A Log of Extremes – My First Five Days on the Job

Posted by Tilia

Wednesday – Day 1.)

Desperate for a job, I print out 3 CV’s (that’s British for Resume) and take them up to the closest high street to my flat.  I hand out the first two, and continue down the street to the outside of Molly’s bar, which has caught my eye numerous times on the bus rides home from Jane’s.

There is a little Irish woman sweeping up and dumping ash trays outside the bar.  

“Excuse me?” I say.  ”Do you know if they’re hiring?”

“Yes,” she says, appraising me.  ”Do you have experience?”

“Yes, a bit, I worked at a–”

“Can you come in at ten for a trial?”

“Um, sure.”

The little Irish woman then eyes the conservative attire I’ve donned for my High Street CV Hand out, which includes a skirt that falls below the knee, tights, boots, and a tank top and a sweater.  

“Wear whatever ye like,” she says, letting me know that I can relax a little when I dress for work tonight.  ”I’m Molly.”

“Oh, like the …” I said, motioning to the sign.

So, I show up, she trains me, etc.  And we close.  

After close, she offers me a drink, which I’m assuming is a special occasion since it’s my first night and we’re discussing my prospects as an event coordinator.  I end up in the bar until after 6 in the morning, drinking with Molly and listening to incredibly intimate details about her personal life, both kind of enjoying myself, and wondering when it will be appropriate to leave.

She calls us a cab around sunrise and drops me off at my place, asking that I text her as soon as I’m home.  I do.

Thursday – Day 2.)

The incident with Sam(?)

Friday – Day 3.)

Exhausted, I come in and am given full control of the bar downstairs, which only stays open for a few hours due to the dismal amount of people who show up for the live band performing.  I come upstairs, worried that I may have to face Sam(?) again, or that he’s perhaps told his boss about what happened. 

I become overly lethargic and disoriented as the night progresses.  Molly notices and offers me a bit of cocaine.  ”Just put it on your tongue,” she says, “don’t go putting anything up your nose.”

“Um, thanks, but can I just have a red bull instead?”

As soon as we close, I duck out of there, clearly slightly offending Molly in the process.  

I get to my night bus stop and try to keep my head down from this Romanian asshole and his friend who are hissing at and calling things to any female who walks past.

The Romanian eventually sidles up to me and attempts to start a conversation.  I ask him to leave me alone, and after about six demands as to why, I finally tell him that anyone who thinks it’s funny or entertaining to make women who are trying to make their way home feel unsafe and harassed can’t be my friend.

Romanian then blames it on his English friend, who says he had no part in it, and agrees that I have a point.  English friend then turns to me and asks why all Americans have such an attitude.

I respond that my attitude has little do with my nationality and more to do with the fact that I’ve been on my feet for several hours.  He becomes very thoughtful and then asks me, in a quite friendly tone, if I’m taking a gap year.  

Speechless at the bizarrity of this, the Turkish guy who owns the restaurant across the street pulls to the curb and offers me a ride.  Realizing that this is probably the safer of the two options, I jump into his car, hoping he doesn’t intend to rape, kill, and taxiderm me.  

I am driven home without incident.

Saturday – Day 4.)

Night progresses as usual until about 1:30am, at which point, Molly’s husband of 15 years, whom she’s currently divorcing, comes in drunk.  She asks him to leave, and furious, he comes behind the bar shouting, “GET OUT?  GET OUT?  IS THAT WHAT YOU SAY TO ME? GET OUT?”

She shoves him, and he backhands her, hard, into glass and bottles of wine and beer, which shatter.  She finally manages to get him out, and shaking, sits down.  I give her a giant glass of Jameson, and clean up with the assistance of this poor Irish bloke who’d just come in for a quiet drink with his cousin, but seemed to have compassion for the situation.

After closing down, I sit down with Irish guy and his cousin and Molly and have a shot of tequila to calm my nerves.  Suddenly, a loud bang comes from outside.  Seems Molly’s husband has come back and is trying to break in through the (glass) door with a chair from outside.

Molly calls the police, and I retreat downstairs, because I’m a bit nervous that he may get in.  Irish guy comes with me, gets drunk, and starts ranting about Oliver Cromwell (?).  He seems nice enough, but clearly very in love with his girlfriend (which is refreshing).

I come back upstairs where we’re joined by Molly’s bff, the beautiful but slightly crazy Gemma, and her boytoy of the week.  They, along with Irish guy’s cousin, are loudly singing Irish ballads and dancing about.  Molly calls me a cab.  I get home just as the sun rises (again).

Thursday – Day 5.)

So, I’ve had about four days off to recover, which was pretty necessary, all things considered.  I go back in refreshed and ready to get some things done in preparation for my cinema night.  

Molly is drunk.  Sooooo drunk.

There’s another barmaid there, off the clock, who is pregnant, but smoking and drinking Merlot (but only Merlot that’s been open today, don’t want to chance anything, wtf) and the music coordinator.  Both slowly help take over as Molly spirals into complete oblivion.

Molly goes to walk downstairs toward the end of the night.  She trips, and falls down an entire flight of stone steps, crashing at the bottom.  Because she’s drunk, she pulls herself up, claims to be fine, and falls asleep on one of the couches.  

The staff decides not to call an ambulance for her (though the next day, we’ll find out she broke her shoulder and three ribs).  

Closing goes smoothly because Molly isn’t there pressuring me to drink.  Pregnant Barmaid offers me a glass of her merlot, and I accept, running across the street first to buy myself two jam donuts and to get Pregnant Barmaid some ciggies.

I decide to walk home, since the bus never seems to come.

~ by Shannon on September 6, 2008.