Sunday, March 18

ADIOS WITH AN IRISH CAR BOMB

Last night was my first real shift at the Local Alehouse. I had a few days of training, and was feeling pretty comfortable with the way of things. It was going to be a big night; I had been told that St. Patricks day was a big deal for the Alehouse. All of the staff seemed pretty excited. A couple of days prior, one of my coworkers asked me if I had picked out my St. Patricks day shirt yet. I told them I had never celebrated the Irish "holiday", and therefore didn't know I needed some special shirt. They were actually surprised, but I didn't see why. Come now, do I look like someone who celebrates St. Patricks' Day?

The shift went well. The Alehouse was standing room only all night. Irish music blasted through the speakers while people dressed in kilts (isn't that Scottish attire?) chugged Guinness and other assorted green beers. At the peak of the night, a local band performed while people "danced" what I'm assuming was an Irish jig, but it really just looked like alot of drunken Flash dancing.

The only annoying thing about the night were the Irish Car Bombs. It's a shot of equal parts Irish whiskey and Bailey's, dropped into a half pint of Guinness, then chugged. Ugh. To me Guinness tastes like old, wet, mushed up tree bark; I am stupefied as to it's seeming popularity. These shots were on special for the night, and people were ordering them literally ten at a time. They are one of the more time consuming beverages to prepare; pulling the Guiness alone takes like half an hour. I kept wondering if these people really liked these Car Bombs, or if they were drinking them because they were called "Irish". I asked one guy who was on his ten-thousandth ICB of the night why the drink was so popular. He said it tasted just like chocolate cake. Yeah, I wasn't buying it. Chocolate cake is far too delicious to be in the same category as Guinness.

Halfway through the night, Sandra, the owner, approached me to see how I was handling things, and to tell me she thought I was doing a great job. In the few days I'd been there, Sandra as well as the other employees repeatedly told me how well I worked and how glad they were to have me. Sandra was pressing me to work full time for them, telling me I could have any schedule I wanted and that she really wanted me to make a full commitment to the Alehouse. I had been hesitant about making a full leap over and just quitting the Restarante y Cantina altogether, although I had been not exactly happy there for awhile. I thanked Sandra for her offer and asked for a few more days to think about it.

As the night wore on, however, the decision made itself. I was surrounded by people who appreciated me, staff and customers alike. I was working for a woman who gave us ownership of our positions and didn't breathe down our necks all of the time. I was making the money I deserved to make for as hard as I was working - plus some. I was apart of a cohesive team of people who enjoyed coming to work every day and supported each other. As I sat drinking my own green beer at the end of the shift, I asked myself 'What more did I need'? Nothing, I decided. I knew what I had to do.

It was only a little after one in the morning, so I headed to the Restarante y Cantina to talk to El Pechugon. He wrote the schedules every Sunday, so I thought it would be best to put in my two weeks' notice as soon as possible. I still felt a little nervous; what if I was making a mistake? Despite the drama, the Restarante had been home to me for a long time, and the main owner, Senora Octavia had held my hand through some very rough spots in my life. There was much that I would miss about the place.

I walked into the office and told El Pechugon that we needed to talk. Senora Octavia was sitting in the corner. I informed them of my decision to terminate my employment at the end of two weeks' time, but added that they could use me as much as was needed in the interim. All they did was stare at me. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of uncomfortable silence, El Pechugon informed me that he needed me to stay late on my next shift and that was all. All? What did that mean, all, I asked. He told me it meant after the next day, my services would no longer be needed, that he already had people lining up to work there.

I was literally speechless. I could feel my eyes burning and I knew they would well up with tears at any moment. That was all? I nearly ran to my car, ignoring all the patrons standing outside, calling me. That was all? Senora Octavia had just sat there, never even spoke, nothing; after all the time I'd worked there. After everything I'd done, as hard as I'd worked, after all the shit I'd put up with...that was ALL?

I drove straight across the street to the Pub. I plowed through the St Patricks Day stragglers and up to the bar. I told the bartender what I wanted, and she paused before walking off, taking in the fact that I'd obviously just been crying. I didn't care. She came back in a few minutes and sat my drink down. I dropped the shot glass into the pint and chugged the whole thing.

That guy was right. It did taste just like chocolate cake.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

just stumbled on to your blog. love your writing.

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