smell the crazy

Sometimes you can just smell the crazy.   And last night the Upper West Side reeked.  More specifically, Malachy's Bar on 72nd street, where I have recently taken on the role of sultry bar wench two nights a week. 

A lucky few are born with an innate loony meter.  Others cultivate the skill of "crazy sniffing" from years spent hanging out with Method actors or working in restaurants.  And then, there are the ill fated handful, who seem to attract the deranged, as if by magnetic pull.  

I'm a triple threat.

I knew something was rotten as soon as my crackpot sat down and ordered her pastrami on rye.  There was an edge to her, a shiftiness beyond that of the typical New Yorker.  I couldn't put my finger on it, but my crazy-dar level was instantly on Amber Alert.

Then came the rapid fire q&a:

How long does it take to make pastrami?  It should be done by now.  

How much do I owe?  $8.  I need to pay now.

Where is the closest drugstore?  I need a bandaid now.

Can't you see I'm bleeding?  I am bleeding.

I disappeared into the kitchen, alerting the cook I needed the pastrami stat and on wheels (that's restaurantese for to go).   She was working up towards her show stopping number, it was clear, and better it happened on Broadway than at table four.

It was too late.  She was ready to shine.   

"WITCH!  YOU'RE A WITCH!  I KNOW YOU'RE A WITCH," she hissed at a poor Irish girl I was training and then promptly spit in her face.  A gal who was enjoying her second day ever in NYC.  A wee lass I had assured New Yorkers get a bad rap.  

I rushed down the stairs from the second floor kitchen, avec pastrami, to carry out OPERATION YOU ARE 86'ED.  

And there she was, God love her, waiting for me, practically foaming at the mouth.

I've experienced a few things as cocktailer- being spanked for instance- but never have I been jabbed in the solar plexus.  It was a attack move that, I imagine, Marines are taught in bootcamp or empowered single women learn in self defense class.  

It didn't hurt, but it was shocking.  My Spartan warrior instinct was to lay her out, but since it was my third shift ever, I wasn't sure where Mr. Malachy stood on hitting customers.  But before I could catch my breath, my pastrami loving bandaidless patron was lifted off the ground by two burly bartenders, feet kicking in midair, and escorted back out into the night from whence she came.

So when you smell the crazy, trust it.  Or wear a bullet proof apron.