TRACK NO. 04: THE HUSSY
// NINA - JULY 27, '15 - THE HUSSY - HELL'S KITCHEN, NYC //
Legends weren't born at The Hussy, it's where they burned out.
It was a brothel turned dive bar, where you can scream into a mic, cry into a drink, or fuck it all away behind a bathroom door before last call. A purgatory for the has-beens, a dump for the could’ve-beens, and a time portal for the jukebox that never played anything newer than ‘96.
Back then, Andrew Harding wasn’t a myth. He was nothin’.
He was just Harding. Eighteen. A kid bussin' tables.
And for one night, he was hers.
Yeah, this story was Nina's—a bitter woman who never planned on still wastin' her nights away at The Hussy. But when she married Ryan seventeen years ago, her days got eaten alive by his mother—sponge baths, meds, soups, repeat.
Then when Ryan got home, she was off to The Hussy, pickin' up a few shifts bartending to keep the lights on. He promised it was temporary, but the shifts kept stackin', hair soaked in cigarette smoke each night, ears always ringin' from the laughing, the shouting, the speakers, and the years slipped right through her hands like dishwater.
In the beginning, she'd hum Zeppelin on the way home.
Now? She muttersfuckunder her breath.
‘Cause forty-one years old, and she’s still stuck behind the taps, watchin' girls half her age lick salt off the rims of their drinks, suck lime wedges like it's dick, and throw their tits at her bartenders for free whiskey sours.
Each night, the knife stuck in her gut from six months ago twists again.
She knows it ain’t their fault, but that don't mean she don't wanna smack the lime outta their mouths for takin' her right back to six months ago, in that fuckin' kitchen, frozen in the doorway, where Ryan’s jeans were bunched around his boots, his ass flexin' with every thrust into the girl next door—eighteen, freshly-graduated, high school diploma on her parents’ counter, and his hand clamped around her tit.
The sounds haunt her—skin slappin' skin, her neighbor’s moans bouncing off Nina’s backsplash, all the dirty talk drippin' outta the same mouth once callin' Nina beautiful, a mouth groanin' into someone else’s neck.
Most days, Nina forgot her age. She still felt eighteen on the inside. Until she was reminded what eighteen looked like—tight skin, firm ass, high tits bouncing on her husband’s dick. Now she can't stand in front of a mirror without it laughin' at her. She can't look at her own reflection without seein' time stolen. Dull eyes, skin gone slack, glow gone gray, a hot tear always slidin’ down her cheek, and seventeen years she'll never get back.
Stevie Nicks held her through heartbreak, then dropped her off at the hangover 'cause there’s no song for after.
Justclinkingglasses and alcohol breath.
Just another night at The Hussy.
And tonight, the whole bar's ballistic like it always is around last call.
Boozy, belligerent, bodies grindin’ as Jose’s voice cuts through it all. “Final fuckin’ pour. Decide if it’s whiskey or water!”
Nina's got a pen between her teeth as she stacks receipts behind the register. When she sees Andrew, she hollers over her shoulder. “Harding, you movin’ those empties or expectin' ‘em to walk themselves back?”
Andrew flies right past her, rag flinging over his shoulder. “I’m movin’, I’m movin’, chill, woman—Gotta clean up table six’s puke puddle and break up that couple fuckin’ in the bathroom.”
Nina barks out a laugh, but it’s full of exhaustion. “If they’re still goin’ at it, ask if they wanna bartend. No doubt—those two got more stamina than Dusty over here.”
Dusty calls out at her from behind the well, “Yo—Ihadstamina. Then I made the mistake of workin' for you.”
She slams the pen down.
“That why you clockin’ out early? Leavin’ me to mop your shit, huh?”
Dusty grins as he wipes down the taps. “You know Harding ain’t goin’ nowhere, Neen. You don’t need me, just flash those tired eyes, and he’ll mop the fuckin’ ceiling for you.”
She points the pen at him. “Ain’t it funny? You boys rake in the cash, flirt all night, then vanish the second the real work starts. Always leavin’ it to Harding.”
Andrew reappears, crate of empties in his arms and face flushed from hauling shit around. “Leave what to Harding?”
