) He says, “Where do you live now?” I say, “Los Angeles.” He says, “Okay, so you’re like a…media person?” I tell him that I am a writer and I am in town on business. But I do not elaborate.
Suddenly he gets aggro. I don’t tell him that I write on a TV show or that I am in town on a personal retreat writing a book. He says, “Oh, excuuuse me. So, you think you’re like that Diablo Cody Smith girl?” I said, “Her name is Diablo Cody. She’s not a girl. And no, she’s a brilliant screenwriter, something I’ve never attempted. I don’t write movies. I write other things.”
He says, “Okay. Well, I will pick your wine. No red wine for you. You are too dark already. And don’t worry, your majesty. I will bring the cheese plate.” I have heard this often that I seem “dark.” I am pale (sorry, that’s my Eastern European heritage) and I’m a brunette. Otherwise, I am not totally “dark” in the soul. I’m a little mixed up and neurotic but i’m not grim, suicidal or vampiric nor do I find any of that glamorous.
I have my cheap non-wedding-silver ring upside down and on my left ring finger on purpose, hoping it appears to be a plain white gold wedding band. He delivers the wine and says, “That ring looks upside down.” I am so taken aback that I reveal that it is. He says, “Normally people with big rocks turn it upside down so they don’t get robbed. Why is your ring upside down?” I want to say, “To turn off creeps like you,” but it seems almost so aggressive it would seem suggestive, so I say, “My fingers are small, my rings twirl around.”
He keeps visiting my table referring to me as various female authors albeit screenwriters, novelists, etc. in what seems like a condescending way. I know he’s fascinated. He is treating me just like those bully boys did in fifth grade when I came to school dressed as Mozart.
I’m trying to eat my cheese in peace when he comes over and says, “That’s not Brie. That’s the knock-off version of Brie. Only Brie from that part of France can be called Brie. That SEEMS like Brie but it’s the back of a car-trunk knock-off version.” I say, “Okay. It’s good.” He seems proud that he’s somehow gotten one over on me. Because of his power, I AM NOT EATING REAL BRIE.
He leans in and says, “I’ve got something for your little novel.”
I say, “I am not writing a novel and why is it little to you? How about you ask me what I’m writing?” He waves me off and says, “So, there’s this English woman……”
He stops himself mid-sentence and decides to do a shot of tequilla with the birthday party next to me. He then informs the group that he can drink for free anywhere in NYC because he is part of the “Bartender Mafia”. He even says that if he ever is charged for drinks, he walks out on the tab because the other bartenders should know better.
He begins to tell me again about the idea for a novel. I say, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I’m not writing a novel. I’m just in town to get some work done and I’m on a dinner break and wanted to read.” He says, “Oh…I get it. You’re an Owen Wilson type.” I have no idea what he means as my nose is not crooked nor did I ever date Kate Hudson, have a successful movie career or try to slit my wrists in a bathtub.
He keeps visiting me and waving his hands over my Kindle as if that will magically shut it off. ”What?” I find myself asking over and over. He says, “So what do you write?” I said, “I’m writing a book and I’m just on a dinner break.” He says, “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you were just some sad, wanting to be misunderstood, pretend author.” Well…why is that on me? That’s his fantasy that I was a little lady who needed his help. Throughout the night he insisted that I sleep at his place or that I should really give up ‘dying my hair’ and ‘trying to look like I have angst.’ Admittedly, I cover my grays but my hair color is natural. I’m just a fucking brunette - no darkness to read into.
Finally at the end of the night, he can’t believe I only had one glass of wine. ”You’re not a writer,” he chastised. I know he was trying to be funny and upsell but I said, “So far, you’ve been wrong about me all the way. I’m not flirting. I’m just letting you know, I have an actual book deal and I worked for years to get it. I’m writing it now and am on deadline. I’m staying in a hotel nearby and I leave tomorrow to go back home. I just needed to eat and wanted to do some reading. Okay?” He got offended. ”Okay. Okay. Sorry. Jeez. Take everything so seriously why don’t you? I hope your book isn’t a comedy.”
I went into this tavern last week for lunch. I remember him bothering me then. i went back a few days later with a male friend and this guy said and did nothing. And tonight when I was alone - he resumed. Deep down, I know he has NO IDEA that all three chicks were the same. But it illustrates the point that some dudes won’t give women the space and respect they deserve unless a man is near them. I love eating at restaurants alone but usually I have to do a recon and see if there is a female waitress.
I’m sure this guy is just doing what he always does but he reinforces negative and boring stereotypes about men and women and also about certain kinds of women - the kinds that seem maybe smart? Or independent? Or……brunette? The kinds of women that are always accused of having an angle or “trying to be weird…” I’m just me. And sadly I had to leave the place early because I was too annoyed with him coming over and saying, “So, Miss Hollywood, just to let you know, you probably THINK you have had Brie cheese - but Brie is an area of France and if the cheese isn’t from there, it’s a knock-off, like those handbags you buy.” I’m not into sparring with dudes and trying to be cruel and clever. When I like someone, I’m super nice.
He also did the classic shit that I hate. He said, “So, you’re just a lonely female writer.” Why am I lonely? Because I’m alone in NYC? First of all, I was just in Boston with over 70 family members. I have many, many friends in NYC but due to work obligations (and self-imposed counts as work) I couldn’t see them. And if he means romantically lonely…..he’s out of his fucking mind. That is all I will say about that. I don’t have to justify what I’m doing to prove I’m doing something. But most men need the proof of a man next to you before they give you the respect of backing off.
All in all, I got out unscathed. I tipped him more than 40% and wrote on his bill, “Your attitude needs work. But then again, I saw you do a bunch of shots at the bar - so you probably don’t even remember. My hair is dark but your outlook is darker. xoxoxo Jen.”
Guys, you have no idea how lucky you have it. You can go to a bar of a restaurant and have a nice dinner for one. Girls can not. I still didn’t read enough of Johnny Ramone’s autobiography. I had to take to emailing and texting so I “looked busy,” to get this guy to leave me alone.
I know there are solutions to getting him to go away and trust me, I could have and in the past have deployed such solutions. This is more an article about how from moment one as a woman out alone, you already have to be thinking of outs instead of thinking, “Commando is a fun book!” and “Look spinach artichoke dip!”
Let’s all love and more importantly, IGNORE each other. Yes? xoxo Jen
