Losing My Mind

           I just got back from a short trip to New York City.  A much needed short trip to New York City.  Because I had cabin fever.  Actually, it was more than cabin fever.  It was more akin to what mental patients must feel like when they are in solitary confinement at Bellevue.  The only difference is that I didn’t answer my own questions out loud.  But I did do a lot of pacing about.  I’m a big city kind of gal.  I like the lights, the glamour, the sexy investment bankers.  I knew the winter here would be very quiet.  I just didn’t know it was going to be silent.  I was alright the first couple of months.  But the last few weeks started to weigh heavily.  There was not a lot to do.  There was so little to do that I actually spent up to an hour and a half daily at the gym.  Let me reiterate.  An hour and a half.  Once more…an hour.  And a half.  For someone who basically gets his exercise by walking to McDonald’s or a bar, that is quite a feat.  And I only had sex once in the sauna.  Well, three times.  But they were only hand jobs that took three minutes tops. 

            The rest of my time has been spent writing…not as much as I would have liked but still.  So I have been writingish.   I have worked part-timeish at the hotel.  And I’ve drank.  Not ish.  I’ve drank.  Other cities have their own winter sports.  In Provincetown, at the end of the world, the winter sport is to belly up at the bar.  Any bar will do.  One just needs a sturdy grip and a friendly bartender with a liberal pour.  And usually in other cities, the nuts come out in the heat.  Here they are on full display in the freezing cold.  One guy walks up and down Commercial Street all day.  All damn day.  And every time I pass him (no, I don’t walk up and down the street all day…just part of the day), he asks me for a cigarette.  Another guy in town looks like he hasn’t bathed since last winter and has a laugh that would make a hyena cower. 

            Luckily, I have a certain cast of characters that keep me sane.  Ish.  There’s Peter, my friend and roommate from last summer.  We both have ample party skills.  Our first night as roommates, I fell through the door, and he fell through a window.  So compared to last summer, he has been quite subdued this winter.  Oh he’s had an occasional shirtless night at the dance club, but who hasn’t?  There’s Charles, a Southern gent who loves to talk about art and the theatre.  He also loves to talk religion and politics.  At a bar.  Which, unfortunately for some crazy queen, crescendoed into Charles throwing his very loud and very ugly wig into the parking lot.  There’s Mrs. A.  It was weeks before I knew his real name.  I just knew him as Mrs. A.  And still do.  He never wears long pants, always wears hip and oversized glasses, and smells like expensive cologne.  He also always wears orange and has calves that could crack walnuts.  There’s Dante, who is legally blind but can still spot a hot young buck from twenty paces. 

            All of us met basically at the “Cheers” of Provincetown, Bayside Betsy’s.  Which brings me to my two favorite bartenders.  There’s George, or Gladys as he’s called in some circles.  Beating around the bush is not his forte.  Just this past weekend, I walked in there with Magic Mike, a topic of a previous essay.  We sat down, he gave us our menus and said “So are you guys just friends or are you fucking?”  Magic Mike almost fell out of his chair.  Then there’s the grande dame of the bar, Nicholas.  Never one to mince words and never one to miss a beat, Nicholas has us all pegged.  And his one-liners are to die for.  I was talking about a romantic tryst one night.  Nick overheard.

            “I just want a fat guy to come over and make me pizza.”

            A customer playfully asked Nick’s ex one night what his issue was.  Nick overheard.

            “Have you got a pen and piece of paper?”

            Never misses a beat.

            This barnyard of characters is overseen by Bayside Betsy herself.  She runs her business with the savvy of a New York businessman, yet opens her restaurant up to local charities and wakes for local citizens.  So she’s basically like Donald Trump with a heart but no comb over. 

            So I’m getting by.  I got out of town last week for a trip to New York and came back to a different town.  The sun is out, the skies are blue, and more businesses are open.  There are people on the streets, this past weekend was packed, and there is light at the end of the tunnel.  I also found out this past weekend that my summer rental options have fallen through.  So now I’m forced to look for a place to live.  If you had told me this two weeks ago, I would have packed up and left immediately.  But a quick trip to New York and the awakening of spring in Provincetown made me realize I’m not done yet.  I want another amazing summer where I meet really interesting people and see amazing performances.  A summer where I work my ass off in a tight little bathing suit.  A summer where anything can happen.  That’s the thing about Provincetown.  It’s like a big old insane asylum. 

            It’s easy to get in.  But it’s hell to get out.