Whatcha Gonna Do When They Come For You?

Monday is the night I have my weekly engagement at the Cheer's Equivalent, tending bar, explaining classic French and Alsatian dishes inspired by the new chef, formerly known as Cartman sounding Mike, because wow does he ever sound like Cartman, now lovingly referred to as Cupcake.

All the cooks in the Cheer's Equivalent kitchen that feed many, including myself quite often and quite satisfactorily, are straight men. Who hork, scratch their balls, gossip, tell disgusting stories, and act quite gay around each other. I love kitchen staff. They're my favourite. Cartman sounding Mike is the newest chef, replacing a fellow who lost interest because cooking was at best his second love, maybe closer to his ex-wife whom he has to pay alimony to. His first love was aimed at a musical career, though it didn't really take off the way he envisioned. The old chef became embittered and the product he produced nightly was uninspired. He was released, only moderately kicking and screaming, with a fair and decent package. His name was removed from the menu.

Yau See [the fella who married a girl from China not for love, but for a tidy sum, who works alongside Cartman sounding Mike]: (lisping) Ssssooo... what are we going to call you?
Cartman sounding Mike: What do you mean?
Yau See: Well, you have to put your name at the bottom of the menu now. You're the new chef!
Cartman sounding Mike: No, I don't, dude.
The Comrade: Maybe you could use a moniker.
Yau See: (still lisping) I think you're cute. How about Cupcake?

On the chalk written sandwich board out front, enticing people to come in, the Comrade scribed:

Someone in the kitchen's called Cupcake

Though I only work there once a week, it stayed on until I returned the following Monday.
I found out a week later that hoardes of handsome gay men had approached the open window in the kitchen vying to say hello to Cupcake.

The Comrade: What's wrong, Cupcake? Not enough sprinkles?
Cupcake is none too pleased with the Comrade.

Kitchens tend to be testosterone breeding grounds. It is unglamourous work that is extremely hot, dangerous by way of potential burns, stabbings, immersions into deep fryers. God, that happened once. Not to anyone I know, but relayed to me by one of my old bosses.

A clean kitchen is a refined kitchen. Beyond that, it is one way of getting one's restaurant approved by the Health Inspector. The hood is located above all cooking areas that require heat and produce exhaust. Grill, griddle, salamander, ovens, deep fryer. The hood gets covered in grease nightly. It is something that needs to be cleaned regularly or a fine dusting of particles which include dirt, sloughed off skin, moon dust and french fry fragments adhere to it. Then more grilling, more griddling, more deep frying and more broiling happens. The hood becomes a grease layer cake. Once that cake is in effect, hours can be spent trying to remove inch thick grimy residue that has a tendency to drip onto food that you or I could order on any given night.

Hoods are located high up on walls which means whomever the lucky sod who is chosen to clean the thing has to stand precariously on a ladder, or sometimes directly on cooking surfaces to reach all aspects of the smoke sucker. It is very important to turn off all cooking equipment prior to embarking on a spring clean. Don't forget the deep fryer. Even if there are a couple of cookie sheets shielding any greasy run-off, it really should be turned off, or better yet, emptied.

Once upon a time, during one of these hoodwashes, someone had lost balance, tipping the cookie sheet shielding the fry oil which was kept at a constant 350˚F. An entire leg was submerged into the vat. Shock set in, then unconsciousness nearly immediately afterwards. The leg remained. Crispy deep fried tibia, cooked to the bone was invented, yet vetoed as the evening's special.


Last Monday was a bad day for many men for some reasons I'm aware of, some I am not. At 12:30am, my darling friend Dirty walked in for a nightcap and a bit of work respite to find 2 men crying, 1 man sitting alone blurringly staring at his vodka and soda with not a modicum of interest, and one man sighing both from physical exhaustion by way of a full day of deck building and being emotionally abandoned by his girlfriend, the Doyenne.

Dirty: Am I in the right place?
The Comrade: Oh yeah. Care for a smoke?

I'd spent the last 1/2 hour, preceding Dirty's entrance, gently rubbing backs, dispensing "there there's" and giving out hugs to the ones who were crying.

Outside while debriefing the known causes of the upsets in the sorrowful men's lives, Dirty and I were sharing visual space with Titties.

Weeks ago, while setting up the restaurant, Cupcake had spied a pair of C-cups at the front door from the open window kitchen.

Cupcake: Oh my God! Look at those!
Cupcake doesn't rouse easily. He was noticably excited.

Standing outside, trying to unlock the glass door which leads to the small apartments upstairs was a young, heavy set man, slightly dishevelled, with a full alabaster rack.

Cupcake: Those aren't just man breasts! They're full on titties!

Titties moved into the building a few weeks ago. Since his tenancy he has misplaced his keys at least 3 times. Maybe he put the key in his shirt and left it somewhere? Hard to say. When Dirty and I were outside engaged in subdued chatter and enjoying a little fumez bien, Titties had been sulking the block and loitering outside the building for the better part of 3 hours.

At first he was silent. Then he started exhaling heavily. It is frustrating not being able to get into one's apartment. He pressed on the buzzers of all the building's occupants. No avail. Apparently the first time Titties had misplaced his keys, the landlord was out of town. One of the other tenants had cut a new key for the poor mammoried fellow... which got lost again.

The mild temperatures have dropped again, so Titties has been covering up. His styling is second hand army surplus. His self administered haircut, more than likely shorn by way of dull knife blade, resembled not quite bedhead, but perhaps auburn parkbenchhead, the last place he would have received a 10 minute power nap. When he walks, he lumbers. He skulks. He peers. Jeepers Creepers.

Intermittently is heard a series of kicks to a glass door, followed by a moan.

The sorrowful men had left leaving the bar full of women at the end of the night. The Doyenne was bone tired from working excessively and dealing with the aftermath of having her principal restaurant, the Cheer's Equivalent Sister Restaurant, ripped away from her. The Comrade sensed her need to leave quickly, visions of sugarplum fairies already forming in her hypothalamus. Engaged was the tactful statement which effectively promotes immediate vacancy:

Skanks... be gone!

Each of the women exiting gave a wide berth to the sulking Titties still huffing and puffing outside. After the last paying body left, the Doyenne and the Comrade were engaged in a brief debrief of the evening. Until the door opened. And a backlit Titties walked 2 steps into the bar.

I really thought the door was locked.

The Comrade: Sorry, we're closed.
Titties [head slightly tilted back, body in profile, eyes cast down, talking... very... slowly]: I'm... locked... out... of... my... apartment.
The Comrade: That sucks, dude. Listen, is there someone you could call, maybe the landlord? Maybe he could let you in.
Titties: No. Do... you... have... a... rock...?
The Comrade: Um... no.
Titties: I... don't... need... a... rock... anyway.... I'm... better... than... a... rock.

Years ago I'd taken a sales seminar. The most important lesson in a sales transaction is to bring things to a close.

The Comrade: Well, good luck with that. I really hope you get in, dude. Try to have a good night. Goodbye.

And gratefully he leaves.

The Doyenne and I make for the door quickly and bolt the deadlock. I pick up the cordless phone and dial 911.

The Doyenne: Are you calling 911?
The Comrade: Yes.
The Doyenne: Don't you think that's a bit excessive?
The Comrade: Would you like to look through the phone book for 51 Division's direct line?
The Doyenne: Carry on. Carry on.

The first time I tried calling they dropped my connection.

The Comrade: What the fuck? I could be getting hacked to death, here.
I am currently reading American Psycho, so hacking and slashing are at the forefront of my mind.

Attempt #2:
911: Do you require ambulance, fire department or police?
The Comrade: Police, please.
911: Okie dokey.

The 911 dispatcher has the Canadian accented version of my future mother-in-law, Fatty's British mom, who incidentally, as I found out the other night, straight from the horse's mouth adores the Comrade.
It's helpful.

I state the problem. She remains sunny throughout. I give her as much information as I can.

911: So he's locked out?
The Comrade: Yes.
911: And he's threatening to smash the window with a rock?
The Comrade: Or use brute strength.
911: Right. Does he seem like he's been drinking tonight?
The Comrade: [tenatively] No.
911: Pills?
The Comrade: Oh yeah.
911: What's your name?

I tell her. She thanks me and promises that a cruiser will come forthwith. Hasta pronto. Post haste.
5 minutes later the usually unanimated Tittied Pill Popper begins yelling his head off. The cruiser is parked a block away. No cherries are spinning.

[phone rings]

The Doyenne and I look at each other.

Police: Hello! This is the Police.
The Comrade: Hello Police!
Police: We've sent some officers to the scene. Would you mind greeting them?
The Comrade: No, not at all.

I step to the front glass window where I notice Pill Popping Tits first. I am apprehensive in approaching closer. In the foreground is Officer #1, a black male officer. In the background is Officer #2, an Asian male officer. Both are in their late 20's to early 30's. Asian male officer takes one look at Asian bartender lodging complaint and it looks as if there are too many of one flavour. He goes back to the cruiser, which has now pulled up in front of the bar.

Officer #1: Do you know this man?
The Comrade: [looking at Tits who is simultaneously looking very scared and very scary] Yes, he lives upstairs. And he can't get into his apartment. Hey! Maybe these nice officers can help!

I am trying my best to not seem like someone who has just called the cops on someone very scary.

Officer #1 tries pushing the buzzer on one of 4 apartments. No dice.

The Comrade: [trying to be helpful] My boss just informed me she may have the phone number to the landlord. We could try the number.
Officer #1: That would be very helpful. Thank you. And could you write the name and number down for me as well?
The Comrade: Sure.

The Doyenne leaves a very civil message to someone I think is a greedy bastard for accepting a tenancy by someone obviously disturbed looking. I return back to the front door with the new information.

The Comrade: He's not picking up his phone, but we left a message.
Officer #1: [to Scary Tits] You can't bust down this door, so if we can't get ahold of your landlord you're going to have to stay at the hospital tonight.
Scary Tits: I... don't... want... to... go... to the hospital!

I step back a little.

Officer #1: [to me, in front of Tits] Well, thanks for calling us. What's your name again?

GREAT
My name is I Might As Well Be Dead Now

To serve and protect?

The Doyenne had found out by the gossiping Cupcake that Pill Popping Tits didn't physically apply for the apartment upstairs. It was his mother who came from the suburb Oshawa who was interviewed by the previously accused greedy Scumlord. More than likely she had told the landlord that her son was too busy to come down to see it himself. She provided first and last month's rent, just like any standard rental procedure. She probably used a lot of concealer make-up for the meeting. Tits was living with his mother in Oshawa prior to his new, sometimes accessible, mostly inaccessible digs. The reason she was looking for a roost of his own was apparently the young breasted man has brain issues. There were moments when he would forget who the woman was who gave birth to him. In his lapses of memory his recourse was to beat the living snot out of her.

I am currently banking on the memory lapses wishing to keep all of my own snot.