Sun! I don’t know what to do with myself!
Well, I know what I’ll need to do, but I’d much rather just sit here in the old Garden of Remembrance writing and feeling the sun in my skin.
I need to do laundry, and this would be PERFECT drying weather. Unfortunately, someone else had the exact same inspiration right before me. I believe it to be Declan, who although I have yet to see him seems to have returned from his brief visit back home.
What I need to do, besides laundry, is quit the fucking café from hell. Yesterday was just the last straw. When I go in there is that pretty girl whose name I can only render as Roshin and Francis, an actual manager, who is sitting on her ass smoking. Just like everyone does at the Beanery. I would go right to work on the dishes, Francis leaves, so it’s just the two of us. And it REMAINS just the two of us. AGAIN we have no food. AGAIN we have crappy, pissy, short-tempered customers who must clearly see us in distress but just don’t care. I had one woman come up to me with a water-spotted knife and say, quote, “We appreciate the food but we don’t appreciate other people’s food on our silverware.” How clever. Did you think of that all by yourself? Madam, I would appreciate it if you would suck an angry bull’s scrotum, but I’m not holding my breath.
THEN the cash register broke. Totally fucked up insane cash register decided that during lunch it would be amusing to break down, as Roshin has to take time from cooking and help me figure the thing out and people stomp out and complain and generally are dicks.
One man came in and ordered a breakfast and when we told him we were out of food looked as if he had just witnessed liquid monkey feces bust from every one of my orifices in such a way as to spell out a particularly offensive comment about his sexual preference. You know what, sir? I really am past caring and your shocked indignation prompts not humility and obsequiousness but laughter behind your back.
What’s more, he ordered in the most obnoxious way. That fait accompli sort of way. Not a request, but a demand. Not, “May I have some eggs?” but “I will have my eggs now. And God help you if I’m displeased.” That way that makes them rattle off an order and turn to leave and sit almost before they’re done because if they want it there couldn’t possibly be any question as to them getting it. I hate those people.
Then there are the “I have been waiting for 45 minutes for my food. If I’d known it was going to take that long I wouldn’t have come here.” Madam, if I knew I’d be dealing with you at all I wouldn’t have come here. And all you can do is apologize, but it does no good. I guess they expect you to admit the conspiracy lurking beneath the surface.
One more thing – “If I’d known it would take this long…” What a stupid thing to say. You can’t know. That’s the great mystery of life! Suck it up! What, is there a national restaurant hot line that lets you know, based on race, age, and time of meal, how long it will take? If that IS the case then it’s your own damned fault for not checking it this morning over your breakfast of vinegar and urine, not mine.
Did I mention the cash register broke? And that I ended up paying people’s change out of my own pockets? Did I get any thanks for it, either?
Then 3PM rolls around, which is when I should, and desperately, want to leave. By the way, at 2PM I had resolved to quit. Life’s too short to take shit from people because you work in the worst café in all of Dublin.
But no one comes to relieve me. So I say I’ll stay on until 5, when the closer is to come in. Anyway, I’m having a rather good time with Roshin, sort of a brotherhood of the damned sort of thing. Plus it’s rather nice to sort of flirt with a girl – whether she’s with someone or whether she even picks up on it doesn’t matter. It’s still nice and makes me feel human.
She’s a short, thin girl with a nose stud and the movements of a trance/raver girl. Which, indeed, she is.
Five comes along, and sure enough Aoife calls and says she won’t come in today. Something about being in hospital and having tests done. I wish her health and realize I’ll be here all day.
Roshin and I chat a lot as it gets to be quite slow, and she invites me to a party at her place on Saturday, one she hopes (or dreads) will be so wild they reach eviction levels. Dare to dream, says I. She also agrees to go get a drink with me after work to celebrate the end of a horrible day. But frankly, it wasn’t categorically horrible as we got to know each other a bit and I felt like maybe Ireland was do-able after all.
Fabio comes by to get the keys to open the next morning and we all go out to get a drink at her place. We leave at about seven after taking out two million bags of trash and human body parts as it is, lucky us, “bin day”!
There is no beer in her very clearly messy art student inhabited flat, and so we go around the corner to her local.
Roshin tells Fabio he looks like an alien, we talk Italian stuff, he laughs about our pronunciation, we laugh as his, he does some amazing drumming on the table with his fingers. They look like they’d snap right off. We talk about drugs, and I realize that for some reason I am always drawn to drug users. They must just be more interesting. Or maybe a bit more free. The very use of drugs pulls you into an illegal counter culture, and knowing you’re outside the norm helps people to celebrate it and their own individualities. Helps them sort of be how they want to be, and though that’s not always great sometimes it makes for very interesting people.