Hat Trick.

For three consecutive nights-- an entire "work week"-- I had no customers at the bar.

Sure, the shifts are only 4-10, but come on. 18 straight business hours with NOT ONE PERSON. Except for my friend David who was out by the mall anyway and stopped in for a Coke because I guilted him.

Not making any money is one thing, as is being bored. But as you may know, I live for the random customers at this place. The occasional bar patrons at this deserted airport hotel are the only solace for a 33-year-old bartender making $135/week. With a BA and 10 years of professional IT experience.

Like last week. I had this guy at the bar, a real NYC artist with works in the permanent collections of the MOMA and the Whitney. He asked for an Absolut with grapefruit juice and soda, then ordered a pizza to the bar and split it with me. He was such a breath of fresh air: not only a living, breathing (smoking) customer, but proof that New York still exists even though I can't see it anymore. We talked about how embarrassed we are by humanity, about Chinatown, where he lives, and about DUMBO, where he has his studio.

He was witty, flamboyant and self-assured-- such the opposite of New Englanders. He seemed genuinely interested in me and how I ended up at the bar. We finished off the pizza, he fielded a few cell phone calls, had a couple more drinks, and signed his check which included a huge tip, even though I ate his pizza and complained to him most of the time.

And then he was gone, and I was again staring at this horrible carpeting and the piped-in musical counterpart to the carpeting. It was an elevator version of No Woman No Cry. The local 10:00 news was on the TV and I suddenly felt so depressed.