Coda: Everybody's Working for the Weekend

Ugh. Body's in trouble. I feel like an old woman. After close to 6 weeks, I finally worked for the first time last night. For pay. For God's sakes. It's got to be better than this. This felt like work. I don't like it. Not one bit. Yech.

I realised how spoiled I was from working at Giuseppe's place. You went in. You did a little set up with righteous tunes in the background. There were others. There was ass slapping. Jump hugging. Others: support staff, other waitrons, bartenders, surly cooks, and a meandering Giuseppe often silently frantic about the upcoming evening. I liked it.

The Cheer's equivalent bar is not Giuseppe's restaurant. I was alone. It was new and unfamiliar. Ish. Historically, it had been a place crawled to after I'd finished work at Giuseppe's, having just pounded 6 beers in rapid succession. Well, like I'd always said about my old place of employ, "This is as good as it gets."

The Cheer's equivalent has an intimate feel. The ceilings are half the height, which makes yelling rather disruptive to others. It makes me less prone to yelling. Yelling is one of my favourite things to do in public. Cleans out the old lungs.

Every restaurant has its own drama.
Every restaurant seems to be in a constant state of flux.
Every restaurant has a hate target. Arrows usually point towards the kitchen.
I do not have enough information yet to add comment on any of the above. I just know it exists. More later, I'm sure.

Bonus points for being able to walk to work in 10 minutes.
Freak points for stepping into the place A) during daylight hours and B) sober.

Mike, the sous chef whom I often hang out at concerts smoking pot with, unlocked the door for me yesterday. The first time I met Mike I thought he sounded like Cartman from South Park.

The first time I stepped into the Cheer's equivalent, I'd been dragged in by my good friend, Dirty. She was friends with one of the owners and a few of the staff. There was one young lady, who occasionally bartended there, that demanded quite a lot of attention. Sarah. She didn't care how she got it, as long as she got it. We're all like that, as I'd discovered. But there are ways and there are ways.

She got attention by being overtly sexually demonstrative. She was a lap sitter, a do you want to see my tits sort of girl. As I am The Enabler, I encourage certain behaviour that even the biggest exhibitionist finds rather unsettling.

That evening, Sarah had worn a little black dress with a halter style bodice. With her hairstyle and neo-goth stylings, it was evident she was going for the Betty Page look, replete with sexual coquetry. At the time she was dating Dirty's ex-husband Mark. Mark and I had worked together years ago. I used to call Mark the Rat-faced Boy. Well, he did look rather rodent-like.

I am not without my mean.

Mark hovers around the 6' mark. I generously place him at 120 lbs, soaking wet. Small, fine features. Translucent skin. Twitchy nose. Sketchy, by way of a serious coke habit. A contradiction because he is otherwise a health freak. Nonstop, rather annoying bouts of longwinded monologues. Sometimes they were diatribes. Just to mix it up. He couldn't care less if there was someone else there. He continued. And continued. And Dirty divorced him. Not because of that, though. It was the blow. The blow blew.

The Rat-faced boy and Betty Page were getting it on for a spell. The magic powder was their semi-adherer. The sticky note that attaches itself to things, though a heavy wind or a brush from a shoulder could knock it down. Sarah, though having walked into the Cheer's equivalent with Mark, the Rat-faced Boy, was doing everything in her power to try to seduce the Cartman sounding Mike. Mike just sat there looking at me for aid. I didn't even know this guy yet, but he did end up saying a lovely truism: There is something to be said about mystery.

Sarah was starved for attention. Sarah was also hepped up on goofballs. At one point, she was standing in front of our table of 8. She, a vision vascillating between a gang girl's neckshaking, Jerry Springer regular guest and a soft, soft kitten. I was standing behind her. I was talking to her in the tones I usually save for very, very drunk people, which is very calm and soothing. Doing so, I'd placed one arm around her waist and dug the opposite hand deep into her halter top and whipped out one of her boobs. It felt like reeling in a fish. Without the fight. She feigned embarrassment, but she still allowed me to do it twice. Who wants to see Righty?



God, I hate working.

I wish I could be independantly monied. Not wealthy, but not needing to work. Work really sucks. Right now my cat is barfing. It seems laborious for him as well. I can tell you, here at Love and Comraderie H.Q., we're just about to draft picket signs and start marching around in circles. Dodging bilious matter, hopefully.

Okay, well, I can now smell the partially digested cat treats that just got thrown up. Oh, he's now trying to bury it, saving it for later. He's not getting that option today. It's turning my stomach. Wouldn't it be nice to have support staff for a clean up in aisle 3? Heave. Ho.



It was really, really busy last night.

Kim, the new boss: What the fuck? How did everyone find out you're working here so quickly?

It had nothing to do with me. I cannot explain how some things work. I've never understood the restaurant business and I never will. It's what keeps me in it. Surprise!

I don't lie. Or rather, I learned to stop lying years ago. I still do it for certain people, chiefly my mother. It keeps her from worrying.

Mom: How's work going?
The Comrade: [eating chips, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer, having not worked in weeks] Greeeaaat!

Last night, my first night, I got totally weeded. The entire restaurant filled up. Back-up, bench-warming artillery had to be called in. I had to toss the remainder of my pride down the toilet. Kim, the new boss and Ian, my awesome friend whom I used to make out with, but now that I've got a fiancé I'm not gonna anymore, were the reserves. It is helpful that there exists the Cheer's equivalent sister restaurant with its own staff. Just in case. Just in case the Comrade is drowning on her first night. In her own spit.

Caught in a riptide of:
A new menu
Approximately 40 types of wine which I have zero tasting notes for.
Approximately 20 of these wines available by the glass.
Having no idea where any of these wines were located. I can liken this process similar to holding a keychain with 200 keys on it, trying to find the right one. Within a maximum timeframe. Or the end of the world happens.
F-R-U-S-T-R-A-T-I-O-N!
Everyone wanting more BREAD!
Everyone wanting a main course, though the Cheer's equivalent is a known tapas bar.
At one point of full capacity, having no support staff.
Being sober!
Forgetting people's orders.
Forgetting my own name.
Being completely unable to read my own handwriting.

I didn't lie to these poor people. Best just come clean, I say.

The Comrade: [to select individuals] I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. I actually completely forgot what it was you ordered. I'm writing it down now. Please forgive me. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

They were all very forgiving of the entire situation. Ah, humans!

As much as I adore Ian, he is the worst person to work with. He does not like joking around when he works. No laughs for him. No good times. It's work. What? And he's highly competitive. I don't get it. I am the same person whether in any business scenario or life situation. I don't understand work mode. I understand professionalism, but professionalism without one's own personality? That, I don't get. Which is probably one factor of getting my ass fired more often than not. Alas. Luckily, Kim understands me.

Kim, the new boss: You know, Ian, it is possible to do both.

Ian was in a bad mood last night. I kept calling him a "she". She didn't like it.

The Comrade: [to Kim, but within earshot to Ian] She's a moody little thing tonight.
Kim: She's... just... moody.

Well, I'll just slap Ian silly the next time I see her at Stratenger's, the delightful bar that with a $10 membership, allows one to smoke until one keels over.

Thank God I have the next 6 days off. Hello weekend!