Rats!
I don’t mean it in the expletive form, like: Darn, Shoot, or Golly. I mean it like: Fuck, vermin infestation and harborage! The shift started out strange enough. This woman walked in, Carmel, actual name. She claimed that she needed to be picked up. I reached for her like I was going to pick her up off the ground. That was the end of our honeymoon. She asked me to make a call for her, which I did. No answer. She told me to dial another number. Still no answer. I offered to call her a cab. She refused. Two minutes later she asked me to call again. I felt this woman was rather pushy for someone who hadn’t ordered a drink, yet. Customers walked in and I served them. I made the two calls for her again. No answer. Like the last time, I left messages explaining that it was O’ Brien’s on Main St. and Carmel needed to be picked up. She ordered a $3 glass of happy hour cab, put it on a credit card and closed out. A few minutes later, she asked where her credit card was. I opened the check presenter and showed her. Would I call again? No! No more calls. She started to get snippy, that’s when I got up in her grill. Leave. Make the call. Leave. Make the call. Bye, crazy lady. Where are you from? Here. No, you’re not. That’s when she called me a “faggot.” Whoa! Are you calling this Mazda Miata driver, a “faggot”? That’s over the line. Of course, she stiffed me. That’s okay. I had a customer nearby tip me fifteen on twenty out of sympathy. I wish I could say Carmel was the worst part of my night, but then the health department walked in.
The health department always makes my sphincter tighten. It’s like being called to the principal’s office or getting pulled over, not much good can come of it. They were doing their thing, testing the temperature of the water, checking the soda guns, shining flashlights by the beer cooler. That’s funny. I don’t remember that one. The bar got busy. I was serving some friends at the bar and a few tables were eating dinner. That’s when she called me over. This can’t be good. She said, “We have a serious problem. You have vermin infestation. We are going to have to close you down.” I got out my phone. “Let me call my manager,” I said. “It’s done. We talked to the head office. You must close the doors, now.” The irony is that the doors must be closed at all times. It’s health department code. At that point, my owner walked in. Thank God, this minimum waged monkey wasn’t going to have to deal with the problem.
For those who live outside of a real city: Boston, New York, Chicago, where rats walk the streets next to pedestrians, I have to tell you, there are rats everywhere. Rats are nocturnal, which means after the bar closes, they run around like the bar is a habitrail. These were bold vermin. They started coming out while there were customers around. Like the time, a customer at the bar said to my colleague, “Do you guys have a pet gerbil?” “Excuse me?” “A pet gerbil. I just saw it run by.” “Oh, yes, that’s Jerry, O’ Brien’s pet gerbil.” Some people can think on their feet. I would’ve said, “It’s a rat, dummy, next beer is on me.” Turns out the health department found rat shit through out the bar. Thank God for that crack cleaning crew tapping draft beers at 7:30 in the morning. I found out that we would be closed until Monday, when we would have a hearing. No big deal. I ONLY WORK FRIDAY AND SATURDAY! Guess I won’t be making my nut this week. The last customer left around eight p.m. So what did I do? I drank.
When my co-workers are too afraid of my boss to pour a drink. I get behind the bar. “What about Gregg?” “Shut up and drink!” Unfortunately, I missed my dinner break. First lesson in drinking: eat something first. No, Ketel One does not a meal make. Again, I wish that was the worst part of my night. Alas, I smoked a cigarette. Several, mind you. It had been since February 12th. Oh, well, rehab is for quitters. I hung out with my owner and managers, discussing what comes next. For a business that’s been climbing out of a hole from redoing the club next door, the writer’s strike, and a bad economy, this forty grand in lost revenue is a big hit. What can you do? Drink.
I met my cohorts at the Irish pub up the street. I walked in with my boss and who’s the first person I see? The last woman I dated with her new boyfriend. Yes, the hits just keep coming. I went over to say, “Hi.” You see the last time I saw her she came into my bar with her new dude. (If you want to read about it, go to July archives, “Shitting Where I Eat.”) She was hurt by that post and we talked about it. Hey, I just call em’ like I see em’. We wished each other well. It was actually good to talk to her and air it all out. I went back to the O’ Brien’s corner of the oval bar. The bar got super busy and I was pretty hammered. I poured myself into a cab. I got to bed at around two and because of the booze I was up at seven. Sorry to say, but the buzz isn’t worth the lack of sleep. Give me weed any day. That doesn’t disturb my sleep, it perfects it.
Now I have tonight off. I don’t know what to do with myself. Normally, I’d be making money. Not tonight. And it’s all because of those fucking rats!
