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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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Anticlimactic, this, there should have been a countdown of blog posts, this will have to suffice...
The last day, hot, muggy, hungover, a little bit early for work, the owner's outside with some friends and a woman...I recognize her, a nurse, she ate dinner in the restaurant last week, we argued about whether nurses had souls, I disagreed, she's here, flushed, embarrassed, she recognizes me and beats a hasty departure...
I don't care, it's the last day, my last day, fucking hell, 9 weeks back in hell and I've been treated well, but I'm well done. Hopefully this puts him in a better mood. And no sooner are his friends gone than he's telling everyone how he fucked her in the office...
The night passes, slowly, we appear to be busy, to look at the book, but the customers only trickle in, never do we get even half full, and the night drags on, there are a thousand tiny deaths on the way to this vacation.
There are the cheques, we are to be paid before going, the owner is livid, furious, screaming, there's something wrong, we can't have made this much money (nearly a thousand dollars, tips & wage, in a little over a week...), he tries to call the accountant, blames G, everyone stays out of his way.
Out expediter is called in, as is our hostess, the hostess arrives chauffeured by another of the owner's friends, some light mirth, the hostess, she's older, but he's easily 15 years older than her, more a piece of furniture than a man, the boys ask the obvious questions, she shuts them down, I don't want to know...
There are the inevitable complaints about business, how slow it is, how the NDP and their proposed minimum wage are going to sink this province, ruin it for everyone. I find this curious, it's always the owner, his friends, that have this conversation, this fear of a reasonable minimum wage, I meet all sorts of people, from economies varying from $50 to $200 thousand dollars a year, none of them have any qualms about a living minimum wage. But the owner, easily 6 degrees of separation from any firsthand knowledge of minimum wage, poverty or debt, him and his cronies, they're certain this will sink the province, it will be the end, the final straw...
The cook paces the kitchen, flyswatter in hand, he's got vacation plans as well, going to Regina, the salad girl to Italy, the dishwasher to try and sell his photoshop services on 4chan, the night drags it's heels, it's hot in the kitchen, in the dining room, hot outside, we're in hell and the flames are licking our heels...
The customers, typical long weekend customers, some larger parties, families, an expensively dressed Colombian "lady" darts from the private room to fill her Gucci bag with handfuls of candy from the vase by the front door, I hate our customers, never have I worked anywhere where I so loathed the people that pay me...
They clean the fridge, hundreds of dollars of produce, pasta, groceries, the hostess will take these home, I could too, but am leaving for Saskatchewan tomorrow, it will just rot in my fridge, packing boxes to fit in the car...
The owner, his friends dropping by to say their farewells, he's on vacation for 3 weeks, they all sit on the makeshift patio in the back, drinking, laughing at his stories of how he fucked the nurse in his office while his friends waited outside, drinking expensive red wine cooled with ice, diluted with 7up, red Ferrari's advertise their middle aged impotence, inane requests for more ice, more 7up, more wine, liqueurs, they will be the last table here, for sure, wealth is defined by the ability to ignore all social cues, ignore the folding of chairs and umbrella, the absence of music, the departure of staff, drunkenly laughing about the day and postponing the vacation ...
It ends, finally, my car, outside the restaurant, broken into, the MP3 player and USB stick stolen, nothing of value, only annoyances, now on to the vacation...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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Saturday, I'm a few minutes early, the last weekend of Stampede. 16 days to go before vacation, if I'm smart, organized, lucky, I won't be coming back.
The owner, he's outside, on the "patio", an umbrella and folding table sat out upon the parking lot, he's alone, an empty glass with the dregs of a glass of red wine in it. Is he drunk? How long has he been out here? How many glasses of wine is this? I say my hello, he grunts a response, time to get busy setting up the restaurant.
The hostess has been called in, less because of business (we're not busy at all, half as busy as the night before, no hostess or expediter was called in then), the hostess, an older woman, slightly younger than the owner, she's been called in solely to amuse the boss...
They play cards in the private room, G asks what they're playing for, the owner tells him "blowjob", it's not funny, was never funny, I've heard this a thousand times before. And the owner closes the door of the private room, no need for interruption, G and the new Italian waiter, they complain that she was called in for nothing, we don't need her, and I point out that they're both busy playing cards, he's in a mood, she's running interference, she's working for her money just like us, different than us, she's jollying the owner, the boss, and tonight, 3 weeks and one day to go, I'll pay her her cut.
They agree.
The night stays slow, a few last minute reservations, cancellations, it's Stampede, nowhere outside of the zone or theme is busy. After cards (and no one dares interrupt the game, the door closed, we avoid the passage by the private room entirely, no one wants to be indiscreet...) the owner walks through the restaurant. He wonders where all the customers are, why J*** hasn't dropped by in some weeks, maybe, somehow, we offended him? And it's not "we", the royal "we" is for blame and blame alone, it's him, his tirades and rantings about freeloading customers (he refuses to charge them) that sit on the patio with him, keep him company, drink with him while he gets drunk, while he complains about his child support payments, his children, his freeloading daughter that's moved back in with him, complains about paying his employees, the recession, complains about everything...and so it's not "we", it's him, but no one will say anything, still, watching him on the patio, alone, drunk, staring emptily into space, one has the feeling that maybe he somehow understands just how much he's the architect of his own misfortunes...
Rare to see him alone. Usually there will be someone there to ply with cappuccinos, wine, food, sparkling waters, some younger or older thing for him to grope while he protests his love for his new girlfriend...
...At the front door, sitting in a chair by the desk, pulling the hostess upon his lap, loud "jokes" while he makes excuses and pretenses for grabbing her tits, her ass...when she escapes she tells me "I hope you know how much I'm putting up with for you guys....". I acknowledge, I do, this perpetual innuendo, Pantalone forever in pursuit of his Francesca, and I suggest in jest that maybe if she just ... to get it over with ... Italians aren't known for their stamina ... and she tells me:
"I would if he'd just offer me some money..."
,,,and here, the sum of all womanly virtue. Undoing a thousand rants I've endured about the inequality of women and the abuses of men, agreed, for sure, but somehow this undermines all of the damage...
***
It's dismal, this, the new Italian waiter, on a Temporary Foreign Worker permit, thought that a change of scenery would do good for his mixed anxiety disorder, he was wrong, he knows this now. G, G, always G, I've figured him out now, he's completely lacking a subconscious, what would cause this? I don't know, a lobotomy, of sorts, cultural, ...
And J**** in the kitchen, Filipino, TFW, but he's now got his permanent residency, and I'm more than half betting, we all are, that he was dying to get out of here, that this citizenship the owner's paid so dearly for is more of a punishment than a reward. There are new employees, too, "Roxy", as I call him, 19 years old, slow, terribly slow, always distracted, daydreaming, worldly beyond his years, he assures me, he's a moderator on 4Chan and Reddit and the things he's seen...I don't doubt it, but the internet is no substitute for the real world, still, he gets my sense of humor, and fills in the requisite token Canadian member of staff....
***
Everyone here is broken, somehow. G, The new waiter, the disadvantaged immigrants, the customers.
***
A monthly regular, peculiar, older, perhaps 60, claims to be passing through on business. With a guest. Orders the most expensive wine on the menu, his "date", a younger man, perhaps 45 or so, they talk business, his date can't, won't drink the wine, AA I'm guessing, the customer offers the owner a glass. He's not a good judge of character, the owner has no appreciation, drinks the cheapest wine mixed with 7-UP, this gift is lost upon him. And so he offers in turn a glass to the new Italian Waiter, myself, explains that he's driving, talks about his business that is taking him from his family home in Scotland yesterday to Turkey tomorrow, and he has other Villas in Italy, Spain, ....
I'm suspicious, skeptical of him some how, he's too garrulous, rich people don't talk like this, tell you how rich they are, but maybe he's a remittance man, paid to stay out of the family business, I've known a few...
***
And T, beautiful, 30 something, fit, happily married in every realtor's dream, silk hotpants and low slung blouse, in for lunch, avoiding the owner's embraces and embarrassingly vulgar enthusiasms and gropings, here for lunch, her name on every bus bench in Mt. Royal, what is she looking for? Status? More money? Happily married and she begins discussing her online dating experiences with her date, OKCupid, POF,...
***
Countless others, few innocents wander through here, everyone here, one way or another, is broken...all are looking for something, more money, status, prestige...and I've 3 weeks left, I'm looking as well, for a way to get the hell out of here....
***
The owner, he's the most broken of all. Still, he's getting better, his rages abate, tantrums are slower, his ranting more prolonged, more ...well...but his friends have tired of hearing of them, the customers don't return after the inappropriate gropings, solicitations, innuendo....
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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And so finally I get around to listing all those leftover possessions from Kijiji on Ebay. The local marketplace, well, it's good for things like sofas and coffee tables, but the higher end collectibles will probably do better online.
And, sure enough, the Arriflex 16 Movie Camera is already at over $400 with over a dozen watchers, hoping it breaks a thousand...
Watchers on almost everything else, the Canon AE1 has attracted a couple of bids, all items were offered at no reserve and a .99 starting price, this could be a very interesting experiment and an excellent subsidy for my income and a way to show profit, finally, after all my thrift shop prospecting adventures...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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Payday and it's time to juggle the bills. Which ones get paid, which ones get postponed, the car repair, it's gonna be expensive and I don't know exactly how expensive. The creditors that are calling, they'er the first, there's rent, phone, utilities, the locker, there's the AMA, the internet, auto insurance, taxes, everything being tossed around in abstract space while I worry about which ones to pay first, which ones I can comfortably lay aside, 3.4 weeks of work left might not be enough time to balance the books and take this prospecting vacation...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
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And the big "night out" with the boys, Saturday, the first of Stampede. G, the new Italian waiter and I set out for Ranchmans after work.
Strange to say, in 20 years of Calgary, I've never been. It's amazing. By which I mean, I'm not a cowboy by a long shot, but they do it up well with all the western props and such, it's a proper hillbilly bar, many a bar outside of Calgary could learn something here. This is what you expect to stumble into in the Bayou or one of those dire pubs hidden in the wastelands of Montana. And, being Stampede, it's packed. Packed with maybe a thousand people, maybe more, hard to guess, all in various stages of inebriation, all held up by the press of the crowd, I've been nominated the designated driver and so the boys take turns buying me diet cokes, and with a sober eye it's hard not to laugh, but still I'm impressed, the new Italian waiter, it's the first time he's been properly out, he's only seen Calgary through the skewed lens of the restaurant, 100 year old dowagers feted by 80 year old children, he's pleasantly astonished: "It's a pussy paradise!!" he tells me, and sets off to find some prey. There's no shortage of prey here, only his tastes range towards the asian, and there's only a few of those here, guarded by rather large pumped boyfriends, I worry a little about the possibility of a brawl.
Not to worry, as hammered as he gets he's too charming to take offense to...
Cue circus music, boys get inebriated, G finds his way home via a girlfriend, I drive the Italian waiter, he's enthused about this bar, wants to come back, solicits my promise to return next Saturday, exactly what I need, more sober nights out, ...