Friday, March 14, 2008
Dire situations call for extreme measures.
This is a problem.
No, the game isn't a problem I happen to have champion skills and have reigning title holder positions in this game, but when you apply for a job where BEER PONG is present, along with: stripper poles (not actual strippers they're just available for drunk girls acting like strippers) You've reached an exciting new low.
The downside to getting into the world of freelancing is that when you're piecing together jobs and a huge chunk of your time is spent doing things that don't pay (but will eventually if God shines his golden (actual gold will do) good graces upon me) you often run the risk of one of those jobs not being so consistent. When my boss from my "money job" called this yesterday and told me I had this weekend and next weekend off, he was expecting to hear jubilation to not have to work into the oh so wee hours on my Saturday nights, instead he received instant PANIC from me."OH SHIT, NO NO, I NEED TO WORK." I pleaded sort of pathetically and to no avail.....
....found myself skipping into a bar that had a chalkboard sign on the street stating "SEEKING DOOR GIRL. $2 Miller Lites, $3 wells and KARAOKE! ALL NIGHT." Door girl couldn't be that bad, I sit at the door and check I.D.'s and chat to strangers (my favorite typing of chatting) and then get cash at the end of the night, perfect. Seedy and totally below my standards but a girls gotta go what a girls gotta do-or something.
And oh shit, the karaoke would be enough to entertain me. I figured I do this "door job" for two weeks, then I'll quit when my real job comes back to me...
"CAN YOU STAY TONIGHT? RIGHT NOW." Um, I love this, (asshole)- how people interviewing you can take full advantage of your desperation and immediately put you to work, next thing I know I have three pitchers of beer spilling onto my hands and my cute beige vintage boots and 60's style dress. Fantastic. And definitely not bar wear.
"HERE HAVE A SHOT. MEET INGA, SHE'LL TRAIN YOU." My ear is officially covered in my "new boss'" spit, and I feel slightly violated.
INGA, my dear girl is drunk...9:30, already completely hammered and serving the people. I can already tell this is not going to be the gig for me, apparently the asshole didn't mention DOOR GIRL means motherfucking cocktail waitress to masses of drunken beer pongers and NYU doucheness.
"I don't get good tips, but I get TWO FREE DRINKS! AND SHOTS ALL NIGHT!" In the job description they should have just put, "seeking future alcoholics", also another category I'd like to skip out on, though I love the drink, I love to sit and drink, preferably with a nice meal- I'm not a feign enough to push my cleavage onto chests of drunk boys to get them to buy me a shot. My boob pressing is reserved for those who deserve it, (like the hot boy running karaoke, did I mention that I may take this job just so I can know him?)
2 hours pass, I'm still "training" and involuntarily taking in the scents of sweaty men brushing past me and peeking down my dress through their black furry eyebrows and tequila breathe. Excuse me, move the fuck out of my way before I pour an entire pitcher down your pants, eager beaver.
I have decided to detach myself from my body- I am officially floating above it, looking down and saying, out of body is the best in shitty situations; FLOAT "Dear Chelsea, what are you doing. leave. Go beg on street corners before working in this helllllll dive."
After some group of co-workers performed a killer karaoke rendition of The Beatles "The continuing Story of Bungalow Bill", which by the way, drunk people repeating the words- BUNGALOW BILL, over and over while clutching to a microphone and a stripper pole, is. pure. priceless. entertainment. I decided, give me my free drink- my jacket, and give me that pen....
"HEY, Can you sneak me in if I wanted to sing a song??" Batting my eye lashes.
HOT KARAOKE MAN, "Yeah kid, sure." oh. I love you.
"UP NEXT, OUR NEEEEWWWW EMPLOYEEEE.....MISS CHELSEAAAAAAA" New, fucking, employee.
Fuck it. I'm at least doing some karaoke before I flee, I chose Susan Tedeschi's "Just Won't Burn" and sang my bluesy little soul out until beer pongers, and the sloshed twenty somethings were cheering in their best bellowing, wasted wails.
I got a few whispers on the way out, "yoooo, you totally did like, fuckin' professional karaoke...shiiit...." Thank you Mr. Jack Daniels, I appreciate it, now- move so I can run and never, ever return....
I'm scheduled to work tonight, After some thought, I've simply decided, there is a certain point in your life, no matter the low- where you cannot tip me 2 dollars to be your beer maid. I've done that. I love sleep, I love getting home and hanging out in my jamis until 1am, not a tight t-shirt covered in someones happy hour draft. I don't want to take shots with strangers, I don't want my manager touching my lower back and calling me sweetie....ever.
"OH AND TOMORROW, BRING YOUR OWN APRON."
Yeah, no. I'll eat bagels for two weeks at 99cents a pop before I wear an apron again.