Free T-Shirt? How about a JOB?

So it's finally officially final. I start working at Finn's in a couple of weeks doing hotwings and working the door. I've done both a few times before while covering for Henry (my sister's boyfriend at the time) and all I got out of the deal was an open tab. As I was discussing my schedule with Brad, the owner of the bar, a nearby regular cussed up a storm and demanded to know why he wasn't asked to come aboard.
"You have a job," Brad told him.
"I told you I'd quit it."
"Man, you wanna know why I'm hiring Wes?"
I stood amicably, stirring my whiskey and coke. I kinda wanted to know too. It's not common you get a compliment from Brad, I thought.
"Cuz he's one of the boys? You guys and your fucking club," the regular sputtered. He was, I imagine, referring to the group of guys that spent the majority of the evening playing pool in the back half of the bar. Teams are formed early on, and if you get there late, you simply have to put your quarters down and wait your turn. It is a bit of a good ole boys club. When a couple of jokers show up and put quarters up, with money on the game, we revel in the chance to flex our pool muscles against someone besides each other. Victory is always so certain that when wagered against, it's like getting paid to play. It really is the GOB (good ole boys) because fights have been fought and won, and none of us ever wondered what it was that we were fighting about. I suppose we all trust that there's a good reason. Mostly it's someone who claims that they are up for a game, when they are really not. It's appalling how angry people will get over a game that costs four quarters to play. But of course, you know, it's not the quarters, it's the principle.
"No, you big baby. It's because Wes asked me before, and when I told him no, he didn't act like a little bitch about it."

I twisted my lips and shrugged. Pretty much true. All I did was ask for a t-shirt, which Brad had been giving away like candy. He said that for a shirt, I'd have to be an employee. So I said, "So let me work here, then." (as a joke)

Three months later, after all those nights of helping close up the store in exchange for a blank tab, I guess I proved myself as a person of value. Buck, one of the veteran bartenders, actually told me I should get a free tab AND be paid just for doing so well with the closing duties. So after doing that for god knows how long, I'm very happy to be an 'official' Finn's employee. Not like those other guys who just think they work there.

Sometimes, other people stay and help close up too. They are almost always doing it to get on the bartender's good side... but one thing I can say is, if you're not willing to get dirty, then just get out of the way. Then there are people who flip out when they see the men's bathroom sink is clogged and full of puke. Shit happens! Clean it up!

And... of course... there are the people who hover around the barwell and chat it up with the bartender the entire time because they like to pretend that they are the bartenders' very own secret service. They believe that just by standing there and sneering at patrons, they are doing an invaluable service to all employees. The worst is when a bartender is chewing out someone who has an attitude, and a big ole boy thinks its his cue to play Mr. Bouncer. If I can offer any piece of advice, it's this: do not ever interrupt a bartender. When it is time for that person to leave, the appropriate people will step forward and take care of it.

Bartenders are moody people. They are alcoholics with a people problem. A happy bartender is one that just scored a $40 tip.
He or she deals with drunk assholes, girls trying to schmooze their way into free drinks, the loud bitch at the end who is about to lose her legs and the circle of frat boys chanting at two very drunk women as if it were mardi gras. There's always the bitter 25 year old girl who honestly believes she knows everything, and the just-turned-21 hippie/indie/partycat who considers it amusing to talk about this really hot guy she met while shooting coke at a friend's house. There's always the 19 year old coke fiend that drives a beamer, who everyone really wants to throw out, but for some reason, nobody does. By the way, you can bet that the bitter 25 year old chick always ends up making out with this guy, but tells everyone afterwards that he was creepy.

I love it. Every bit of it. I love playing pool, watching people fall on their ass--whether it be making a pass or trying to pass by, smoking indoors, hot women who don't realize that you aren't rich, stupid women who think you are rich, and smart women who are glad you aren't rich. It's my own personal theater, and I can go any time I want.

Drunk, Delirious Blogging

Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm sure the great majority of you have come home from a night of utter chaos-- a night that began with treachery, one filled with tribulation, and ending as a trial-- nay, a testament to how karma can go from kicking your ass to kissing it.

Yep. It was definitely one of those night for me. It all started with DC. You guys know a thing or two about DC. For the astrology buffs, she's a Gemini, and I'm a Capricorn. You know that that mean.s "Oh Boy" usually comes after such a combination. More like "Aw Fuck..."

Anyway, DC said from the get-go that she was in a weird mood. She got into a fight with her roommate-- something to do with her roomie wiping out on a bicycle when said roommate didn't need to be traveling in the first place. Then I managed to quip about how tired DC appeared. DC took that too mean "You think I look like shit." Well, no. A hint for the guys... never, EVER tell a girl she looks tired. She will always take it to mean that you think she looks like she just got shoved into a camel's ass. In any case, not good. Just as I managed to repair that situation, DC decides we need to go meet her friend Shana. Shana is someone I've already met, but I didn't realize that yet. From the beginning, lovely Shana did her best to exclude me from every possible conversation, joke, introduction... EVERYTHING. When DC went to the ladies' room, Shana and I were alone. I figured this would be a perfect time to get to know her and maybe get on her good side. Lucky for me, Shana's very sensitive and I managed to piss her off, sending her into a fit of rage in less than five minutes.

After Shana found DC and left without me, I went where my heart said to go--- the usual place. My bar. THE bar. Lo and Behold, they were there. DC demanded that I apologize to Shana, which I did, successfully. Then DC had to use the ladies room again, and left me sitting there with "T". T proceeded to tell me all about how I need to lighten up and not care what these "bitches" think and to just do my own thing. He actually sat there and tried to tell me how to be a player. Meanwhile, he sat there with this smug look on his face like he knew all about it. Needless to say, I wanted to fucking kill him.

Fast forward. T went ahead and told DC what a big fat douchebag I am, for not being enough of a player, which inspired DC to leave with Shana without so much as a goodbye. Feeling pissed, I was ready to go soon after. My good friend Eddie was with me and as we walked out, T said something to the effect of "Better luck next time, baller." To which I replied that he was a barking dick, and I could care fucking less what he thinks. This created a big mess of T getting in my face and me threatening to rearrange his anatomy.

It finally got settled by some very big people that told him to fuck off and asking me to go home. That's all good and done.

So I'm home, but I'm thinking to myself, FUCK... I really screwed things up with DC. I was sure she'd never talk to me again after hearing what her friend "T" had to say about me.

All of the sudden, my phone starts buzzing. It's her. I answer, and after a brief conversation, find out that T thought I was someone else, that she left because Shana was insanely drunk and couldn't wait any longer to puke somewhere, and that she was definitely still into me.

Key phrase. "Wes, T thought you were trying to get with Shana. That's why he said what he said to you. He has no idea about you and I."

Sometimes, news is delivered in fine print, my friends. DC proceeded to repeat this "You and I" bit a few more times, and assured me I'd be hearing from her tomorrow. Suffice to say, I suppose she still likes me. Even after I pissed off her friend Shana, and almost caved her friend T's face in with my forehead. This is almost as good as the night before, when she kissed me at the bar.

Oh yea--- I almost forgot... this whole post is so fucking gay. What am I, 16? Jeez. Okay, guys-- if you're reading this-- just throw some stuff at me to talk about that's manly and I will rock it out old school. Seriously, I'm open to suggestions. Also... heh... if you knew what DC looked like, you'd totally understand.

Moment(s) of Truth(s)

First, I'd like to share with you a kind letter I wrote to my sister, placed atop of box full of my ruined clothing. It goes a little something like this:

A,

Not trying to be a huge A-hole or anything, but seriously, these are all the clothes in my room that your cat(s) either pooped or peed all over. Most of them were inside the box already. Some were on the floor.

Every time I come home, I am greeted by the fresh scent of grade-A cat shit/piss.

I know I am not a scholar in the art of cleanliness, but this is at least 1/2 the clothing I planned to wear this winter.

Do with these items what you will: wash, trash, burn or construct inefficient wind kites. They are very much more yours than mine now.

-W



Secondly,

I just witness what is possibly the most grotesque display of drunkenness in my life. Crater, Beandip and Tenicious D, otherwise known as TD (who is a female) were being driven home by yours truly. The entire way home, I had learned that Mitts, TD's boyfriend, had gone AWOL earlier in the evening. Keep in mind that I got off work at roughly midnight, CST. That allowed me to arrive at roughly half-past, leaving me approximately an hour and some to get soused and hang out. In that time, apparently Mitts went to fetch his dog from some random guy's a friend of our's house down the road.

Long story short, everybody (and by everybody, I mean anyone who isn't me) lost track of Matt. TD and Beandip went looking for him, found him, and was promptly shoved off with a very quaint "Fuck you, fuck everybody" from Mr. AWOL, a.k.a., Mitts.

I, being my chivalrous self, offered everyone a ride. (And by everyone, I meant anyone who isn't Mitts.)

The entire fucking way back to Mitt and TD's house (which is actually rented by Crater as well) TD is kicking and screaming in the back seat to be let out on the street, dog in tow, to go look for Mitts herself. We are pleading with her to please please just shut the fuck up. We finally arrive to Mitt's, and I promise TD that I'll go look for him myself if she'll just take the dog inside and go to sleep. In the back of my mind, I'm wondering if the dog hasn't died from the shock of seeing a 105 lb girl going apeshit in the back of a Honda Accord.

As it turns out, Mitts is inside, wondering where the fuck his girlfriend has been all this time. He comes out in nothing but boxers and proceeds to tell all of us to fuck off, except for TD, who needs to get "her whore ass in the house." We were just (I like to use italics. Get over it.) about to leave when he actually grabs her and throws her inside. Oh. Hell. No.

She's crying. She comes stomping out, I imagine, thinking there will be a quick apology underway. There isn't. Mitts shoves her again, and I inch closer. He tells her to choose between going home with us "again" (I have no idea where that came from) or coming into the house, and adds that if Beandip or myself don't leave, he's going to club us to death. He makes an about-face and goes inside, slamming the door-- leaving TD in a heap of tears on the steps. I stand, confused, appalled, but more than anything, disgusted. I'd never seen Mitts like this, but it wasn't above me to let him get away with it. So into the house I went. I pulled him out of bed and asked "Are you fucking serious?"

That leads to him edging me closer and closer to the door until we were back out on his front porch again. There, Beandip said something that made Mitts go nutshit on him. That's when I jumped in. Mitt's pit bull is thrashing the shit out of my leg and hips as I'm pulling Mitts off Beandip-- continuing to bite and claw at me until Mitts has been thrown into the house.

After that, Beandip was breaking down. TD was hyperventilating and I was keeping my eyes open for Mitts to come out with a baseball bat. I finally convinced Beandip to leave, since we were the object of Mitts' anger, and not TD-- even though he had manhandled her. I had to make an executive decision and I don't see any other way I could have done it. I asked TD outright, "Do you feel safe here?" But she wouldn't answer. I honestly think our prolonged presence would have made everything much worse.

So that's how it was. In the aftermath, I am kind of proud of myself for just walking into his house and standing up to him, then ripping him off Beandip when he did go nuts. Though I'm surprised he didn't make a jump at me. Beandip has no natural defenses, so maybe he just wanted an easy beat-up. If that's the case, I'm sad for him.

Beandip feels horrible that we left TD there, but I don't. I remember very easily her wailing in the back of my car. It is just as much her instigating the madness as it was him being mad in the first place. (And by mad, I mean lost-his-goddayum mind) I wish there was a better way to have handled the situation, but I think by us leaving, we made the best decision possible under the circumstances.

And as a epilogue, never again would I ever put my faith in Crater to make the right choice. He is a sack of shit that didn't do anything to help at any point. In fact, it was as though he tried to make everything worse. The only thing I can credit him for was not getting involved. Still, though, he didn't have to just sit there and talk shit, and then not take responsibility for it. He basically fueled the fire and then ran to high ground. Or in this case, lower ground.

When I wake up, I'm going to nurse my dog-attack wounds and hopefully get to work on time.

Yea.