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I am forever on tenterhooks, this job, it's the sum of all trifles and causing me no end of anxiety.
I've never had so much the feeling that I wasn't getting it in my life. And it doesn't help to be living out of a hostel, where never can you find a moment alone or peace of mind.
Saturday evening, I've a small party of 12. Largely non-drinkers, of an ethnic group popular in the lower mainland. Friendly enough, 12 around the table. It's a staff party for a (support group for a doctor).
So they are sat, the room is tight, everything is set up for them. Only - for some reason the Doctor himself, a slight, perhaps mid 40's gentleman, has occasion to feel dizzy and faint in his chair at the head.
There's panic - pandemonium - everyone is dipping their napkin in the Champagne bucket, cold wet cloths, trying to revive him, Is it a stroke? A heart-attack? Low blood sugar? He just recently had dental surgery! And now everyone is ordering their own family quack remedy while he lies sprawled upon the chairs, everyone has a family secret, potion, cure, elixir that we're to make up and use to revive him - a lady, ordering me sternly to have the bar prepare a mixture of salt, sugar, lemon & water for him to drink, another has another suggestion, someone wants an Aspirin, Chef appears, wants no Aspirin passed out, we're not a hospital, perhaps they should cancel their reservation and take him away...
At this he miraculously revives, and I can't help but think, if he's fainting now what's he going to do when he gets the bill? And I'm suspicious of this whole thing, that maybe, just maybe he wanted a little attention from his employees, a little appreciation, I'm a cultural outsider but I'm getting the idea that this is how they do things...
The night progresses, I make a botched order sheet for the kitchen - didn't leave enough room for the variety of steaks they wanted - largely medium well or well done, in itself a crime, didn't account for the gluten free, the spice free, the vagaries of each order, my ordering chit - frankly - sucks, and Chef is pissed at me in a quiet way.
This is not good.
The beginning of the shift I had received instruction on the seat numbers for each large party - my order sheet the night before had been incorrect - "not my fault" - but - it was - tonight - the dread of work and I will receive instruction again.
The job, in itself, reasonably simple - technically there is nothing here I can't do - but overcoming the anxiety that stifles me, drenches the place - this is another thing entirely, and I'm not sure I'm up to the task. If they keep me on it's merely because another trainee is not working out, overheard that he's too often not available when needed, has to leave early, and this is not the sort of job where you make other plans.
I loathe that I need this job; my circumstances - bleak, but doubly so in that I cannot fault the restaurant - it's me that needs remedying.
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Marching to the beat of a different drummer Or not. Maybe we're all merely marching to the end of the world...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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In Nelson, it was the skunks and raccoons, depending on how late you were up.
In Vancouver it's the rats. Late at night, after work, step outside the hostel - and - blind now to the misery of the staggering and teetering drunks and junkies you begin to see them.
Big as gophers, swarming underneath the dumpsters, running across the street - rats. There must be a rat-king under the dumpster in the alley, they're forever coming and going, huge, 3 or 4 at a time, the next plague is gestating here...
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Last night, taking tables. A 3 table section. 2 deuces and 1 four top.
There was no warning, and so I'm only rudimentarily prepared. There's still much to learn.
First table, a deuce. Muddle through it, and while "waiting" polish glasses behind the bar.
Now - here - this place - it's drenched in anxiety. No matter what you do, to the letter, following someone else's instructions, whatever transpires - it will not be good enough. Someone will come along and advise you're doing it wrong, could do it better, do it this way, and as every server/bartender/sommelier has their own particular way of doing things you'd best to find the happy medium...
Folding napkins - 1/4 inch more this way, no, wrong, 1/4 inch more that way - no, try it this way...
Glasses go here...no, they'll get bumped, put them here...
Pour the wine - no, a millimeter too much, leave it - no - top it up - no - leave it. They're big glasses, a bottle poured into one would still leave a 1 inch rim, I'm having problems with overpouring,...
...and so on and so forth. A waiter is getting shouted at by the manager - 2 bottles of white, 2 bottles of red, for a party of 19, not even 2.5 oz per guest, he didn't gauge the pour correctly, ran out of the red before it could go around the table - he's in big shit.
...The trick is to look calm, unflustered, take every bitchy-snide-remark in stride, don't take it personally, fine-dining, after all, and adjust your performance to suit whoever is in the room at the moment.
My table eats - simply, pays - $300 bill, leaves.
It was one of the first tables sat, now, a 3 hour window where I polish other glasses, attempt to help out - attempt, because many servers don't want the help, are afraid you'll fuck it up, I get that - been there - and so, do what you can, stay out of the way...
Eventually, 9:30, I get 2 more tables, a deuce, a four top. The deuce, another $300 spent - and the four top - appetizers only, bottle of wine, $800 bill. The guest gets the bill, looks - ?? - shocked, he had no hand in the ordering, probably didn't know what he was in for when he asked for the bill...
Try to keep busy - only 2 tables after all - but I'm told, repeatedly - not to help others, watch my own section - one person ran out of wine, and I wasn't there to top it up, my bad,...
And so it goes, everyone trying to look calm, everyone so tightly wound up that their ass is puckering in the back of their throat.
I've never had a job where I was expected simply to be "on-hand" - "on-call", "just in case", and their definition of fine dining could benefit a great deal from a little more cooperation, nonetheless everyone's too wound up, engrossed in their own thing, and so it goes - the place is relaxed for the customers, living terror for half the staff, and I have yet to see a proper paycheck, tip-out, probably not until January, but - if I can make it until then - maybe, just maybe, given the fullness of time, I'll be able to get another jeep and get back on the road...
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The hostel, beginning of the month, largely empty. Steve, bunkmate these last couple of weeks (amongst others) last night decided he'd had enough, announced that he was off to stay with his sister in Kelowna. And spent until 3:00 AM light on packing - me, after 9 hours of work just trying to fall asleep, lights on, always, always on the cusp, and then he makes some noise and I realize I haven't slipped away...
I'm half sad to see him go, only half, I'll save a bundle on cigarettes, for a guy who'd quit he still had a taste, and his mental health - increasingly frail, he would over 4 or 5 hours on a sunny or at least not rainy day go down to the street and sell 30 of his chapter books, enough to pay up the Hostel fees for a couple more days. But the rest of the time, lying in the bunk, earbuds in, just there - 5 hours on the street, 16 or 18 hours in the bunk.
And rainy days he wouldn't leave at all.
Me, I'm up, about, first for coffee, then to grab my bags, do some writing, other things, study menu, then shower, off to work, home at 12:00 or 1:00, other residents here often never leave their rooms.
So, yes, his mental resources were exhausted, he had tried to keep a cheery outlook but it was becoming increasingly tough in view of the Vaccine requirements, in view of the weather, in view of his diminishing well-being.
***
No one left in the Hostel - most, the long term people, found permanent digs for December 1st. The others moved on to other travels. So - you would think it would be quiet, go to the common area, and write, but it never is, it's the Hostile Hostel, those few residents that remain, the fewer new ones that have arrived, they play their games louder, converse louder, play their blues louder, fill the space with themselves - louder, and East Indian Gentleman, earbuds in on loud Skype calls, perpetually, overly loud, doing tech-support or something, he doesn't need a microphone, he's speaking loud enough in that thickened accent that his clients can hear him wherever they are in the world, and - the upside of an empty hostel, fewer to no bunkmates, are countered by the increasingly verbose and loud guests.
***
To the Vancouver Public Library, a 7 minute walk away, 5th floor, quiet area, here I can do some thinking. Here it is quiet. And here there is nothing else to focus on but the work in front of me. I'm slowly but surely acquiring some good habits.