And no, I'm not talking about getting buttfucked, although that hasn't happened in a while either. More on that subject in a future (read: next, I hope) post. I'm talking about staying up all night and getting home during the day. The new year is upon us, it's 10:30 am and I'm just settling in to bed. Well, bedroom at least. The bed feels about an hour away. I guesstimated I'd be home by 9 so I was only off by about an hour. I used to joke with people that while my drinking was legendary at times, it's not like I would have vodka on my Cheerios. Well I'm having the vodka now. And while no Cheerios are at hand I'm sure at least one of you is about to/has had some. In my defense, I skipped the champale toast at midnight, I indulged in a post closing 5:30 am cocktail just to take the edge off another stressful evening, then I didn't touch a drop until I was preparing to leave around 8:45 am. Admittedly it was in a bucket, but hey, I was crossing 42nd St as sober as a ... relatively... sober person.
Work was ... interesting. I wasn't due in until 10 pm. The last manager in for the night and by default, the closer. I knew from past experiences that getting in to Times Square at that time of night could prove challenging. I intended to leave about 15 minutes earlier than normal in case I ran into unexpected difficulties. That didn't happen. I didn't take into account last minute dressing difficulties. It's probably been two years since I wore my tuxedo.
There was one other thing significantly slowing me down. I could barely walk. The day before, The Hellcat, the on-again off-again boyfriend and I took a Cardio Bootcamp class that was basically 55 minutes of continuous push-ups, crunches, lunges and various strength training exercises. It was probably the hardest I've worked out in years. I knew immediately after class was over I'd be paying the price. My legs were literally wobbly on the stairs to the locker room. Sure enough, by that night I had already begun to stiffen up. By morning, getting out of bed was agony. I'm not exaggerating. Sitting down hurt. Standing up hurt worse. A staircase meant a symphony of pain. My normal 15 minute walk to the subway took quite a bit longer. Upon arriving at 42nd street the police were directing everyone to a single available exit. Getting there required ascending or descending three sets of stairs. I wanted to cry.
By the time I arrived at the club, the second of three scheduled shows was already loading in. I had no idea what tables were reserved and for who. I had no idea who was eating off of which menu. In short, I arrived and was immediately totally lost. It was obvious that no one had any time to bring me up to speed. So it took until about halfway through the show before I had managed to piece together what was going on from the available evidence. Mostly I tried to stay out of the way. It wasn't until we were transitioning from the second, fully seated show to the third, standing room only show that I became more actively involved. Unfortunately, the job that fell to me was supervising the staff as they emptied the room of every single table and chair. Basically, enough seating for 500 had to go. Now I am usually a very hands-on manager. I get in and run food, make drinks, bus tables, whatever it takes. Three weeks ago during a Christmas office party, one of the guests got seriously and suddenly fucked up on booze and god knows what else. Before I could stop it and get him out of there he proceeded to whip it out right there in the restaurant and pee across three tables. I cleaned it up. My life is quite glamorous, huh? At any rate, on this night, actually getting down and bending my legs to hoist up tables and chairs was quite simply not physically possible for me. Not even taking in to account I was wearing a full tuxedo. Other people were pitching in to help out including a couple of our security people and the Head Chef. Why he decided to uncharacteristically jump in is a mystery. As is why he decided to publicly berate me for not. Part of me wishes I had just exploded right then and there and told him what was going on and to fuck off. Part of me thinks I shouldn't give a rat's ass what some glorified fry cook thinks of me. Part of me is completely disappointed that a grown man would behave in such a juvenile fashion, even attempting to "tell on" me. It could have ruined my night had I not been actively focused on pacing myself for the anticipated extremely late night I was about to have and on my ongoing pain management. My second happiest moment of the night came around 5:30 am when I was finally called to the office to sit and start cashing everyone out. Even though I faced hours of counting money and resolving errors, there was no more standing and no more stairs.
My happiest moment came around 8 am. That's when the newest manager came by to call it a night (day) and go home. He wished me a happy New Year and turned towards the door. I noticed him pause, as if he was struggling, deciding whether or not to say something. In light of the last few days I've had, I was feeling a twinge of dread. Instead, he told me how happy he was to be working with me. He told me that I was a "good soul", and he was immediately impressed by what a "sharp guy" I was. He hoped that we could continue to work together and he was happy to have met me. I'm paraphrasing but it was all warm and heartfelt and spoke to all the things I try to achieve in my relationships. And as bad as a petty Head Chef and a GM who believes screeching like a Harpy is communicating can make you feel, a moment like that makes it possible to wake up the next evening and feel like you can at least try again. One more day.
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