We only got a weeks notice. 8 days, to be precise, the owner told us Monday the 20th of February. The restaurant, after it's sale, the new owners, they weren't going to be keeping us on. They were changing it into a Chinese Restaurant.
It's a bit of a surprise. To the rest of the staff, not so much to me, the owner, he's shocked, he'd bargained for them keeping on the old staff, keeping the brand, keeping the restaurant the way it was, merely with new owners, the new owners, well, they had other plans.
To me, it's inconvenient. A couple of more weeks of income would have been useful. Really useful. This trip, like the last couple, has been expenses only. But - on the other hand - I'm glad it's over. I've been couch-surfing the worst of all possible circumstances in the crack-houses of Forest-Lawn and I'm glad, finally, finally - I mean, FINALLY, that this is over. The bridge is burned, and I didn't set fire to it. It's done.
The other staff, they're not so sure. Too many of them are imported workers, immigrants, who have their papers tied to this restaurant. They're not happy. Most of them aren't, anyways, the salad girls cry, they'll miss the antics of the Nephew and I, the perpetual fountains of bullshit, the inane clowning of the Filipino sous-chef, hard to believe but they seem to have good memories of the place. If only a week before you had told them the owner had reneged on the deal, was holding onto the restaurant, they would have been crossing themselves and clutching their rosaries, now it's ok to be a little maudlin and sad, it's over.
8 Days. It's like an Armistice called during a war, we've 8 days left, final day of business February 28th, March 1st and 2nd we'll come in to clean up, remove all the food, liquor, wine, then - maybe - hopefully - get paid and get on with our lives.
I get on the phone and call the regular customers. The ones we know, the ones we like, where I can find the phone numbers. There isn't enough time, not to let everyone know, and February, most are away in Hawaii, Arizona, can't change plans, but we get hold of a few.
The week is slow. Wednesday I lose my watch. Not the watch per-se, an antique, but the movement has fallen out from behind the lens, it only clipped in, a flaw in it's design, and so every day until the end I vacuum, search for it, check the garbages, under tables, chairs, but - so far, it's gone. I'm annoyed. I don't lose things, it's not me, and this, I didn't lose it, it left, it's not so much about the watch - I liked it, clearly, but the principle, being custodian of a bit of history, and I don't lose things....
We tell the regulars that come in. E***, frequent customer, 7 times a week, he's shocked, books himself into the Private room every lunch and dinner until we close. He's been coming almost 20 years, this will shake up his routine. And others, some cry, most of our customers are a generation above me, have been coming here forever, 27 years, some longer, in the other location, 34 years, for them it's not just a place, a restaurant, it's a memory in their lives, I feel sorry for them, but times change.
The owners girlfriend, she comes in every day now, lunch, dinner, booked under friends names so as not to be too regular, she checks the reservation book, wants to see who's coming in, be sat next to, writes her instructions in the book, this going away, closing, it's as much about her (the girlfriend of 2 years) as it is about him (the proprietor of 34).
Bite your tongue. Leave on a good note.
The days grow long, and with an end in sight even longer. We are busy - busier than ever, Friday passes, Saturday we are fully booked. Word has gotten out, people calling in with gift certificates, wanting their last chance to redeem them, the nephew, the owner, they keep taking reservations...
This is bad. Bad because we haven't room, bad because we're squeezing a lot of people in that we don't even know who they are, these last few days, in my opinion - should be for the regulars, the ones that have been there daily, weekly, monthly, for the past twenty-odd years, not for the late arrivals who are just now discovering it for the first (and last) time...we don't need the money, the owner clearly doesn't, but he's of a different point of view...
On the door he posts his girlfriend. We're short staffed, his girlfriend, shows up at 5:30, grabs herself a glass of wine, and helps to check the coats. The rest of the staff all showed up at 1:00, 1:30, this was a busy night, our last weekend night...
E*** of the private room, his party of 6 is moved to the main dining room. We haven't the space, have to use the private room for a party of 12. We call him, let him know, he's not happy...
...and showing up, very grouchy, he knows it's not my fault, complains to the owner's girlfriend, he's being an ass, leaves early with his wife, leaves behind his son and daughter-in-law, their brother and sister-in-law...tips, on $300.00, a dollar, symbolic of his displeasure. And I'm sad, because it would have been nice to give him what he wanted for the last few days, but on the other hand this wasn't my choice, and there are other customers besides him, and - in the end, it's easy to be classy and polite when things are going your way - but that's no test of character, and while I'm not surprised, not even a little bit - it's a revelation of how privilege breeds entitlement, and how - in the end, no matter how much you like them, how polite they are to you - for most, it's only when you're giving them what they want. That's no test of character whatsoever. The test of character is how you behave when you don't get what you want, and he's shown us clearly he has none.
***
The owner's girlfriend, she's gone by 9:00, the owner sat down with some more attractive customers, she got jealous and left, updated her facebook with a childish post about her sailing to the aid of her shining knight only to be deserted....for the rest of us, the night drags on, I close, leave at 1:00, a 12 hour day.
***
We survive the night, late, and then home. Home, for me at the moment, the spare bedroom in a Forest-Lawn dilapidated bungalow, yard filled with dogshit and the rubbish the lower classes seem to collect, car parts, recyclables, pizza boxes and cases of empty beer bottles, every house has 3 cars, only one of which work, the other 2 parked permanently on the street or in their yard...it's a waitress at work's place, the nephew volunteered her couch, she agreed, knew the "split" was a lot fairer when I was around, she has a small bedroom with a bunk-bed for her grandchildren, it's filled to the brim with stuffed animals, bras, underwear, miscellaneous bags and boxes of merchandise I don't dare touch, can only guess as to their contents...
...the first night, lying on the sofa, watching TV in the living room, I notice an eyebolt fixed to the centre of the ceiling, I ask her - "That's for your sex-swing...?". In jest, but she proceeds to go to my bedroom, rummage through the bags, digs out a sex-swing and sets it up in the living room. I make a note to myself to never, ever get drunk here...the nephew, when I tell him, is beside himself with mirth, he set up the other Italian waiter in much the same way, moving him into an apartment filled with drag queens, and he's with me found a way to top himself....
***
She (the waitress) - is taking the closing of the restaurant hard, railing against the new owners for deceiving her, the other staff, she needs the job, the money, she's going to have to budget...meanwhile she's spending the cash that comes in as quick as she earns it, $500 on hot-tub repairs, taking the grandchildren for dinner, ... she has no idea of economy or preparing for what could be very difficult times....
***
...and when she's drunk she tells me lurid and outlandish stories of her sexcapades, as if she's trying to entice me into trying her out, I'm aloof, can only bear so much before going to bed, try not to seem rude, make my excuses, but that little time spent away from work is spent increasingly trying to stay away from home...
***
Monday night we are again full. Before the shift I do the cashout, divide the tips, check with the owner, what's reasonable recompense for his girlfriend's work on the door..."Just give her $150.00" he tells me...I'm flabbergasted. For 3 hours standing at the door with a glass of wine in her hand? Say nothing. Only a couple of days to go. But god I will be glad to leave this place behind...
***
Monday night, busy again, C****, owner of the luxury car dealership, is in with his attending demons, E*** calls, 10 minutes past his reservation, to cancel it, so C**** takes the private room....his son is there as well, the arrogant little snot-nosed son of entitlement, my patience for these people, it's wearing out, he was given a $60,000 dollar car for his 16th birthday, every year since has received something more expensive, finished his high school then went to work for his pa, has dated the same girl (growing increasingly big and faded) since he was 17, yet somehow thinks he's something special, finds room to be condescending, arrogant, and you look at him, knowing that the last book he possibly could have read was "Harry Potter", doubtful he managed the series if he ever even managed one, ... the Nephew hates him as well, but manages small talk about video games and other adolescent pleasures...
...at the end of the meal offer to buy them a drink, C**** demands the whole bottle of grappa be brought to the table, they all have a small sip, C**** corks the bottle, saunters out of the restaurant with it under his arm, his entitlement, the owner is shocked.
Me, less so. We've treated these people well, better than anywhere else, that's why they come back, and privilege is the first step towards entitlement, and too many of our customers feel they're entitled. But one day to go. Bite your tongue...
***
Tuesday, the last day, busy again. Lunch, dinner, the demons keep streaming in. 3 old beauties, my age or thereabouts, old hockey-trophy wives, tall and well proportioned, one, blonde, the plastic is showing through, a look of perpetual astonishment on her face, couldn't manage a facial expression if her life hinged on it, probably cute, once-upon-a-time, but she tried to improve it, and the results haven't aged so well. The others, well, scavengers, more scavengers, regulars who come only under the expectation that something - many things, will be free, and the owner instructs me not to disappoint.
***
E***, calls at 10 minutes after lunch to tell us he won't be coming in. He's petulant, still irate about Saturday night.
***
...And again at dinner, 10 minutes past his expected time of arrival, he won't be making it in...
We give his room to the hockey tarts, the owner, he's in there chatting up a storm, his girlfriend, with a party in the other room to send her off on her (hopefully) early retirement, she sees them in the restaurant, connives some pretext to show the private room to her friend, looks surprised to find it occupied, introduces herself to the hockey-tarts as his girlfriend...
***
Shake your head, say nothing.
And at the end of the night - for those with the stamina, the wine, the liquor, it flows freely, ask and you shall receive, I'm closing again, opening through close every day the past 10, but it's over, finally, it's over. I bless some soda water and sprinkle it over the marble flooring in the foyer, trying to lay to rest finally the innumerable and constant demons that have pushed up the flagging and made their way into the restaurant...
***
Wednesday, we show up - all the staff, to clean up the restaurant. Still looking for my watch, no trace to be found. We're there a couple of hours, move the liquor out of the liquor room, the bar, a friend of the owner's girlfriend has come round to help, grabs a few cases of liquor and wine as payment to himself, $600 or $700 worth at a glance, the staff, the ones who've worked here, they're a little more modest. The ones that deserve it never ask, the entitled assholes - under the pretexts of friendship, they'll rob you blind. Barry is his name. Barry is an asshole. dyed black hair, tight-fitting jeans, as a customer he'd always argue with his guests over how they split the bill, he never felt he owed as much as they did, just another customer...
We break for lunch, the owner takes the staff, feeds us, then back to the restaurant for an hour before breaking for the day. The easiest job in the world.
***
Thursday, we pack up the food. What the owner wants, what the staff want, they divide the fish, meat, vegetables, pasta, spices, Barry is, of course, Mr. Grabby with his hand into everything. The hostess is astonished, she's gonna cut him off, say something, the kitchen people are too discreet...
I have taken nothing, want nothing, don't need liquor, food, souvenirs, nothing, but I promised my daughter any leftover desserts, there are a few boxes, I let the hostess take a few, she has a sweet tooth, as she's taking a few from the boxes Mr. Grabby is reaching in as well, and here, finally, I almost lose it. It would be fair. It would be just...
***
The Filipino sous-chef is wandering about, swiping what he can find, a bottle of Vodka from the kitchen, the remainder of the brandy, a frying pan, some cutlery, old menu's .... "Souvenirs" he tells me, wide-eyed, and I'm laughing, "I wonder if the Jews were running around collecting Souvenirs when finally they were freed from Auschwitz or Belsen...?" I ask, the nephew overhears and laughs, we're of the same mind, this has been hell for far too long, but the Filipino, he doesn't, laughs anyways, he imagines somehow he's going to miss this place...
***
The salad girls cry, we finally part. I've not found my watch, so much time lost, G*** has been texting me for the Sous-Chef's number, he was a great employee, he won't be out of work long. And this is it. Close the doors...lock it up. There's nothing to see here, folks...
***
(the restaurant, cleaned, empty, ready for the new owners...)
The next few days, staying out of the house, texting the nephew, waiting the final cheques. Finally. Finally. Over to the owner's estate, glass of wine, he talks plans. Maybe a trip to South East Asia to check out the Ladyboys. Or back to Berlin to try and reconnect with an old-girlfriend. Maybe J*** - the owner's friend - will have a job for him. He doesn't know. He's saved a lot of money - has no expenses, not rent, internet, utilities, child support, only his cell-phone. He'll be fine, and there's a part of me that wishes - if only for a moment - a year - the real world would intersect with his, but it doesn't, this is not how it works, and he'll be himself until the day he dies without any threat of work, commitment or obligation.
Me, back to the Kootenays, work to be done, lots of work, I've been sick the past few days, know I'll be sicker, this couch-surfing, the restaurant, it's taken it's toll, I'm done, a week or two to recover and then find the next thing...