Chopper blades spinning. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Jim Morrison wailing. Music fades. Rotor blades resolve into overhead fan. Table top. Brandy bottle, tumbler. Pack of smokes. Menu holder.
Our grizzled hero lies in a booth in a deserted pub, his legs dangling from the bench, wild eyes staring up at the ceiling.
"Booth 18. Shit. I'm only in Booth 18."
Picks up glass of fruit juice, raises to lips with shaking hand.
"When I was home from my first Christmas it was worse. When I was here, I wanted to be there. When I was there all I could think of was getting back on the bar. I'm here all morning now, waiting for a mission ... Getting softer. Every minute I stay in this booth, I get weaker ... And every minute Charlie, and Kev, and Ian, all the Dad-Lads, they roam the streets, getting stronger."
The Doors start up again, then abruptly shut off. Too early for that 60s Spotify playlist.
"Everyone gets everything he wants. I wanted a mission. And for my sins, they gave me one. Brought it over like breakfast."
Two starched-collar team-leaders saunter over, swinging key fobs.
"Rob, we have orders to take you-"
"-What are the charges?"
"...There are... no charges. You have orders to report to the Manager, as soon as you're free. Come on, Supervisor, let's get you cleaned up."
They lift our man under the armpits, hoist him to his feet, brush pain au chocolat crumbs from his beard...
IN THE MANAGER'S OFFICE:
The Manager is sat with his assistant. Plates of food scattered about. They look up as our supervisor enters.
"Hiyaaa. Well, we're eating. We've got, let's see ... sweet potato fries, and usually they're not bad. Perhaps we'll pass both ways to save time. Supervisor, I don't know how you feel about this pumpkin ravioli, but if you eat some, you'll never have to prove your courage in any other way."
Supervisor takes a spoonful, tears it apart, chews slowly.
Manager passes Supervisor a piece of paper.
"This is today's rota. I'm going home. I was here at 2am last night, and I was back at 7am this morning. My methods have become ... unsound. You guys can take it from here."
Manager goes home. Supervisor stands on bar with Assistant. Their troops arrive, just kids, barely old enough to shave. Together they enter the heart of darkness of the Sunday two days before Christmas with no functioning ice machine, no change in the safe, hordes of amassing attackers arrayed in glowing comedy Christmas jumpers, Santa hats, Barbour jackets. One group wrapped in silver paper, throwing tampons about the pub. It's a whole thing. Another unclipping the rope being used to cordon off an area and attempting to clip it through their noses. Gas goes. A beer line snaps. Bar is like the last operating base upriver in Vietnam. Bodies everywhere. "Who's in charge here?" "Shit, man, ain't you?"
Then it's done. They've made it through. Then customer comes to the bar. "Just thought you should know, someone's been sick out of the gents' toilet, and across the landing, and all down the stairs."
"The horror. The horror."
......
Music: BAM BAM BA BA BAAAM BAAM, BAM BA BA BAA BAAM....!
Showing posts with label bar tending. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bar tending. Show all posts
Monday, 24 December 2018
Sunday, 23 December 2018
Day 239: Working in a bar over Christmas
Working in a bar over Christmas is like being drafted to fight in a war. The only difference is that in a bar no one actually gets shot. Well, you hope no one gets shot. In all other regards, though, it is the same.
You march into battle day after day, on a prolonged campaign that cannot possibly keep taking from you, yet does, for the longest weeks of your life, with dwindling supplies and declining ranks and wave after wave of enemy piling in at you in inexhaustible numbers, and you stand and you hack away, you hold the line, you pray to whatever gods you find in those lonely moments that the onslaught will cease.
It lets up in the early hours. You gather your wounded, redig your trenches, stock up on supplies. You make hasty repairs. You crawl into some hole and spoon food from a can and sleep for two, maybe five, hours … and then you return for another day, the enemy hordes descending at first light, rattling your barricades … and before you know it you’re overwhelmed in combat once again.
There is the same adrenaline rush, flinging your arms in fluid motions, moving your body elegantly in time with your fellow comrades, lost in the flow of the moment as rarely happens - is not required to happen - back in the mundane tranquillity of civilian life.
There is the same battle against bodily pain, fatigue, despair - the battle against time itself - that grinds and gnaws at your brain second after second after second. Please let it be over. Please let it be over. I cannot do this. I cannot go on. No, I can. There is no choice. I’ve got this. We’ve got this. We will beat it. We will win. No, I was wrong, I can’t, no more. On and on, as the seconds become minutes become hours.
There is the kinship that develops under extreme stress. The reliance on your fellow soldiers. The ones who you know will be standing where you need them to stand, moving where you need them to move, the ones who you know, when you are back to back with them, fighting the last ditch defense, will not fall if you do not fall. And living through such times in the crucible of horror forges a bond deeper than personal friendship, or preference. People whom you might not know in peacetime, with whom you might not be friends, yet whom you trust with your life. Regardless of background, age, or class, you stand together, and you fight together, and you are kin. You were there, on those days, and they were there, and the people back home will never understand.
There is the journey to other bars, other battlefields, on excursions to swap equipment, scrounge supplies, trade resources. Hail, brothers, sisters, how goes the war on this front? And perhaps it goes badly, and you see in their eyes, and there is nothing to do but nod, ask their stories, listen while they tell of exploits that will be written in the annals. Or maybe their war goes well, they’ve barely been hit, the brunt was taken elsewhere down the line. Yet still they prepare, they gather, they wait. Who knows where the next attack will fall? And there’s always tomorrow. And the day after that.
There is the leadership under pressure, the hierarchy, everyone given a job to do. Some you know will do their jobs well, others, less so. There are the privates who blame the commanders, the commanders who blame the privates, the NCO supervisors skirting both worlds.
And there is, among the suffering, the terror, the misery, another side to it. The quiet sharing of a smoke or a cup of tea. The evenings when an anticipated attack fails to materialise, and the troops end up sat around on upturned crates, chatting, looking at photos from the outside world, savouring the calm like never before.
You march into battle day after day, on a prolonged campaign that cannot possibly keep taking from you, yet does, for the longest weeks of your life, with dwindling supplies and declining ranks and wave after wave of enemy piling in at you in inexhaustible numbers, and you stand and you hack away, you hold the line, you pray to whatever gods you find in those lonely moments that the onslaught will cease.
It lets up in the early hours. You gather your wounded, redig your trenches, stock up on supplies. You make hasty repairs. You crawl into some hole and spoon food from a can and sleep for two, maybe five, hours … and then you return for another day, the enemy hordes descending at first light, rattling your barricades … and before you know it you’re overwhelmed in combat once again.
There is the same adrenaline rush, flinging your arms in fluid motions, moving your body elegantly in time with your fellow comrades, lost in the flow of the moment as rarely happens - is not required to happen - back in the mundane tranquillity of civilian life.
There is the same battle against bodily pain, fatigue, despair - the battle against time itself - that grinds and gnaws at your brain second after second after second. Please let it be over. Please let it be over. I cannot do this. I cannot go on. No, I can. There is no choice. I’ve got this. We’ve got this. We will beat it. We will win. No, I was wrong, I can’t, no more. On and on, as the seconds become minutes become hours.
There is the kinship that develops under extreme stress. The reliance on your fellow soldiers. The ones who you know will be standing where you need them to stand, moving where you need them to move, the ones who you know, when you are back to back with them, fighting the last ditch defense, will not fall if you do not fall. And living through such times in the crucible of horror forges a bond deeper than personal friendship, or preference. People whom you might not know in peacetime, with whom you might not be friends, yet whom you trust with your life. Regardless of background, age, or class, you stand together, and you fight together, and you are kin. You were there, on those days, and they were there, and the people back home will never understand.
There is the journey to other bars, other battlefields, on excursions to swap equipment, scrounge supplies, trade resources. Hail, brothers, sisters, how goes the war on this front? And perhaps it goes badly, and you see in their eyes, and there is nothing to do but nod, ask their stories, listen while they tell of exploits that will be written in the annals. Or maybe their war goes well, they’ve barely been hit, the brunt was taken elsewhere down the line. Yet still they prepare, they gather, they wait. Who knows where the next attack will fall? And there’s always tomorrow. And the day after that.
There is the leadership under pressure, the hierarchy, everyone given a job to do. Some you know will do their jobs well, others, less so. There are the privates who blame the commanders, the commanders who blame the privates, the NCO supervisors skirting both worlds.
And there is, among the suffering, the terror, the misery, another side to it. The quiet sharing of a smoke or a cup of tea. The evenings when an anticipated attack fails to materialise, and the troops end up sat around on upturned crates, chatting, looking at photos from the outside world, savouring the calm like never before.
And even in the hell of the melee, in the darkness, with bodies and liquids flying through the air, the clamour, the din rising all around, every direction you look another companion bogged down in close-quarter fighting, a million personal struggles against the forces of darkness and despair - even at such times there are the strange snatches of serenity that arise during combat. Existence utterly in the present moment. The physicality of objects. Coming to and looking at faces pressing on all sides, at the commotion, the panic, and seeing it all to be empty, your body weighing nothing, your ego stripped away, simply existing, noticing wood, metal, glass, skin - the way a light shines overhead - the simple and ineffable beauty of the world.
Life pulses. It breathes. You are part of the flow of the universe. Inside the loudest noise there is silence. Within the busiest action is calm. All goes liquid. All smooth. You are here and you do what must be done. And you do it and you do it. All of you together. And the night passes.
And finally there is only one more day to go.
Life pulses. It breathes. You are part of the flow of the universe. Inside the loudest noise there is silence. Within the busiest action is calm. All goes liquid. All smooth. You are here and you do what must be done. And you do it and you do it. All of you together. And the night passes.
And finally there is only one more day to go.
......
Music: Have You Passed Through This Night? by Explosions in the Sky. Exquisite post-rock with that beautiful quote from The Thin Red Line, perhaps my favourite war film, and my favourite Terence Malick film, encasing the director's dreamy, languid spirituality within just the right amount of mainstream film structure. Mm, yes, and it's a good song.
Sunday, 21 October 2018
Day 176: Howling
In bed. Home from a ten hour Saturday shift of three deep at the bar, monstrous crowds jostling, reaching for you, yelling at you, clawing, pawing, cackling, howling. Pour and serve and note and till drawer and change and thank. Pour and serve and note and till drawer and change and thank. Pop a bottle. Empty mint leaves from the sink. Pour and serve. Scan fifty people and work out who is next. Have forty nine people screech at you that they've been waiting longer. Correct staff mistakes. Float the tills. Wash glasses. Pour and serve and change and thank. Cut fruit. Run upstairs to connect a new barrel. Run downstairs and grab glasses on the way. Have men in identical shirts and bald heads yell orders at you while you head back to finish pouring your pint. Want to scream at them all to fucking die. Pour and serve and change and thank. Pour and serve and change and thank. Pour and serve and change and thank. Pour and serve and change and thank. Serve two groups at once. Pour three pints at once. Clear glasses from the front bar while filling the Pepsi. Pour an extra cider because you hear your colleague needing one. Wipe the bar top while the cider fills. Cash off your order with one hand. It's never enough. More and more and more and more. Screaming cacophony. Everyone taking from you. Stemming the tide. Standing in the breach. Slack jawed blurry eyed sallow skinned complacent slabs of meat spitting orders at you. Uhh excuse me. This San Miguel is flat as a fart. I'm not drinking this. Swallowing down the anger, breathing slowly out. No worries, let me sort that for you. Uhh I saw that you just poured it into a new glass. I wanted a fresh drink. Swallow down the anger. It just needed refreshing. It had been served in the wrong glass is all (by an exhausted inexperienced staff member, because every lager glass in the building was being used). It should be fine now, but I'll be happy to do a fresh one if it is flat. Well, we'll see. Huffs and head into the crowd. There goes one of the richest most lucky, what, 10% of people on the planet, middle class and white and English, drinking freely on a Saturday night, and just so very thrilled to be alive. Ten, fifty, a thousand more like him. Who's next? Pour and serve and change and thank.
Limp home and collapse in the dark and body gone but mind still keyed into that bar zone, can't turn it off. Falling asleep and wake with a jolt, realising you haven't finished the Tuborg, you need to reach for a gin globe. Then realising you're in bed. Drifting off, then jolt awake, you need to pass the change back. No, you're in bed. Drift, and jolt. Over and over. Mental torture, while muscles yowl in fatigued pain.
And back tomorrow for Sunday morning shift, brain mushed like roadkill. But at least now, for a few brief moments, there is only silence, and the empty whiteness of the page.
Limp home and collapse in the dark and body gone but mind still keyed into that bar zone, can't turn it off. Falling asleep and wake with a jolt, realising you haven't finished the Tuborg, you need to reach for a gin globe. Then realising you're in bed. Drifting off, then jolt awake, you need to pass the change back. No, you're in bed. Drift, and jolt. Over and over. Mental torture, while muscles yowl in fatigued pain.
And back tomorrow for Sunday morning shift, brain mushed like roadkill. But at least now, for a few brief moments, there is only silence, and the empty whiteness of the page.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)