And the beat goes on....

On an otherwise cheerful and sunny Monday afternoon I board the streetcar and head to the job which has put humble pie with a side of anxiety back on my personal menu. Cruising through the business district women in ill-fitting business casual outfits and men deeply engrossed in their Blackberries hustle and bustle about the streets. They look busy, slightly tired and, some of them, like they have a dildo of self-importance shoved up their poop shoot. But to my eyes they look...peaceful. Worker bees buzzing merrily away for the good of the hive.

That's it, I'm determined to quit. I must. Mentally I attempt to fuse this moment of resolve to my backbone. And as I walk in the back door, past the line jockeys, already sweating while they hover over pots belching garlic/ginger/onion vapour, I almost have myself convinced that I'm going to make a clean break.

Bootylicious, the incompetent and ill-mannered general manager, is off on Mondays so I ask my gay French-Canadian assistant manager if he has time to talk. It only takes one look into those quivering liquid eyes for my resolve to evaporate like virtue on a drunk Saturday night. My pride settles for insisting on a 3 day work week once school starts and my cowardly hope is that I will be fired on the spot.

"No, that should be fine."

'Shit!' I trudge downstairs and put on my blacks.

But it's an eternal truth that when fighting the hydra of life the moment you cut off one head another ugly mug emerges from the deep. Enter stage left the psychotic (and possibly drug addled) neighbour.

After a slightly melancholy after work pint and shot of Jack, endured rather than enjoyed by my lonesome, I'm looking forward to nothing more than a good night's sleep.

Ha!

It's 2 am, the air mattress squeaks gently against the wall as I climb onto its cheap pillowy goodness. I can feel my brain matter spreading into an inactive puddle within my skull, the distant hum of the street cleaner, the gentle whir of the fan...so peaceful....

GGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!! RAOW! RAOW! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! RAOW! RAOW!

'What the fuck?!' I'm instantly irritated and very much awake.

"Looooooooooooouuuuuuuuu. LOU! Lou stop it!" The nasal wail of my downstairs neighbour tickles my already sufficiently tickled ears.



The smell of her chain-smoked cigarettes slowly invades my apartment as she attempt to discipline her dog Louis in a deplorably half-assed manner. Her voice sounds sloppy like that over the hill cocktail waitress you feel sorry for who still thinks 'she's making you thirsty' as she leans over the bar at you in her faded low cut top.

The dog continues to growl and yap intermittently and she continues drunkenly yell at it to stop for the next 3 HOURS! Just before 5 am order is restored and I fall into a fitful slumber. At 10 am the barking, shouting and smoking resumes. By now I'm tired to the point of being rather emotional about it and with a shuddering sigh I rise from bed and accept that there will be no rest.

Though I deep 6 myself with a double dose of valium the next night and get my full 8 hours I return to work feeling drained. Conveniently, that night is one of the worst yet.

The former manager of the restaurant who has been 'consulting' i.e. stalking around the dining room with slitted eyes and upbraiding staff in the middle of the dining room during service, decides a pep talk is in order.

During our usual pre-service meeting Napoleon (as I will call him from now on) tries to raise the flagging spirits of the staff members with the following stirring words;
"Look, I don't have the time to be here. I really don't. And after I'm gone it's all up to you. And based on what I see now this restaurant will FAIL within two months after I'm gone. It's going to get worse."

"I'm not even going to comment on the new people." I breathe an inward sigh of relief. "Because if you are not going to lead by example and train them properly then what is the point of bringing in new staff." Wait a minute, that's not good. "When I was manager here this place ran like a well oiled machine. The restaurant that was here before was considered the best in Canada, one of the top 50 in the world, and NOTHING is going to touch that. But we have gotten lazy! And this place, now, is hanging by a thread."

And with those inspirational words under our belt the restaurant launches into a chaotic, horrible and embarrassing dinner service. The kind of night where you thank God that most of the guests are too drunk or too ignorant to see the sloppy horror show going on around them. Early on (around 7) Napoleon calls the ENTIRE floor staff into the kitchen (something which is unheard of in any normal restaurant) because there's something 'he wants to show us.' We all stand around nervously wondering what gross ineptitude Napoleon has uncovered now.

"Okay everyone look a the washroom checklist." Everyone looks at the laminated sheet where bathroom checks are signed off on every half hour. "What date do you see there?" Mumbles, the date is yesterdays. "EXACTLY! And what day is it today? See this is why this restaurant is falling apart, details." And with that we're allowed to resume our frantic duties.



My personal low came at the height of the insanity. Another server had asked me to take wine glasses to a table for her. Done, I deposit the glasses. Now almost every server on the planet likes to do their own wine service, it's a moment to build rapport with your table, it's also an opportunity to coax the guest into buying another (overpriced) bottle.

So a little while later I'm waiting in the kitchen for some plates to receive their final delicate touches when the aforementioned server bursts into the kitchen.

She starts shouting the moment she's inside the door and comes so close to my face that I could have counted the longish blond hairs on her clenched upper lip.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!!! You run the fucking glasses and don't even open the fucking wine!? What the fuck?! There goes the fucking tip!!!"

We're busy, nay, SLAMMED at this point in the evening. Not a great time to pick a fight.

"I apologize."

She storms away. Only 10 people were present in the kitchen for my humiliating dressing down by the beaver-toothed, hairy-lipped baboon-woman. Only ten.

After service is mercifully over Napoleon calls everyone to the bar for ANOTHER staff meeting despite the fact that it is now 1:30 am. We're upbraided for the embarrassing service, someone cries and an ill feeling settles in my stomach. The walk home is long and lead-footed.

The next night we do better but I doubt anyone took much comfort in that fact.

This is a picture of a mysterious and evil looking insect which hides in my house and only emerges to scare the crap out of me from time to time (usually late at night when I'm feeling womanly and vulnerable). Does anyone know what this is? Apologies for the poor picture quality, little fucker is fast!