Looney for the Luna!
It must've been the full moon, but it's been a crazy week at work. That's the joy of working for a multi-club complex in the heart of Portland's Vasaline Alley I guess.
Things started out slowly, with a vacant-eyed blond manboy wandering in from the streets and deciding to take offense at and then assault one of the security guys. In the course of restraining him until the police arrived to haul him away the stitches on his chin were ripped out due to his struggling. Obviously this guy has a thing for biting off far more than he can chew. Blondie showed up again twice the next day, and he eventually had to be hauled off in a police car for the second time that week (that we know of). This, kids, is why we don't do handfuls of meth in lieu of eating.
The same day as Blondie's second arrest I had the joy of interacting with someone whom I'll have to call Grandfather Jackson. During the course of trying to hunt down the button to order a basket of french fries for one of my customers (how exactly does "B F Bskt" mean french fries?) a gentleman of questionable sobriety meandered up to the bar. He was dressed in what could easily be the height of burnt out post-drag fashion from the 1980s. This consisted of a sausage-tight black sleeveless shirt (homemade), with what could only be described as an american-tribute-to-Mad-Max-studded-red-square-of-cloth covering the upper right front corner of his shirt. This ensemble was of course completed with a pair of awkwardly tight jeans, a gaudy belt, and an odd, brassy half-necklace contraption that most of the staff originally mistook for a trecheotomy implant. Whilst my (far too cool for words) manager and I were trying to hunt down the elusive french fries order, Grandfather Jackson stood at the bar occasionally releasing ear-splitting bursts of hysterical laughter quickly followed by total and utter silence. Our interaction went something like this:
Zeroes: "How can I help you today sir?"
Grandfather Jackson: (long slow stare) "I'll have a mumblemumble"(something that may or may not have involved vodka).
Z: "I'm sorry sir, but I don't feel comfortable serving you anything alcoholic today, how about a water or a soda?"
GJ: "Well then..." (deep, meaningful pause). "Good luck" (quick, sassy turn towards the door).
GJ then saunters a few steps towards the door, turns around and says "No, I mean it, GOOD LUCK!"
Z: "Thank you sir."
GJ again saunters several steps closer towards the door "No, I MEAN it, GOOD LUCK!"
Z: "Ok, you have a great day sir."
GJ then wanders to the door, stops, turns back around, and slowly makes his way back to the bar.
GJ: "What is your name please"
I politely give him my name in as cheerful a manner as I can manage without bursting out laughing.
GJ: "Trust me, your name will live in INFAMY!"
At which point he marches out the door and hangs out on the front patio mumbling to himself until he says something unkind about me too close to the maintenance guy who tells him to get lost.
Later we had to call an ambulance for a mildly smelly gentleman who probably shouldn't have been mixing methadone and tequila. Live and learn (his bike is still locked out in front of the club as of this writing).
To top it all off we had two Code Reds last night. A code red is basically an all-clubs call that all security personnel converge at the named club. I'm told at least one of them involved a cluster of angry girlfriends (the real kind, that have their own vaginas and everything) jumping into the fray to protect their brawling mens. Sadly, the melee occurred at the dancefloor I wasn't bartending at, so I didn't get to see anyone's cheap Prada knock-offs go flying.
Full moon weeks rock! Not only am I now (in)famous with the homeless insane, but I have several reasons to feel really, really good about how I've lived my life so far when compared to these assorted burn-outs.
It's all about perspective.
Things started out slowly, with a vacant-eyed blond manboy wandering in from the streets and deciding to take offense at and then assault one of the security guys. In the course of restraining him until the police arrived to haul him away the stitches on his chin were ripped out due to his struggling. Obviously this guy has a thing for biting off far more than he can chew. Blondie showed up again twice the next day, and he eventually had to be hauled off in a police car for the second time that week (that we know of). This, kids, is why we don't do handfuls of meth in lieu of eating.
The same day as Blondie's second arrest I had the joy of interacting with someone whom I'll have to call Grandfather Jackson. During the course of trying to hunt down the button to order a basket of french fries for one of my customers (how exactly does "B F Bskt" mean french fries?) a gentleman of questionable sobriety meandered up to the bar. He was dressed in what could easily be the height of burnt out post-drag fashion from the 1980s. This consisted of a sausage-tight black sleeveless shirt (homemade), with what could only be described as an american-tribute-to-Mad-Max-studded-red-square-of-cloth covering the upper right front corner of his shirt. This ensemble was of course completed with a pair of awkwardly tight jeans, a gaudy belt, and an odd, brassy half-necklace contraption that most of the staff originally mistook for a trecheotomy implant. Whilst my (far too cool for words) manager and I were trying to hunt down the elusive french fries order, Grandfather Jackson stood at the bar occasionally releasing ear-splitting bursts of hysterical laughter quickly followed by total and utter silence. Our interaction went something like this:
Zeroes: "How can I help you today sir?"
Grandfather Jackson: (long slow stare) "I'll have a mumblemumble"(something that may or may not have involved vodka).
Z: "I'm sorry sir, but I don't feel comfortable serving you anything alcoholic today, how about a water or a soda?"
GJ: "Well then..." (deep, meaningful pause). "Good luck" (quick, sassy turn towards the door).
GJ then saunters a few steps towards the door, turns around and says "No, I mean it, GOOD LUCK!"
Z: "Thank you sir."
GJ again saunters several steps closer towards the door "No, I MEAN it, GOOD LUCK!"
Z: "Ok, you have a great day sir."
GJ then wanders to the door, stops, turns back around, and slowly makes his way back to the bar.
GJ: "What is your name please"
I politely give him my name in as cheerful a manner as I can manage without bursting out laughing.
GJ: "Trust me, your name will live in INFAMY!"
At which point he marches out the door and hangs out on the front patio mumbling to himself until he says something unkind about me too close to the maintenance guy who tells him to get lost.
Later we had to call an ambulance for a mildly smelly gentleman who probably shouldn't have been mixing methadone and tequila. Live and learn (his bike is still locked out in front of the club as of this writing).
To top it all off we had two Code Reds last night. A code red is basically an all-clubs call that all security personnel converge at the named club. I'm told at least one of them involved a cluster of angry girlfriends (the real kind, that have their own vaginas and everything) jumping into the fray to protect their brawling mens. Sadly, the melee occurred at the dancefloor I wasn't bartending at, so I didn't get to see anyone's cheap Prada knock-offs go flying.
Full moon weeks rock! Not only am I now (in)famous with the homeless insane, but I have several reasons to feel really, really good about how I've lived my life so far when compared to these assorted burn-outs.
It's all about perspective.
posted by Zeroes at 4:11 PM
2 Comments:
god, i hate it that your life is so much more interesting than mine. the most fun thing that happened to me this week was nearly burning fish sticks in the oven. i see your crazily inebriated homeless people and raise you, FISHSTICKS!!
yupyup, it's a good life. i'm just saying...
Trust me, after today's slew of crackheads from the halfway hotal located DIRECTLY ABOVE the club I'd gladly take your fishsticks any day of the week.
I'm thinking it's time to invest in some pepper spray or possibly a high-yield tazer.
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