FEMINISM | THE MEMOIRIST

A Drunk Nurse Spit in My Face and She Kicked My Leg For Being Too Sexy

Was she too sensitive or was I insensitive?

I imagine our clearest memories exist due to any extreme emotions triggered at the time of an event.

I remember that I wanted to die on one otherwise beautiful night.

And, it truly was beautiful.

Dusk fell, and the sun low on the horizon cast an orange glow across the calm bay. The early evening had started out casual and light.

Until all hell broke loose.

It never should have happened the way it did, but I put on my big girl panties and suffered the blows.

One by one, I coaxed each button to freedom on his shirt. Never breaking eye contact, I tenderly placed my stethoscope over his heart although I already knew it was racing.

I palmed his forehead with care and lightly pushed it back.

Like clockwork, his jaw relaxed, and I presented him with my “Nurse Needle” special.

Hoots and hollers always ensued.

It was circa 1987, ‘88.

I clearly remember the smallest details of that fateful night.

I scanned the area ready to administer aid to the next in need.

It usually went smoothly and was light and fun.

Until it didn’t, and it wasn’t.

I was just a few years out of college. I burned out quickly from Food & Beverage Management on the graveyard shift at Trump’s Taj Mahal Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City, NJ.

It was time to take a much-needed break.

I sought a summer job at one of the beaches nearby. I called it a brainless summer dream, but, in fact, serving food and drink in a beach bar requires cerebral activity.

My top choice was easy.

It was an upscale and popular club on the bay, which had a massive outdoor deck for patrons, and drew generous tippers.

I zeroed in on it.

During the interview process, I answered, “yes,” to all of the “can you?” questions.

I lied.

The bar was trendy.

Several times throughout shifts, all service would stop, and the employees would perform dance routines atop the bar and elevated 8-seater rectangle tables.

Think Coyote Ugly, with softer edges.

Cleaner.

More expensive.

My dancing ability is limited. By limited, I mean I can’t even do orchestrated moves in jazzercise classes without wiping out the person closest to me.

Coordination and I are strangers.

I was hired. Dance rehearsal started two weeks before the big Memorial Day opening.

We were one week into rehearsals when I got called into the office.

The owner and the general manager sat there deep in thought.

I just knew I was fired.

First, because I lied about my skills. Second, because I had two left feet.

“We want to keep you but we aren’t sure how. We have an idea that you can take this ball and run with it.”

“Here’s $100 for you to create a shot girl idea, outfit included, and you can work with Doctor Popper.”

The esteemed Doctor Popper freely roamed around the club offering tequila shots. He looked the part, other than the Jose Cuervo, and shot glasses in his old-fashioned medical bag.

To work with him was an offer not to be refused. He was a big deal and wildly successful.

“Leave now and report back tomorrow. You have 24 hours to create a persona.”

And, that’s how Nurse Needle was born.

That $100, in the ’80s, got me a white Lycra tank and leggings, white high heels, a nurse’s cap of yore, a little ID pin with Nurse Needle engraved, and a slew of 60cc syringes, sans actual needles.

I pulled my thick, long hair up into a side ponytail because that’s what cool chicks did in the late ’80s, or so I believed.

My nurse’s cap was bobby-pinned nicely in the curls.

The owner loved my concept. I arrived before happy hour, mixed up a massive quantity of Kamikazes, preloaded the syringes, and stored them in the freezer.

It was a killer job that made me enough money in the first weekend to pay my rent for the entire summer.

Everything went swimmingly until that night.

That night, a table full of real nurses was rightfully relaxing. Drinks and shots were flowing.

I was an equal opportunity shot girl, and some women were all in.

These women were not.

I carefully walked on the planked deck. There’s nothing worse than getting a spiked heel caught between the boards.

I approached the table with my award-winning smile.

Before I could greet the group, she hissed, “How dare you?”

“You are a disgrace to nurses everywhere. Dressing sexy is not our job. We work too hard for you to throw it all away. You give all of us a bad name.”

“You look like a slut.”

My blood pumped but I calmly responded that I was just doing my job. I was only a shot girl.

At some point in the mayhem, I asked her position on Halloween. Does she hate it and yell at the women at the parties filled with sexy nurses, sexy police officers, and even, at times, an occasional sexy nun?

I was in costume.

As I tried to pull away, to remove myself from her verbal assault, accompanied by spittle, she offered me raised arms a fist she did not throw.

The woman yelled, screamed really, and I was frozen in embarrassment.

People stared.

She was angry. Beyond anger, she crossed into pure hatred for me.

She wouldn’t, couldn’t, hear my words through her distress. I’m sure the thundering anger pulsed loudly in her ears and caused the fire in her eyes.

And the tequila shots added fuel to her fire.

Lots and lots of shots.

From Doctor Popper, the sexy shot guy.

Why didn’t she have an issue with him?

I asked because a challenge in logic is my favorite.

Seething and sputtering, she had only one answer. That was when her foot made contact with my shin.

Security made contact with her.

She was escorted out of the building while roughly 50 spectators cheered.

Even as the night rolled on, and compassionate people were generous with their kind words and tips, it took me a long time to shake the dread of a reoccurrence.

I admit that my stomach went in knots for a couple of reasons. It took me a bit to recover.

I hid in the back kitchen of the club to breathe it out and recenter myself just enough to finish my work.

Was I really devaluing nurses?

Was my attire doing a disservice to women overall?

Why was the male version of our company’s duo, Doctor Popper, more acceptable?

Was I wrong in keeping to a theme, and thereby, insensitive to nurses?

I evaluated her reaction. At some point, convinced that I was not guilty of demeaning women, I realized that I was okay to do a job in a sexy costume.

Because it was my choice to do so.

It was my right to choose. As a strong woman, I made a great business decision. It was lucrative and fun for me.

I, as Nurse Needle, was NOT harmful to women everywhere, or nurses anywhere, given the obvious non-real nurse attire.

I was an employee of a beach bar, not a hospital, a club known for its out-of-the-box offerings.

I decided not to feel shame for being a shot girl for the summer.

It was my choice.

Her reaction was her choice.

Her feelings were not my responsibility.

To make money at a seasonal beach hot spot, where happy hours were filled with people, was not wrong.

What was wrong was an overly sensitive, inappropriate, verbal, and physical reaction.

No doctor ever gave Doctor Popper a hard time, and neither did those same nurses, so why is this different?

It’s not.

I have great respect for nurses and the job they do selflessly.

I have great respect for shot girls who hustle.

Mostly, I respect all humans who are mindful of other people making their way through life, the best they can.

Everyone is entitled to their opinion.

Rock on Nurse Needle.

It’s how you communicate your opinion, that can make or break your credibility.

Her reaction was her choice.

Be kind.

You have that choice.

Ready to join Medium & access thousands of stories while helping to support me?

Substack | Simily | Kindle Vella Nonfiction | Kindle Vella Fiction

Copyright © 2022 Lisa Gerard Braun. All rights reserved.