The New John Q. Public

Our little restaurant is a rather interesting place, inhabited with wholly different personalities. This was a design by our Fearless Leader, my boss, Giuseppe, whom I adore.

Guiseppe thinks of his place as his own personal canvas. He, his own Caravaggio. Every staff member is part of the palette. I don't know what pigment I am when I'm squeezed out of the tube. I think I change colours. The medium is more than likely gouache. Gauche. Giuseppe likes drama. He likes theatre. With all the different personalities that work there, he gets it.

Sometimes, as confirmed last week, we get it... up the ass.

But, wait! Hello! It seems the tide has changed! The Cursed Fridays that induced a strange introversion and melancholia LIFTED!

New music was brought in. Glen had a little talking to and was NICE to everyone. Played well with others. Worked with us, not against us. And kept all negative comments out of my earshot.

Truth is he's scared of getting the boot. And he's probably taken some stock, after the talk and the event that happened shortly after, which I will get into later, and realised that this place where he works, which is busy, fun, where we get to drink WHILE we're working (keeps us much more amiable), and where there is no shortage of money people throw at us, is probably as good as it gets in this industry.

A few weeks back, a POLICEing MANager (a totally mistrusting, himself distrustful, pig of a man) had hired a guy named Mike (another one!) We, the rest of the staff, would complain he was cheap in tipping out the support staff, ineffectual in every sense of the word, annoying, with a lousy sense of humour and an all 'round shitty waiter. He also wore those annoying jeans with the bleach marks down the fronts and backs of his legs... during service! His customers accused him of being decidedly "suburban". I'm convinced he must have flattered the Police Man to get the job.

In addition to all his *fine* qualities he turned out to be a thief and a rogue! He pocketed $150 of mine. And then tried to challenge The Comrade.

That didn't go over well.

Mike the Shit Waiter got the axe.

One down... one to go.
Out with the old... in with the new.
In walks John Q.

Normally when someone new starts, the staff tries to figure out the sexual orientation of the newbie. No one asked about the sexual orientation of Mike The Shit Waiter, mostly because no one from either Camp Gay or Camp Straight entertained the notion of ever having sex with him. John Q. was asked within the first 2 hours. And it went like this:

The Comrade: John Q!
John Q: Yes?
TC: Sexual orientation, please?
JQ: Sorry?
TC: Just answer the question.
JQ: Oh! Straight, straight, straight!

[A coronation begins. Brass section rising and swelling... a thumping of tympanies]

A
STRAIGHT
MALE
WAITER...
WHO IS REASONABLY ATTRACTIVE.

An extinct species.

Then we find out, through the grapevine, he's a Born Again Christian. I don't know why, but it sent me into peals of laughter, for 45 minutes, directed solely at my boss, the Artistic Director. I had to go outside for a smoke to *calm* myself down. Maybe it's because it's the SECOND Reformed Rebirthed person the company's hired in recent months. There is little turnover in our establishment. Between the bar and floor staff, we make up 9 people in total. That is 22% Evangelical stock.

Matthew, the bartender whom I had great difficulties with last year, and who has endeared himself to me of late, is gay. He looks at individual body parts and is instantly turned on. When John Q. is at the computer entering a table's order, he has a tendency to shift his weight onto one side of his body, usually the left side, and forces a good percentage of his body weight onto his left arm, which is placed on the surface the computer rests upon. This action induces a rippling effect of the biceps and triceps underneath very soft, freckled skin.

Matt: Look at that!
The Comrade: What?
M: Those arms!
[She looks]
TC: Oh, Jesus! I'd never noticed THOSE before.
M: Look, look, look! He's moved directly underneath the pendant lamp! His back! I can't take it anymore! Quick, jump up and unscrew the bulb!
[She eyeballs the distance needed to travel unaided by an elevating device]
TC: I... can't... reach!

Sweet Lord!

It became so distracting that Matt turned the heat down to refridgerator temperatures just so John Q would put his concealing sweater back on.

I turned the heat back up.

Poor Matt was trying so hard to avoid the topic of Christianity, probably out of fear of exile from All Things Hot 'n Straight, the lifestyle choice of the dispensing of Man Love decidedly unChristian. In his pointed avoidance, donning a skull cap with a Chinese character on it (something I said translated to chicken fried rice), rockstar sunglasses, and his usual fantastic garb on heroine chic frame, a strange series of Tourette's like barkings projectiled out of him rather loudly and obtusely:

"I am the Dark Prince of Christian Rock!" Repeatedly. Each time he exclaimed this proclamation, he threw a hand up to his mouth and hid behind the cappuccino maker.

Matty has an affectation schtick. And he loves playing the nilhalist. He was waxing care of nothing, loving still less, when John Q. Christian said something like:

"Matt, you should always choose love. We all need love. Flowers need sunshine to grow."

Holy Frijoles = Holy Beans

The Comrade: K, John... understanding the albeit limited knowledge you have of the Dark Prince of Christian Rock, do you really think the flowers and sunshine allusion will work? Maybe you should pick a more useful metaphor.

John Q: Okay... group hug!

He's learning fast.

He applied one rippling, soft, freckled arm around Matt, forearm resting just below poor Matty's eyes. Eyes registering nothing but arousal and lewd lasciviousness, slowly oscillating right and left. I had to rip the other perfect arm off my back and ran away screaming; Matty's expression burned on my brain. He looked like Killjoy with a hard-on.