The Waiter Bradleigh Collins (autobiographies to read TXT) 📖

I had also managed to catch up with Josh. He and Katie had gone out again. Things were going well and they both couldn’t wait until I “got my ass back up there.” I couldn’t either. I was craving New York. And I was really craving The Waiter.

When I first heard his voice on the phone, I got that same giddy feeling as the day he kissed me. I hadn’t even known him for an entire week, but I liked him. I really liked him. I had learned more about The Waiter in five days than I learned about Dalton the entire first year we were together.

Around three o’clock, Bitchy Brenda stopped by my cubicle. “Still haven’t heard from corporate?” Brenda was in her early fifties. She was five-foot-ten with frizzy blonde hair. People in the office called her “Big Bird.” It was common knowledge that she was sleeping with half the sales team.

“No, nothing yet.”

“Maybe you’re just not cut out for New York.” She smirked and walked away.

My office phone rang. I picked it up.

“She’s a cunt.”

I laughed audibly. It was my co-worker Deb who sat directly across from me. I swiveled in my chair to look at her.

“Well, I couldn’t just yell it out, but she is a see-you-next-Tuesday,” she said quietly into the phone. “She probably sabotaged your interview. She knows everybody up there in corporate.”

It was true. Brenda made frequent trips to the home office in New York. And even though I didn’t report to her, she could certainly hold sway with the powers that be.

“You may be right. She does hate me.” My other line rang. “I gotta get this.” I hung up with Deb and took the other call. It was corporate. I didn’t get the job. They hired someone that already lived in New York. But they would keep me in mind for any open positions in the future, blah, blah, blah.

I knew exactly why I didn’t get the job. It was Bitchy Brenda.  She had probably just heard from one of her contacts and - after not speaking to me all week - made it a point to stroll by my desk just now and drop a little condescension. I felt defeated. And I wanted to cry.

I turned back to Deb. “I didn’t get it. You were right.”

She got up and walked over to my desk. “Fuck that bitch. Let’s get outta here.”

It was pretty common for staff to leave early on Friday afternoons, especially in the summer. There were client events or happy hours or having to “drop off some artwork” for a customer. Most of these were excuses to hit the bar, which is exactly what we were doing.  Plus, it was Labor Day weekend.

We decided to go to Manny’s Tavern. It was just ten minutes from the NationsBank Plaza where our office was located. When Deb and I arrived around four, it was already crowded. Manny’s was the closest thing to Cheers you could find in the south. Everybody knew everybody, and we were all regulars. The drinks were cheap but stout and the crowd was friendly but sometimes obnoxious.

I called Dana before I left the office and told her about the job. She said she’d meet us here after work. I needed all the moral support I could get. I knew that even if Bitchy Brenda had nothing to do with it, which I wholeheartedly believed she did, there was still a chance that I wouldn’t get the job. But I was so hopeful. Now I just wanted to drink myself into oblivion.

Dana arrived about an hour later. I was already on my second apple martini. “I’m so sorry, babe.” She gave me an extended hug. “You’ll get the next one. A better one.”

“And Brenda will get herpes.” Deb clinked my glass with hers.

“She’s probably already got it. Maybe that’s why she’s in such a bad mood all the time.”

“I think this calls for a girls’ night out,” Dana said.

Deb was in.

“I’m gonna need a nap first. I’m pretty tipsy as it is.”

“Give me your keys. Let’s finish this round and we’ll go pick up Simon. He can drive your car back. Then I’m picking you up around nine and we’re going out. I’m not going to let you sit home and mope.”

But of course, that’s exactly what I wanted to do. Instead, I took a two-hour nap and a long hot bath. I decided to channel my anger and disappointment into determination. I would blow off steam tonight and spend the rest of the long weekend scouring Monster.com and the New York Times classifieds for jobs. I would get back up on that work horse. I would get my ass back to New York.

Our night began with dinner at Ru San’s. It continued with stops at Leopard Lounge and Nomenclature Museum, two clubs in midtown that were within walking distance of each other. Leopard Lounge was the place to be seen drinking expensive cocktails, and Nomenclature was the place to listen to alternative music with alternative people. Around midnight, we headed to the Clermont Lounge.

The Clermont is an iconic Atlanta club that’s been around since the sixties. It’s referred to as the place “where strippers go to die.” That’s part of its charm. A strip club located in the basement of a run-down hotel on Ponce, and not even a five-minute walk from my apartment, the Clermont was known for two things. One, it had the best DJs in Atlanta, and two, Blondie - the legendary stripper that was so famous she had her own comic book. Blondie was also famous for crushing beer cans between her enormous breasts. But I suppose the real reason everyone clamored to the Clermont was because it was the one place in Atlanta where you could just be yourself. And enjoy everyone else being themselves. At the Clermont, the freaks were the beautiful people. And we were all freaks.

The music inside was pounding and everybody on the tiny