mysterious

 From Mysterious Ways: Discovering the Miracles of Life as I Fight for My Own by Jay Gittleson

https://www.amazon.com/Mysterious-Ways-Discovering-Miracles-Fight/dp/B0B3F9C74Q

     I snagged this insightful gem from the Unorthodox Therapy chapter.  Thank you for sharing your story Jay!  You seem to have the very good and accurate idea that YOUR STORY NEEDS TO BE SHARED!  The following is one of MANY lessons found in this literary masterpiece.  I cannot wait to finish reading it!  A big heaping helping of hope!  

    ALL PRAISE LATINO LOVE!  HUMAN LOVE!  

¡QUE TODOS VIVAMOS!

     I was sitting there alone for a few minutes and a petite brunette came over to me and started up a conversation. She said, “What are you doin’ drinking water? You come to a place like this and order a bottle of water?” She was a real spitfire and a no-nonsense type of person.

     I responded cautiously, “I don’t drink.” Without missing a beat, she asked me, “What are you, an alcoholic?” I explained that I just never drank my entire life. She said that her name was Stacey and she ordered a vodka with cranberry juice. 

     She had a slim yet curvy figure with shoulder-length dark brown straight hair. I looked briefly into her impatient dark brown eyes. There was a story in those eyes. She smelled fruity and floral. Her purplish glossy lipstick looked freshly applied. Her makeup was precise, but a little overdone and exaggerated.

     She put her hand on my knee and I glanced down. My eyes traveled upward to make eye contact again as I wondered if she could feel the vibrations under her hand. It felt like my leg was responding to thousands of tiny bee stings pricking my skin.

     Her Staten Island accent annoyed me, but also endeared her to me. I could hear right through her roughness into a layer of sweetness. That “tell it like it is” personality was her charm. She grabbed my hand and said, “Let’s go in the back for a dance.” 

     I nearly fell out of the high bar stool and tried to regain my composure. I said, “I don’t dance.” 

     Stacey led me to a semi-secluded room in the back of the club. “I’m the only one who’s gonna dance, silly. Just come on.” 

     We went in the back and she started twirling around and biting her lip. I was a bit overwhelmed. I asked her, “How did you come to work here?”

     Stacey stopped dancing in front of me and said, “You wanna talk. That’s it?” I was nervous that she might just leave me there. The music was loud and it was hard to hear each other. She wiggled in between my legs and sat on my thigh and glared into my eyes. I leaned in to hear what she was about to say. “You’re paying for this dance and you just wanna talk?” I could smell her minty breath with a tinge of the vodka mixed in. I could tell she felt sort of safe with me. I really did just want to talk. 

     She grabbed her oversized Louis Vuitton pocketbook and said, “Let’s go!” and escorted me back to my high bar stool and the bartender brought me another bottle of water while Stacey disappeared into the dressing room.

     To my surprise, about ten minutes later, Stacey returned to sit with me. The club was almost empty at that point. There was a loud group of disheveled guys in business suits on the other side of the bar who were way too drunk for their own good. While two bouncers escorted them outside, Stacey turned to me and said, “When you walk in here, it’s like anything goes in a way. You don’t know who you’re going to meet or who you’re going to talk to or what whack job’s going to walk through that door. At the same time, you can meet amazing good people and I definitely think this job has changed my life in many ways.” 

     I asked, “How do you handle drinking all night long?”

     “I never drink to the point where I am stupid drunk,” she said. “In this business you really have to be on point because anything can happen.”

     “What did you do before?” I asked.

     She said, “I used to work as an aide in a nursing home but it was hard to pay my bills.” Her voice cracked a little as she spoke. “When you’re in a situation where you don’t have any more options, sometimes…” Stacey looked down briefly and said, “God puts you in those situations to kind of make you eat your own words.”

     I asked, “What do you mean by that?”

     She said, “I was one of those people that was very stereotyping and judged people who worked in places like this.” I nodded that I understood and she continued. 

     “I’m not embarrassed that I work here, but when you go to work in a place like this you have to kinda be somebody else. No matter what issues you’re having in life, you have to walk through that door and keep your head high and have a smile on your face because you are the entertainment at the end of the day.” 

     It was kind of amazing how open Stacey was with her thoughts and feelings. I just listened. She went on to say, “I mean pretty much this job is definitely draining on somebody. It can definitely wear them out and stuff ’cause they expect so much from you and they gotta realize at the end of the day you’re still a person. You’re still somebody’s daughter, or somebody’s mom or somebody’s wife or girlfriend or whatever.” 

     My heart sank for her as she added, “It’s mentally draining ’cause you know that a lot of guys that come in here are married or have children or are going through a divorce or getting married. So, they’re in here doing whatever they want to do. It kind of fucks with your head a little bit in the sense of relationships because then you think all men are like this. These guys are doctors and lawyers and very professional men so it makes you question everything.”

     The club was about to close for the night and she told me that she was going to cash out with her manager. I left a tip for the bartender and headed out. I tried to make a quick exit. When I reached the lobby, I felt someone behind me so I held the door. When I turned around it was Stacey. I took a double-take as she was so tiny without those giant heels on. She was wearing gray sweatpants, white high-top sneakers, and a gold sparkly hoodie. It was awkward but at the same time we had sort of just become friends.

     Over the next two years I would stop in from time to time for a bottle of water and look for her. I knew she could take care of herself in the world, but somehow, I wanted to be part of her doing something better for her life. I encouraged her to go back to school.

     She mentioned that she used to take care of this old guy at the nursing home and he became sort of attached to her and vice versa. I became attached to her as well. Our talk sessions usually were late-night encounters. Sometimes she was busy taking care of other guys. I saw her do lots of talking and drinking with them so I guess they became attached to her as well. 

     Stacey had become my unofficial therapist. She sat at the bar with me and just talked. Sometimes, I was very positive and upbeat and other times down in the dumps. She did try to diagnose me one night. “Jay, you’re freaking bipolar.” I never told her about my kidneys that were slowly failing.

     We shared the same dream. Both of us wanted to write the story of our lives. She asked me how to go about that. I told her that she could call my free conference-call number and tell me the story and I would record it and then transcribe it for her. I didn’t think she would call, but she did. She reflected on the choices that she had made in her life up to that point. 

     Our friendship was based on mutual respect. We only saw each other in this fake world from time to time. Stacey had real self-esteem amidst the plastic world of women who competed for the attention of strange men. She could look at her situation as necessary, but temporary. She had great insights into things and I learned a lot from her.

     I saw a big banner flapping in the breeze outside of the club one night as I drove home. It said, “Stacey’s Farewell Party.” She had decided to “retire” and move on. I was very happy for her. I went in to say goodbye. She said, “I want to have one last ‘dance’ with you.” She pulled her stool next to mine, leaned in, and she gently kissed me on the lips. Another patron saw what she did and said to a woman sitting at the bar, “How come you don’t kiss me like she did him?”

     Two years later in 2012, I got a surprise call out of the blue from Stacey. I was shocked when she said, “I finished writing my life story and want to read you the first chapter.”

     I listened intently. It was heartbreaking as she described some of the traumas of her life. We were on the phone for over an hour and then suddenly she just finished reading. She said, “Goodbye,” and hung up. I felt inside that I had made some sort of positive impact on her. She had followed through on her writing goal and I was thrilled that she had reached out to me