The Cost and Reward for The Enabler

I was tooling around the computer yesterday at around 5:15pm. Completely inspired by my coffee post, I had just finished downing my 4th double espresso. Matty the bartender, whom I once shared reciprocal feelings of distain but has since endeared himself to me, called asking why I wasn't at work yet.

The Comrade: [totally wired for sound] Oh... ha, ha... uh... well... Sorry, Matty. Hm. I didn't know I was working. Um... I'm going to need a little bit of time.

I had made plans to hang out with Fatty last night, so first on the set of priorities was calling him off. I got taken to voice mail. Leaving a rather caffeine induced rapid fire message, I asked if a raincheck for the following night could be provided. Fatty's got a smoking membership at a bar downtown. Since he's quit smoking cigarettes he'd offered to pass the membership's privledges to me. I'm a very simple girl who doesn't need much to make happy: good company, good beer, Dunhills. Done.

It was approximately 6:15pm by the time I arrived at work. We tend to enlist a rather democratic process in the division of sections. It's a draw. Though sometimes it's a bit rigged. The last waiter to arrive always gets the worst section. Section 5. It's in the back of the restaurant, has poor turnover and whoever works there is closest to the kitchen, thus effectively creating the dual role of waiter and food runner. I never really care where I work, as I have a philosophy that dictates whomever I am meant to interact with, I shall regardless; the Universe provides.

The chef who hates the Comrade was working. Though I only made one mistake that night, it was still brought to the attention of all. Ah, the pettiness of some folk.

The Comrade: Well, gee... If I didn't fuck up at least once in a night, you probably wouldn't recognise me.

I hadn't seen any of my comrades since before Christmas, so there were a few moments of bear hugging and hand to hand and hand to ass slapping before a frustrated Guiseppe, the boss whom I adore, brought to my attention there was a party of seven waiting for me in the vault. Whoops. Matty warned me they may be a "handful" as they all exited from a white stretch limosine.

Hm. Definitely dubious.

The bank building to restaurant conversion allows up to 10 diners to reserve a table in the vault cum wine cellar. I have no idea, other than for novelty, why anyone would sit in there. There is no air circulation. There are no corkscrews hanging off the walls enabling patrons to uncork whatever they want. I do throw mine down on the table every now and then and walk away. Except for the coked up girls from a few weeks back, no one has ever, to anyone's knowledge, made off with any wine.

The party of seven consisted of a middle aged father, his new wife, his 3 children and their dates. They were celebrating the youngest daughter's 19th birthday. This young lady had 3 glasses of wine and 3 martinis (2oz each). At the end of the meal she looked as sober as a judge. A natural.

Nineteen is the legal age to drink in Canada. This young lady was a marathon pounder with no ill nor dizzying effects.

The new mother wanted advice on where to take the clan out. The plan was to go off on a Tuesday night, parents and children collectively partying.

What?!

I hear fables every now and then about families that are incredibly close. Not just loving and nurturing, but people other immediate family members actually want to hang out with. Party with. When I see it played out in front of me, I always say the same thing.

The Comrade: I'll just call my lawyer tomorrow to draft up the adoption papers. Tomorrow good for you?

And they were NICE. So polite, socially balanced, each of them confident and unique. Afraid of nothing. They all loved, listened and valued each other. It was the most beautiful thing I saw yesterday.

Oh, the things I see.

Several weeks ago a girl that looked mildly familiar sat at the bar. She had just started dating a local barfly. She is a fashion designer who scavenges thrift stores, buys up their donated furs and fashions them onto new cloth coat designs. On the night I met her, part of her patchwork design had wolf fur fragments, cut into diamond patterns, skirting the bottom of the A-line coat.

When I was 22 I had a dog who was a wolf crossed with a Siberian Husky. His name was Timber. He was wild, totally uncontrollable, except by Chicken, and would jump up on counters to eat whatever was up there: steaks, full pounds of butter, whole loaves of bread, ju jubes. I loved this beast.

I nearly slapped that girl.

I learned her name is Erin. We talked about light matter, as that was all she was capable of. Twenty minutes later she came up to me.

Erin: I need to ask your advice on something.
The Comrade: Sure. (thinking she wanted to know how next she should have her hair cut)
Erin: Um, well... Could you come to the bathroom with me?
The Comrade: (thinking she was a great big lesbian) Nope. Sorry.
Erin: No, really, I have to talk to you in the bathroom.
The Comrade: No, really! Absolutely not.
Erin: Okay, um... well... I kind of flooded the bathroom.

The Comrade runs to the source.

Erin met the local barfly at an afterhours speakeasy. Booze can, as we call it. These places are designed for people who have just snorted a succession of white lines. They are so hepped up on goofballs that the last place they are prepared to go is home. They have very "deep" and "meaningful" conversations with others in the same induced state. Sometimes, like Erin and the Barfly, they find "love".

People that make booze cans a lifestyle choice often keep beyond vampiric schedules. They don't rise until 7:30pm. Most people are enjoying their dinner at that time. Erin had just finished her breakfast, smoked a cigarette and needed to take her morning dump.

She took the most colossal shit and broke the toilet.

Luckily, and I never thought I'd ever say this, there were recognisable stools. Floaters.

Shutting the main water valve off, grabbing the mop and bucket, I offered my demands for the situation.
1. She was to buy me no less than 3 beers.
2. She was on squeezing the mop out duty.
3. I was allowed to tell anyone this story.

And anyone who drinks needs to go to the bathroom.

There were 4 people attempting to use our facilities during the mopping and squeezing portion of the evening. Each time, I would set the mop down saying, "Let me tell you a story..."

This is the thing: She keeps coming back to the restaurant.

I don't know what to call it, but had I done something remotely like this I would never, in a million years, step foot back in the place simply from sheer embarrassment.

Last night she showed up with a 3/4 length fox fur on. Though I never had a fox as a pet, I was still tempted, on so many levels, to box her ears.



As expected, Section 5 cleared out pretty quickly. I hadn't really been out in public, save the other day's coffee excursion. That was only for about an hour, not enough to do any real damage. Armed with the 4 double espressos and obvious pent up social energy, I felt I needed to suffuse my current hyperactive state with a liquid sedative. Beer. That did help. Dancing behind the bar with Matty helped too. I love dancing with Matty. He's a total groper.

Late in the evening, past the kitchen's close, a certain magical moment of epiphanal magnitude happens when Guiseppe proclaims, with mixed pride and sheepishness:

Lock the doors. Dim the lights. It's time to start smoking.

See why I love him?

One of my very favourite people in the whole world was at the bar. Craig Webster.

I don't know if this happens to anyone else. I hope it does. There are people that evoke a specific feeling each time I see them. Fatty makes me instantly gleeful. He's that kid you love playing with the most. Craig makes me instantly calm, just by his presence. I liken it to having had a rather long drive up north, destination: camp grounds. He's like the first moment you step out of the car and breathe your first breath of forest green, fully oxygenated air. Craig Webster. It's like I'm in the company of Buddha.

He looks not unlike a young, Jam era, Paul Weller. He's a deeply spiritual fella. His special powers enable him to be the best outdoor survivalist I know. He's still riding his bike in this weather. He would never accept a Christmas Vial token.

Last night 3 people fell in love with Mr. Webster.

1. Matty. He said he couldn't remember meeting anyone so lovely in his life.
2. Svetlana. Newest recruit. Looks like a cross between Sheryl Crowe and Michelle Pfeiffer. She's as lovely as she's beautiful.
3. Some chick with a straw cowboy hat on. Apparently, she thought Craig was "mine".

Certainly not all of them, but sometimes, I make out with my guy friends.

Guys I infrequently make out with:
Ian, my wrestling buddy
Craig
Jimmy, the bartender from my favourite watering hole, who verbally abuses me, and is painfully sexually attracted to me. Last night he bit my neck, rather hard, and accused me of tasting like sauce.
Ryan
Matty. Last night he asked me to marry him. I could be the next Mrs. White. Comrade White? I said no. He was thinking he'd do a name change: Le Blanc. Comrade Le Blanc? Better, but still no.

If I was actually having sex, I'd accuse myself of being a slut.

As mentioned in a previous post, all men who are drunk, regardless of sexual orientation, think I'm beautiful and some actually fall in love with me.


Someone I hadn't seen in quite some time, that came in last night, was James. James owns The Only Cafe up on The Danforth, an area directly north of my neighbourhood. If only it were closer and smoking wasn't outlawed, I'd be frequenting The Only rather often. It's a homey little joint with the most vast selection of beer from all over the world. I'm like a kid in a candy store over there.

I know several restaurant and bar owners. The majority of these people get into the business so they can stay up and drink, encouraging others to drink with them.

James is an alcoholic. I am an enabler. This is a dangerous combination.
James was raised Catholic.
James is gay.
James fell asleep at the bar, sitting upright. Several times.

Trying to gently coerce him into his coat, balancing his full weight and juggling his rather heavy knapsack, James fell down twice, knocking barstools over like bowling pins. He was a sweet, freckled wrecking ball. I enlisted the Golden Rules of handling drunk folk.

I realised last night it is a special skill to intrinsically know how to handle a drunk person. It's something I'd taken for granted. A gentleman who had been sitting next to James at the bar tried, with good intentions, to help me. He wasn't really helping. He just made James feel alienated, unattractive and ridiculous. I told him, "It's okay. I've got him."

With James on the ground for a prolonged period of time, I was admittedly a bit worried. For a split second I could imagine him never getting up again. I spoke quietly and closely to him. I smiled a lot. I was gentle. With an "alliooop" and a count of 3, we got up. Laughing like schoolgirls and screaming at the top of our lungs, just because it was fun. I escorted him into the back of a cab, kissed him about 15 times around the eyes, cheeks and forehead regions; gave the address he had whispered into my ear to the cab driver and asked he take him safely home.

Back inside, a very sketchy fella was scruntinising the bill Matty had placed in front of him. I learned last night I have no special powers in dealing with people on chemical drugs. He left in a huff.

With nothing but a core crew at the dregs of the night, there was a very drunk Svetlana at the bar. She's in the process of moving out of her apartment, away from her boyfriend. The situation is dire and toxic. There is a 14 year age gap between them. He is 22. She is 36. In the interim she still has to drive the 40 minutes on the highway, to the place she currently lays her hat. She was in no condition to drive. Luckily no one had to fight her for the keys. She easily and readily relinquished them to The Comrade.

Just as we were locking the doors a streetcar destined to pull up directly in front of my apartment was edging close to the adjacent stop. I sighed, imagining being at home within 7 minutes. I walked instead, in the freezing night, in the opposite direction.

Disarming a foreign car's alarm, I took my friends Matty and Svetlana back to Matty's place, a proffered guest suite was made available as Kissy is out of town. After handing back the keys, collectively walking up Matty's street, there was another streetcar in sight. After a brief group hug, I deposited another Christmas Vial token, the vial now starting to sizably diminish in quantity. I smiled and said hello to the driver, who reciprocated equally and nicely. I sat in the single row of seats, my preferred station, looked out the window and thought: The Enabler gets taken care of too.