I, Titus Andronicus

The Comrade [ pointed advice to new work recruit John Q.]: There are very few rules you need to follow here: Work hard, play well with others, don't be a fuckhead and things will work out fine.

Matty [ advising the new recruit John Q. about me ]: She can either be your greatest ally or your worst enemy. It's really up to you.

Months ago we were in dire need of a weekend warrior bartender. Much of the old toxic crew that led to my pre-summer resignation, which led to my sojourn into a school's length summer vacation, which became something so magical that I plan to do it every year, had fled. A vacuum was created. Space needed to be filled. New hires were welcome. No ads were posted.

Guiseppe, the boss whom I adore, in his 20 years of restaurant proprietorship, has never once advertised his business. His success has simply been born of hard work, excellent product, constant foodie reviews and a steady stream of word of mouth. He's never offered signage on the façade of his storefronts. He rarely places his establisments in destination locales. His venue has always been the destination. The current location of his latest incarnation is smack dab in the core of a fairly seedy neighbourhood. Sketchy. Most people making the journey are fearful in walking the distance from their cars to the front door. More than likely out of the need to feel like tourists, voyeurs, they come to us for an experience.

Guiseppe is a self-professed bohemian. Or a Renaissance man. Or an artist in general. The Artist in Residence. He believes in the organic process of life. Why push things? Simply allow things to emerge. Phoenixes should rise out of ashes. Sometimes they do. His method for hiring new recruits has always been, "Let's see who walks in the door." Like I, he knows when chemistry is right.

That is exactly how The Comrade was hired. Subsequently she can never go back to her favourite restaurant for special occasions because she works at her favourite restaurant. Alas.

One day the door opened. In walked a very charming, very effervescent, very enthusiastic, the very first Born Again Christian to the establishment. Her name is Melissa.

She is putting herself through school, aiming to be a registered massage therapist. She is 24 years old. From Day One she told tales of her incredible life of being a kept woman by a high level mob man. She was kidnapped in the Niagara region by dangerous strangers, though had the wherewithal to "flush" her passport and driver's license down the toilet. She got out of potentially becoming a prostitute. She has been raped several times. She lost her mother to cancer last year.

Other than the loss of her mother, I never believed a word she said.

It's always good practice to be friendly and helpful. It makes a very good first impression. She was that. After a couple of days or weeks, a person starts getting comfortable and one's left with the truer essence of a person. This is what I've found:

1. On any given Sunday she schedules a manicure, a Brazilian wax and goes to church. In that order.
2. She is often sick, or has a family crisis, or presents any number of inventive reasons why she can't fulfill her scheduled obligation to work two nights a week.
3. Three separate gentlemen I work with have complained to me about her excessive flirting, including, but not limited to humping, licking and biting. Even Ack, the ex-husband/ still best friend complained of her humping him.
4. While dispensing a deserved wedgie, and I maintain that no fabric was either ripped nor stretched beyond the limit of return, she bit The Comrade on the arm and produced a 3" in diameter blackened bruise which lasted 3 weeks.
5. She claims she "doesn't" smoke, because she "quit", therefore never buys cigarettes, but is constantly bumming smokes off of me, endeared (to me) bartender Matty, whom she works side by side with, or anyone else with a clever little package resting on a piece of furniture, or tucked into a pocket.

Actually "bumming" would suggest something kinder, gentler, more sheepish. She demands.

Just the other night, as I was cocktailing and sharing a rather intimate moment with my darling friend Robert, discussing a recent suicide, the premier Born Again Humper pulled her usual routine. She interrupted our conversation with her demands.

Born Again Humper: Can I have a cigarette?
The Comrade: No. [turns back to Robert] So, anyway...
B.A.H.: Give me one!!
T.C.: [looks calmly at her for exactly 10 seconds] No.
B.A.H.: Come on!!!
T.C.: Look... You *say* you don't smoke. You work with us 2 days a week, smoke constantly by *stealing* smokes from the ones who always carry them, then you interrupt conversations, which is *rude*, demanding stuff you should be carrying. I'm not giving you one. Be like a boy scout. Be prepared. Hey! Lookit! There's a store just 2 doors away!
B.A.H.: You're NOT going to give me one?
T.C.: [looks around as if I'm talking to no one]: No.
B.A.H.: Well, what about all the free beers I give you?
T.C.: What free beers?
B.A.H.: All the free beers I give you at work!
T.C.: Uh, Melissa... We don't get free beers at work; we're supposed to pay for those.

Busted.

I can understand how people rip off employers. I can. I have worked for companies that treat their employees as if they were expendable. Merely numbers. Not individuals. The reason I work for Guiseppe is because he is a good man whom I believe in. I believe in his concepts and the method of his madness. We have an understanding. He is one of the few employers I have truly respected and truly loved. I consider him friend. He treats all of us like family. To do anything against him... Jesus... you'd have to be some kind of...

Born Again Christian.

Understanding that a group of likeminded individuals is powerful and empowering, even synergistic, what makes a person seek out an organized religion?

Absolution.

You are forgiven, child, by the simple act of attendance. Feel no guilt, lamb. Have no blame cast upon thee. You are forever pardoned by the sanctity of the Church of Latter-Day Murderers, Swines, Thieves and Gangsters... whose girlfriends lick, bite and hump their co-workers and ex-husbands. Who pillage from their comrades and employers alike. Who feel entitled.

At the neighbouring bar Melissa ended up chatting with Josh, my favourite comrade at work. Josh is awesome. He looks remarkably and ridiculously like David Arquette. He's fun, generous to a fault, absolutely hilarious and shares the title, with my Fatty, of being one of my most excellent Idiot Guy friends. I love this guy.

Inviting herself to sit with Josh, his brother and his brother's girlfriend, she launched into a accusative supposition of how Matty, the bartender, *may* be ripping her off.

"I mean, I only got $100 tonight."

$100 after working 3 hours. Plus her paltry wage of $6/hr. Doing the math that works out to be $39.33/ hr. I don't make that. Matty doesn't make that.

Matt was being generous to this person who has been unreliable, inconsistent and toxic. We all try to care for wounded creatures sometimes, but that wounded creature turned out to have quite a sizable beast lurking within.

Josh told Matty about the conversation.

Matty lost it.

How could she have done this? He had defended her in the past.

He had threatened to simply finish the month of December and quietly go.

Believing in all things cathartic, I sat and listened to Matty puke bilious matter over this betrayal. This was treason and he needed to express his hurt, anger and violation.

His anger was expressed in words. His anger was released in sound. He screamed. He cranked the music to deafening heights. Pulp was on. Jarvis Cocker shares the same initials as her Saviour.

Save him Jarvis.

The lights were low. The only ones left standing at the end of this Saturday night were Matty, Kissy and The Comrade. The familiar synth squeal opening bar to "Do You Remember the First Time" began. Matt and I looked at each other. Something invisible shrouded our eyes.

"You say you've got to go home 'cos he's sitting on his own again this evening. I know you're gonna let him bore your pants off again. Oh God, it's half past eight, you'll be late."

Matty picked up his first side plate and whipped it against the wall. I jumped up and started dancing.

"You say you've never been sure, though it makes good sense for you to be together. Still you bought a toy that can reach the places he never goes. Oh, now it's getting late. He's so straight."

Matt was dancing frantically and furiously throwing breakable objects, turning over tables, screaming. Kissy was dancing sweetly and trailing after him picking up everything that overturned. I was dancing hard and fast away from him knowing the clean-up was premature.

Gathering a dozen soft citrus fruits in my arms I offered my friend the first throw. Anti-scurvy devices were launched into the kitchen, as we continually danced.

"Do you remember the first time? I can't remember a worse time. But you know that we've changed so much since then, oh yeah, we've grown. Now I don't care what you're doing, no I don't care if you screw him. Just as long as you save a piece for me, oh yeah, you say you've got to go home."

Which we did eventually. Panting exhaustively.

Nothing was lost on me. Nothing forgotten.

A heed in warning for whomever is listening: Never fuck with anyone I love.

He shall not leave, unless it is on his own terms, by his own volition.

But I made sure, with the meeting I had with Guiseppe the very next day, that Melissa, will never appear on the schedule again.

"She can either be your greatest ally or your worst enemy. It's really up to you."