Part II
The smell of skunky beer and soggy cigarettes emits a comforting nostalgia. It reminds me of my first bar job the summer I graduated college and moved to Hawaii. My interview went a little something like this;
Rowell (the owner, in between bites of what resembles soupy mac salad): So Beddy, dis job ain't rocket science, yeah. I don't care if ya got a degree or not.. ya work da register, talk ta boys, no free drinks and never let ya boyfriend hang out when ya workin, yeah?
Me (trying really hard not to gag/look at the lone noodle hanging from his beard): Yeah, I got it.. It's Meddy by the way with an "M" and I dont have a boyfriend.
Hawaiians have this way of turning any statement into a question by adding "yeah" at the end, it almost sounds like a Shakespearean iambic pentameter with the rising and falling intonation.
Rowell: I got dis place locked down like da Bellagio, yeah. So don't try and screw me.
Yeah. This was Bob's.. I think everything in this place was broken. We had to use a screw driver every morning to open the front door. Some days the air conditioner didn't work, most days the juke box was broken. Somehow I managed to break the cash register my first day… There were always roaches on the floor and the regulars told me never to use the spoon on the Guinness draft bc there's a huge rat that comes down from the ceiling and chews on it. I hardly think this place was "locked down like the Bellagio". Once the walk in's cooling unit broke, for 2 whole days... Im positive all that beer got skunked and we still served it. Sorrrrryyyy..
I didn't know how to pour one drink but Rowell hired me nonetheless. I was enrolled in a 3 hour liquor commission course with an open book test at the end which my friends said was so easy they all aced it "viciously hungover". Being the scholar that I am I arrived 30 minutes early, sat in the front row and took notes on nearly every word the man said. I was among the last to hand in the test. The instructor corrected the exams and began calling out names of people who successfully passed to move into the next room to receive their licenses. As the room weeded out I slowly started to see that I was among the last few remaining in what to me resembled the reject room. Most of these people consisted of immigrants who's first language had about 10 different dialects, not to mention some even were having the test translated to them and here I was a fresh college graduate of my own American heritage. I told the instructor there had to be some mistake. He reviewed my exam and assured me there was no mistake, I had done poorly on the appropriate alcohol consumption portion and it wasn’t even worth the time to count every error on the part that tests your ability to decipher ones age from their given birthdate, ie. basic subtraction (a minor life requirement from the age of 5.. 6? What year in development is that? Clearly I missed it.). He told me to come back next week for a re take. Defeated does not quite capture the emotion I felt when I left the building, and mortified doesn’t quite sum up how I felt when it took an hour to convince my friends I had failed.
Needless to say my bartending career was off to a bit of a rough start.
SATURDAY August 7, 2010:
I had been bartending at this Mexican Dive in my neighborhood that appeared to have only a few requirements for employment: tatoos, an absurd amount of piercings, and treating every customers request as the largest inconvenience of your life. I met none of these requirements. But somehow was hired.
My first day bartending, Kat the owner, a little firecracker with hair that’s hue changed weekly from platinum to an orange that gave a startling contrast to her Irish skin, gave me a "tutorial" of the drinks. She made me one of every cocktail we served. By the time we hit "Larry's Junkyard Juice" I was feeling like one more was about to send me to a graveyard. She just kept pouring and mixing, talking about how this one and that one was inspired by some escapade in Jamaica that she swore they sprayed the resort with Valium every morning.
My second day training as a server I was to "shadow" (which in and of itself is totally awkward) this guy Mike. He explained the menu to me and how to write down orders, he also took a little too much interest/enjoyment in explaining a specific option on the menu called "Make it wet" or "Make it nasty" each of these a completely disgusting way to clog your arteries and an even more disgusting pun on some sexual innuendo by adding a repulsive white sauce. So I followed Mike to take a table of ladies orders and sure enough one girl asked for the ChimiChonga Burrito and Make it nasty .. Mike said "excuse me?".. she said, "make it nasty".. Mike, "excuse me?", "I said, make it nasty", he said "excuse me?".
She responded Fuck you. Hospitality at its finest.
I was moved outside to bartend the experimental “service bar”, which essentially means you just make drinks for the servers.. ie. No tips. So after the 5th weekend working from 4pm until 3am making about $50 on a “good” night, having a rat run across my foot in the back room, and accidentally dumping a dustpan into a pot of rice and beans that was served (it was on the floor next to the garbage, and it was an accident! I swear! Why the hell was it on the floor next to the garbage can?!) I realized this was a terrible gig.
Thankfully, my friend stopped through for a drink. He came with a friend of his who was a photographer looking for one more model in a shoot for a high fashion magazine. She asked me how tall I was and what I was doing tomorrow morning at 5Am. I said nothing. So she said if I could fit into a gown I could be in the shoot... Why did I eat that third fish taco?
I walked up to my manager and told him I quit.
