Confessions from a Recovering Addict
My name is The Comrade... and I am an addict.
I don't shoot up, though I do tequilla shooters. I don't snort unless it's during an uncontrollable laughing fit. After the last time I smoked pot, and I don't care what you say, Fatty, that shit was laced with something, I became incredibly paranoid. Stumbling home, thinking every passerby was going to kill me, I made the decision to no longer seek a herbal remedy.
I have strange addictions.
Like love.
Like Scrabble.
Like books on tape.
The books on tape thing isn't too destructive an addiction, mostly because I can do other things while I'm listening to a story. I'm beginning to eat regularly because of these types of books. I really like cooking, but cooking for one isn't as fun. Before the rediscovery of these books I would eat, but only when I was starving. It would usually be something that was quick and dirty to fix and throw down. With books on tape I can now manage to make rather elaborate cococtions. Mom always said that food tastes bland when eaten alone. I add it's even blander when made alone.
My house is also cleaner.
I was happy to come home the other night after work to find my apartment free of any new frothy splotches of cat blick or droplets of fecal matter. I had planted exactly 12 white hyacinths in a large tin window planter the other day. The blooms are full and their scent has spread throughout my home. It smells like white spring. Heady in the intoxicating way blind love leaves me. There was no longer any sick smell in here, like there was the other day. Though he is a bit slow arriving, my young man Chicken always comes to greet me at the door. He's still on Orange Alert.
At work on Monday I wore a shirt I'd never worn before. I think I paid $12 for it. It's new. From China. From my favourite clothing store that sells shirts that make no sense at all. My favourite shirt, purchased at this location, which I have rare occasions and bravery to wear touts WHEN THERE IS NO REASON TO LIVE in bold lettering across the front.
How I work is fairly commando in styling. Things are slammed. Very little time is wasted. I try to do as much as I can in one pass. I wear black clothing to work for a reason. Because there is draught beer that sometimes explosively sprays when the keg is nearly empty, because they like it if I rinse off dirty plates with the giant dishwasher's spray arm, because there are times that I instigate fights involving food or beverage, I get wet. And I often dry my hands on my shirts, simulaneously smoothing the fabric. I wear black at work because even when it's wet you can't see through it.
During one point of the evening, once I coerced half of the bar to go outside and smoke with me, I noticed my hands were black. The glass washer was acting up. There was a containment breach within the metal unit which caused scalding hot water to run into the basement. Apparently the internal heater was accidentally left on the night before. My other boss Kevin surmised that the metal had expanded to the point of losing its seal, sending both water and a gallon of chemical dishwashing liquid down into the already dank, now very slippery, basement.
Sometimes I think about the people who have jobs naming products. I don't know how some product names, which I imagine go through major committee meetings within an organisation, get approved. The name on the jug of the fallen chemical cleanser read: CONFIDENCE
We ran out of confidence.
When I got home and took off the $12 shirt, I realised why my hands were black. The dye was cheap, impregnating my pores. My belly and back looked like Tyson had a go at me. Thank God he didn't get at my ears.
I have a stalker in his late forties who comes in virtually every Monday night. He's a film editor working on a reality series about lawyers. Normally he's well behaved. On Monday night he was overtly and inappropriately caustic and sexual in our interactions. Normally I can tolerate this, volleying up some quip that immediately diffuses the situation. It wasn't working. The problem was he was in no frame of mind to listen to anything anyone else had to say. I am the consumate bartender; I listen and I am earnestly interested in what people have to say. I don't always agree. But I always offer my 2ยข worth. What I find intolerable is those occasions when people take advantage of that. When a human delivers a 20 minute monologue, not allowing anyone else any room to speak, I consider it blatant masturbatory behaviour warranting a summons, by me, to go home.
The Comrade: [after 5 unsuccessful attempts of contributing to a conversation] You do realise that you haven't allowed anyone else to speak. I have been very generous with my time and ears with you tonight. I'm not sure whether you left your home/office today to talk at people, but I'm not going to be party to this.
Then there was Abdul. Mid forties, salt and pepper hair, classic film-asshole glasses; lives in Oakville, a suburb west of the city. For the 95th time this week...
Abdul: So where are you from?
The Comrade: North York General. Wrapped in hospital issue swaddling pink. And you?
Abdul: I'm from Toronto, too.
The Comrade: No you're not.
I can usually tell. And I was right. Mississauga does not a Toronto make.
I also have fairly good accuracy whether someone is good or not so good within the first few bars of interaction, though I'm sometimes wrong. The wrong breaks my heart.
I found out more about Paula, the girl whom I adored on first sight. The one who said to me, "You had me at 'hello'." The one who received 14 bunches of daisies strewn in her foyer by my wonderful friend Ian. The last communication Ian had with her was scrawled on a piece of notepaper stating plainly that a personal response would be appreciated. Not just a passed message from her roommate stating that she "liked the flowers".
She text messaged him. I hate text messaging. I H8 lkng @ ths.
She accused him of being too much of an attention seeker.
If I ever see her again...
I cannot write what I will do as it may incriminate me.
There was a very nice table of 4 who came in for something to eat. 3 girls and 1 cute boy. They all had a lovely time. They all had a lovely meal. The young man wanted to pay the bill. I never usually look at how much someone leaves me as a tip. Normally I don't really care. For some reason I was compelled to.
$5 on a $66 bill.
I looked at the name on the card and approached Sheldon.
The Comrade: [smacking Sheldon's arm] Sheldon, can I talk to you for a second?
Sheldon: Sure.
The Comrade: You do realise you left me $5 on a $66 bill.
Sheldon: Yeah. You were great.
The Comrade: You're not from around these parts, are you?
Sheldon: No. I'm from Newfoundland.
The Comrade: Okay. See, this is how it's done over here.
And then I explain, even though tipping is optional, that 10% is offered if the service is fine. 15% when service is good. 20% if service is exemplary. And that I make $4/ hr.
Sheldon: Oh, I know. I just wanted to be non-conformist.
blink blink... blink blink...
Then...
A couple walks in. Again mid-forties. The woman sat alone as the man had gone to the washroom by the time I had come over.
Woman: Um... I'm fine. But could you bring him (gesturing at an empty seat) a Blue?
The place of my employ does not carry regular domestic beer. We don't believe in it. Anything beer we carry, made in Canada, is from microbreweries. There are plenty of places along the strip that carry regular domestics and usually they offer a dual role of unemployment cheque cashing services as well.
The Comrade: I'm sorry, we don't carry that beer. Should I wait until he gets back to offer him something else?
She agreed. After a few minutes he returned.
The Comrade: I'm afraid we don't have that beer.
Man: Well what have you got?
I tell him.
I look in his eyes. What I see is slight drunkenness, which is fine, but also sublevel rage and a twinge of sociopathic numbness was evident. I don't like what I see.
Man: I want a real beer.
The Comrade: Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to go down the street. I'm sorry, I can't help you.
And then I walk away.
By this time I'd already given my buddy Mike in the kitchen a head's up about this guy. Mike would be called in as back-up only in an emergency situation. Mike was itching for a fight that night. I'd rather diffuse the situation alone than cause a potentially ugly scene.
When I was taking care of cheap, non-conforming Sheldon's table, the Man loudly said, "Excuse me."
Which made myself and the other four turn around.
The Man: [looking at the other four] Not you!
I walk over to give the Man a let's keep this between you and me look.
The Comrade: Okay... what can I do for you?
The Man: [in a tense forced calm] I'll have a Stella.
The Comrade: Well, this is the thing. I really don't feel comfortable serving you. I feel like you've had too much to drink.
The Man: No. We just came back from the theatre. Do you want to smell my breath?
The Comrade: [wrinkling her nose] No. Thank you. But no.
The Man: Just one beer. Please?
I don't like lying and I'm not good at it.
The Comrade: Well, this is the other thing. Last week we got busted for serving intoxicated people. My boss is in the kitchen now and I don't want to upset him. I'm really sorry, but I can't.
Like any good sales technique, one brings things to a close. I walk away again. And don't return back to the table.
After about 10 minutes the Man comes up to the corner of the bar and wants to talk to me. No... closer, he'd like. From behind the bar I moved all the objects which could be hurled at my head away from his arm's reach. I went closer.
The Man: You did the right thing. I'm from Liquor Control.
And he shook my hand.
I have been in this business for 20 years and I have never heard tale of anything like this happening before. Adrenaline was pumping for additional 20 minutes after the door closed behind him.
Outside for another smoke, I had mentioned I was married.
Abdul, the Oakvillian: [standing uncomfortably close to me] Myarried, myarried?
The Comrade: Yes, myarried, myarried. For 7 1/2 years.
Abdul: Wow.
The Comrade: Second marriage.
Abdul: Second?
The Comrade: I'm 36.
Abdul: I didn't ask how old you were.
The Comrade: [looking directly at him for 10 seconds] You know Abdul, I have to tell you, because I can't keep this kind of thing inside. It would feel like a cancer.... I don't like you.
I said to my good friend Craig Webster, who came in half drunk, half escaping his sick-for-2-weeks girlfriend, that I felt I was in a bit of a state that night. These days I'm having a harder time self-containing reprimands to the world. I don't know if I'm becoming a crotchety old girl or what.
I'm disappointed in a lot of people lately. Not on a whole, but certainly in more and more isolated cases. Where are you, the unabashedly fun? The righteous? The spirited? The sweet? Where did you hang yourself? Do you remember the last time you saw it? You? Can't you backtrack to get you back?
I wonder. I wonder where they lost their ability to interact with the world. Why did they trade their spirit for dead eyes? And with those eyes and calloused fingers, when did long letters turn to "succinct" email replies which then turned curt, going the way of rude?
My name is The Comrade and I am a recovering Scrabble Addict.
I had to trash my online version the other day. ... and lead us not into temptation. I felt that pull of addiction again. ... but deliver us from evil. When I was out, I couldn't wait to come home to play it. In my mind, tiles would rearrange themselves creating new words worth 50 points. In that process I withdrew from society. As much as I enjoy time alone, I don't want to have an insular life. I don't want to forget how to interact with the world. And I don't ever want to make concessions for them anymore. They're old enough. They should know better.
I don't shoot up, though I do tequilla shooters. I don't snort unless it's during an uncontrollable laughing fit. After the last time I smoked pot, and I don't care what you say, Fatty, that shit was laced with something, I became incredibly paranoid. Stumbling home, thinking every passerby was going to kill me, I made the decision to no longer seek a herbal remedy.
I have strange addictions.
Like love.
Like Scrabble.
Like books on tape.
The books on tape thing isn't too destructive an addiction, mostly because I can do other things while I'm listening to a story. I'm beginning to eat regularly because of these types of books. I really like cooking, but cooking for one isn't as fun. Before the rediscovery of these books I would eat, but only when I was starving. It would usually be something that was quick and dirty to fix and throw down. With books on tape I can now manage to make rather elaborate cococtions. Mom always said that food tastes bland when eaten alone. I add it's even blander when made alone.
My house is also cleaner.
I was happy to come home the other night after work to find my apartment free of any new frothy splotches of cat blick or droplets of fecal matter. I had planted exactly 12 white hyacinths in a large tin window planter the other day. The blooms are full and their scent has spread throughout my home. It smells like white spring. Heady in the intoxicating way blind love leaves me. There was no longer any sick smell in here, like there was the other day. Though he is a bit slow arriving, my young man Chicken always comes to greet me at the door. He's still on Orange Alert.
At work on Monday I wore a shirt I'd never worn before. I think I paid $12 for it. It's new. From China. From my favourite clothing store that sells shirts that make no sense at all. My favourite shirt, purchased at this location, which I have rare occasions and bravery to wear touts WHEN THERE IS NO REASON TO LIVE in bold lettering across the front.
How I work is fairly commando in styling. Things are slammed. Very little time is wasted. I try to do as much as I can in one pass. I wear black clothing to work for a reason. Because there is draught beer that sometimes explosively sprays when the keg is nearly empty, because they like it if I rinse off dirty plates with the giant dishwasher's spray arm, because there are times that I instigate fights involving food or beverage, I get wet. And I often dry my hands on my shirts, simulaneously smoothing the fabric. I wear black at work because even when it's wet you can't see through it.
During one point of the evening, once I coerced half of the bar to go outside and smoke with me, I noticed my hands were black. The glass washer was acting up. There was a containment breach within the metal unit which caused scalding hot water to run into the basement. Apparently the internal heater was accidentally left on the night before. My other boss Kevin surmised that the metal had expanded to the point of losing its seal, sending both water and a gallon of chemical dishwashing liquid down into the already dank, now very slippery, basement.
Sometimes I think about the people who have jobs naming products. I don't know how some product names, which I imagine go through major committee meetings within an organisation, get approved. The name on the jug of the fallen chemical cleanser read: CONFIDENCE
We ran out of confidence.
When I got home and took off the $12 shirt, I realised why my hands were black. The dye was cheap, impregnating my pores. My belly and back looked like Tyson had a go at me. Thank God he didn't get at my ears.
I have a stalker in his late forties who comes in virtually every Monday night. He's a film editor working on a reality series about lawyers. Normally he's well behaved. On Monday night he was overtly and inappropriately caustic and sexual in our interactions. Normally I can tolerate this, volleying up some quip that immediately diffuses the situation. It wasn't working. The problem was he was in no frame of mind to listen to anything anyone else had to say. I am the consumate bartender; I listen and I am earnestly interested in what people have to say. I don't always agree. But I always offer my 2ยข worth. What I find intolerable is those occasions when people take advantage of that. When a human delivers a 20 minute monologue, not allowing anyone else any room to speak, I consider it blatant masturbatory behaviour warranting a summons, by me, to go home.
The Comrade: [after 5 unsuccessful attempts of contributing to a conversation] You do realise that you haven't allowed anyone else to speak. I have been very generous with my time and ears with you tonight. I'm not sure whether you left your home/office today to talk at people, but I'm not going to be party to this.
Then there was Abdul. Mid forties, salt and pepper hair, classic film-asshole glasses; lives in Oakville, a suburb west of the city. For the 95th time this week...
Abdul: So where are you from?
The Comrade: North York General. Wrapped in hospital issue swaddling pink. And you?
Abdul: I'm from Toronto, too.
The Comrade: No you're not.
I can usually tell. And I was right. Mississauga does not a Toronto make.
I also have fairly good accuracy whether someone is good or not so good within the first few bars of interaction, though I'm sometimes wrong. The wrong breaks my heart.
I found out more about Paula, the girl whom I adored on first sight. The one who said to me, "You had me at 'hello'." The one who received 14 bunches of daisies strewn in her foyer by my wonderful friend Ian. The last communication Ian had with her was scrawled on a piece of notepaper stating plainly that a personal response would be appreciated. Not just a passed message from her roommate stating that she "liked the flowers".
She text messaged him. I hate text messaging. I H8 lkng @ ths.
She accused him of being too much of an attention seeker.
If I ever see her again...
I cannot write what I will do as it may incriminate me.
There was a very nice table of 4 who came in for something to eat. 3 girls and 1 cute boy. They all had a lovely time. They all had a lovely meal. The young man wanted to pay the bill. I never usually look at how much someone leaves me as a tip. Normally I don't really care. For some reason I was compelled to.
$5 on a $66 bill.
I looked at the name on the card and approached Sheldon.
The Comrade: [smacking Sheldon's arm] Sheldon, can I talk to you for a second?
Sheldon: Sure.
The Comrade: You do realise you left me $5 on a $66 bill.
Sheldon: Yeah. You were great.
The Comrade: You're not from around these parts, are you?
Sheldon: No. I'm from Newfoundland.
The Comrade: Okay. See, this is how it's done over here.
And then I explain, even though tipping is optional, that 10% is offered if the service is fine. 15% when service is good. 20% if service is exemplary. And that I make $4/ hr.
Sheldon: Oh, I know. I just wanted to be non-conformist.
blink blink... blink blink...
Then...
A couple walks in. Again mid-forties. The woman sat alone as the man had gone to the washroom by the time I had come over.
Woman: Um... I'm fine. But could you bring him (gesturing at an empty seat) a Blue?
The place of my employ does not carry regular domestic beer. We don't believe in it. Anything beer we carry, made in Canada, is from microbreweries. There are plenty of places along the strip that carry regular domestics and usually they offer a dual role of unemployment cheque cashing services as well.
The Comrade: I'm sorry, we don't carry that beer. Should I wait until he gets back to offer him something else?
She agreed. After a few minutes he returned.
The Comrade: I'm afraid we don't have that beer.
Man: Well what have you got?
I tell him.
I look in his eyes. What I see is slight drunkenness, which is fine, but also sublevel rage and a twinge of sociopathic numbness was evident. I don't like what I see.
Man: I want a real beer.
The Comrade: Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to go down the street. I'm sorry, I can't help you.
And then I walk away.
By this time I'd already given my buddy Mike in the kitchen a head's up about this guy. Mike would be called in as back-up only in an emergency situation. Mike was itching for a fight that night. I'd rather diffuse the situation alone than cause a potentially ugly scene.
When I was taking care of cheap, non-conforming Sheldon's table, the Man loudly said, "Excuse me."
Which made myself and the other four turn around.
The Man: [looking at the other four] Not you!
I walk over to give the Man a let's keep this between you and me look.
The Comrade: Okay... what can I do for you?
The Man: [in a tense forced calm] I'll have a Stella.
The Comrade: Well, this is the thing. I really don't feel comfortable serving you. I feel like you've had too much to drink.
The Man: No. We just came back from the theatre. Do you want to smell my breath?
The Comrade: [wrinkling her nose] No. Thank you. But no.
The Man: Just one beer. Please?
I don't like lying and I'm not good at it.
The Comrade: Well, this is the other thing. Last week we got busted for serving intoxicated people. My boss is in the kitchen now and I don't want to upset him. I'm really sorry, but I can't.
Like any good sales technique, one brings things to a close. I walk away again. And don't return back to the table.
After about 10 minutes the Man comes up to the corner of the bar and wants to talk to me. No... closer, he'd like. From behind the bar I moved all the objects which could be hurled at my head away from his arm's reach. I went closer.
The Man: You did the right thing. I'm from Liquor Control.
And he shook my hand.
I have been in this business for 20 years and I have never heard tale of anything like this happening before. Adrenaline was pumping for additional 20 minutes after the door closed behind him.
Outside for another smoke, I had mentioned I was married.
Abdul, the Oakvillian: [standing uncomfortably close to me] Myarried, myarried?
The Comrade: Yes, myarried, myarried. For 7 1/2 years.
Abdul: Wow.
The Comrade: Second marriage.
Abdul: Second?
The Comrade: I'm 36.
Abdul: I didn't ask how old you were.
The Comrade: [looking directly at him for 10 seconds] You know Abdul, I have to tell you, because I can't keep this kind of thing inside. It would feel like a cancer.... I don't like you.
I said to my good friend Craig Webster, who came in half drunk, half escaping his sick-for-2-weeks girlfriend, that I felt I was in a bit of a state that night. These days I'm having a harder time self-containing reprimands to the world. I don't know if I'm becoming a crotchety old girl or what.
I'm disappointed in a lot of people lately. Not on a whole, but certainly in more and more isolated cases. Where are you, the unabashedly fun? The righteous? The spirited? The sweet? Where did you hang yourself? Do you remember the last time you saw it? You? Can't you backtrack to get you back?
I wonder. I wonder where they lost their ability to interact with the world. Why did they trade their spirit for dead eyes? And with those eyes and calloused fingers, when did long letters turn to "succinct" email replies which then turned curt, going the way of rude?
My name is The Comrade and I am a recovering Scrabble Addict.
I had to trash my online version the other day. ... and lead us not into temptation. I felt that pull of addiction again. ... but deliver us from evil. When I was out, I couldn't wait to come home to play it. In my mind, tiles would rearrange themselves creating new words worth 50 points. In that process I withdrew from society. As much as I enjoy time alone, I don't want to have an insular life. I don't want to forget how to interact with the world. And I don't ever want to make concessions for them anymore. They're old enough. They should know better.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
3:56 p.m.
2 Comments:
CC,
Definitely a 25% post.
A week of being served by the good, the bad and the terribly distracted had my sensitivity peaked for tipping etiquette.
Example 1. Jump (the formerly nicknamed RedBeard, husband and current best friend) and I stopped at a diner (Apricot something or other) two hours from home for breakfast. Kitschy and fun, the diner had a huge collection of old lunchboxes and their corresponding thermoses. We sat beside a Welcome Back Kotter set. The server was a teenage-to-early-twenties guy.
Fairly average service. All our food arrived, hot and according to our diner-frequenting specifications (scrambled, whole wheat, sausage, ice water, thanks) and our coffees were topped up. $19 and change becomes $23 and change.
Example 2. The $16 dollar a night lodging (which was, thankfully, well-insulated) had a 24 hour "Cof_ee Shop" (burnt out neon "f") in which we dined twice. First night, $5.99 prime rib specials with a chocolate shake, two straws.
Zerehume is our server. Good posture, well-dressed, early-fifties man. He embodies Vegas service with the perfect amount of nonchalance and polite friendliness.
The night before we left (8+ hour drive), we had eaten a big lunch and were not overly hungry. We decided to have a 9:30p.m. mini-supper and skip breakfast in the morning (logic?) in order to get on the road earlier. We split a hot roast beef sandwich and requested a side salad to replace the french fries (and offset the second chocolate shake - whip cream, cherry- they knew what they were doing). Zerehume said 'no problem, even though we don't normally do that'.
Food arrived, extra plate for sharing (which the cheesy newlyweds didn't bother with), shake doesn't. Zerehume comes back to check on us. "They haven't brought your shake over, yet?" His Vegas-waiter-cool is obviously shaken. Shake arrives seconds later, two straws intact. $7.50 + 3.50 tip.
Example 3. On the road. Last major city before 3 hour home stretch. Robyn Is Starving. (Low-blood sugar = bitchy bitchy short temper). Stop at Coco's (a bakery/restaurant chain, not unlike a Kelsey's or some other place we wouldn't frequent if it weren't for lack of choice).
Order lunch and mention an interest in dessert. Last day of holidays and the brownie sundae concoction looks good. Our server is high school age, maybe almost 20. Our food arrives. "Is there anything else?" she asks while folding a bill and setting it on the table.
I take the hint: her shift is over and her boyfriend is waiting impatiently two tables away. Jump casually mentions "forks?" and she flits off to find some cutlery and napkins.
Jump: I guess she didn't think you looked interested enough for dessert.
Me: Yep. Wrinkly car clothes and sun burns, we are obviously poor tippers. Why would she bother with dessert?
I look up. She is standing at Boyfriend's booth, two feet away, staring us down, waiting for the credit card to land on the cheque so she can swipe it and remove her apron. I have had two bites of my lunch. She is lucky my blood sugar is returning to normal (and that I am ridiculously passive).
Why didn't she pass us off to the next server? Most diners will do this if the shifts are changing. Maybe corporate Coco's doesn't like to set aside tips for the off work servers. Maybe tip splitting would be too much math.
I beg Jump to throw down the Amex, the official credit card of the Vegas Honeymoon. She is HOVERING for godssake.
I hate undertipping. Jump feels it is his right to undertip if service is poor. He has never had family in the service industry. I make eye contact with the glaring server as my food gets cold and concede.
Tip on $15 : two bucks. And a complaint to the manager.
So CC, Thanks for the tipping guide. I thought it was wrong to tip less than 15% in any circumstance.
And re: your most recent post: What is WITH these flower receiving Toronto women? Say thank-you. You are not obligated to have his children, but Miss Manners would agree. Say "Thank-you".
When I read about your jilted friends, my heart hurts.
To quote Jump, when I hurt his feelings: It is just I have a little heart, and it is not very strong. (Spoken with a lisp that cannot pwonounce the "r"s).
I guess people are good and bad everywhere.
By
Anonymous, at 8:03 p.m.
Oh Robyn! So good to hear about your trip in excerpts of food! One day, when you and Jump are obscenely rich, I know you will look back at your honeymoon and the life you share now as the greatest times in the history of the world.
Rarely, but it has been known, I have left nothing and I have left 1 red cent as a tip. Bad behaviour should never be rewarded.
I read Jump's little heart line aloud. With your pronunciation guide I sounded like Elmer Fudd. Please apologise to him for me. He sounds lovely.
Best, best, best,
CC
By
Comrade Chicken, at 8:41 p.m.
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