Physical Graffiti

A few nights ago, I was forced to use the bathroom at the Lit Lounge. In my opinion, this is the skankiest bathroom in all of Manhattan. It makes the bathroom in Trainspotting look like the Ritz Carlton -- I’ll just leave it at that.

As I was leaving this dungeon of a washroom, I heard someone call in my direction, “Hey SATAN!”

Naturally, I turned around.

It was then that I was met with the embrace of a dark-haired female whose platforms caused her to tower over me.

“How are you doing, Satan? It’s me, Sasha!”

It took me a moment to remember Sasha and, for that matter, why she refers to me as ‘Satan’.

Last Halloween, I signed up for a free makeover at the Yves Saint Laurent counter in Bloomingdales. I had only been in New York for about three weeks and the same goes for Sasha, who had just moved here from Russia and found a cosmetic job at Bloomingdales.

I had my heart set on being the Devil in the Blue Dress that night because it was a quick fix: $10 blue dress at H&M, $5 devil horns at the costume store.

But I don’t do makeup and Sasha does. I told her I wanted to look Satanic.

“You mean you want smoky eyes?”

“Yeah. Smoky and SATANIC.”

She had fun doing a real number on my makeup. That makeover would be the first of several Craigslist screw-ups as I soon learned that there is no such thing as a free YSL makeover.

After she had finished one Satanic eye, with red shadow and twelve layers of eyeliner, Sasha informed me that I had to buy at least one YSL product. What I didn’t know then, naïve thing, was that the least expensive YSL product is a $35 lip gloss.

Sasha, with her Russian sympathy, let me get away with not buying anything and, even though she spent at least ten minutes perched directly in front of my face, I hadn’t thought of her since then.

Now. I cannot be held accountable for anybody/anything I met in my first month here. I was bombarded with newness at every turn that month and so October of last year is now only a vague impression.

But that was last October and now it is August; I don’t remember this girl and she is pushing me back into the bathroom.

It’s a single stall bathroom but she wants me to hold the door for her just in case somebody opens it while she’s going. I really don’t want to be back in that bathroom but I continue with small talk anyway.

When she finished, Sasha asked me if I wanted her to touch up my makeup.

No, I kind of want to get the hell out of this bathroom.

But she convinced me that I had to try some product or another and so I agreed. As she began to show me lipsticks, she told me how she quit her job at Bloomingdales and had since been working as a makeup artist for various music video productions around town.

I’m almost positive she was coked up or something because her hands weren’t as steady as they were last time she applied mascara to my lashes and, well, she had drip coming out of her right nostril.

“Do you want to look SATANIC again?”

No, not as Satanic tonight. Well, O.K., maybe a little.