meniscus. now. schupit laaightie...

When I was 19 I had the worst job in PE, next to cleaning the prison showers. I was the sole day bar tender at a restaurant dwindling into bankruptcy. To boost its clientele they sold cheap liquor and offered free peanuts (this was considered a marketing gimmick by management). After a while the restaurant closed and they stayed open as a bar, which was fine with me— I kept my job. The only people who came there were alcoholics and perlemoen poachers, anyways.
I would arrive at half past eleven. By then most of the regulars had already ditched work and were waiting to be served their first round. 22 sets of thirsty eyes calling me obscene names and yelling for beer or brandy would be the morning chorus I knew well.

Morning drinkers are shy before they’ve had a few. After a couple of rounds the party would get started. Everyone would school together and tell the most outrageous stories; it became a competition. Bert the fish tank salesman would tell a tale of bedding 4 nymphs after he’d downed a bottle of klippies, when Jonas the army vet would interrupt like so, “ Agg jussie man, thats bladdy girlie shtuff! Lemmie tell yoo okes a real storie...” And so the next round of “Ripley’s believe it or not” would begin.

The worst part of the day came when someone ordered a shooter. It was always Jurgermeister or Tequila, and heaven help me if they weren’t poured right. I would be slandered and crucified. To this day I cannot pour a shot without hearing a voice screaming at me” Remmemer laaightie! Yoo just bladdy remmemer to pour mine wif a meniscus! else there’s gonna be kak. Kay doos?” After a while I became immune to it and laughed with them, but for the first two weeks it was more terrifying than satanic animal rituals.
I will always look back at the one time I told Bert that he’d had enough jurgermeister. “No more Bert, you’re too drunk,” I said shyly. He took off all his clothes and then threatened to “beat me up to the sky.” When Ronnie the manager came in to close up shop later, I was curled in a ball near the ice machine, covered in tears and snot, wailing for help.

Abalone poachers were the nightmare of nightmares. They’d come in and startle everyone, drink four shooters, and then race away in a souped up Monza. And there was no way in hell I would have said anything to those guys. I would have paid for their drinks all night to avoid having my arms torn off. I once saw three of them take two shots of tequila, shnarf a nose-full of salt and then squeeze lemon into their eye. They all threw the shot glasses at me and left without paying. “Thanks guys, come again soon, I’ll get this one” I said as they walked out.

I prayed for a bouncer. True story. I got down on bended knee and asked my heathen gods for “A breeker who wears New Rocks and takes steroids” to get hired. Alas, the breeker of my prayers never started working at the bar. I quit after 3 months, vowing to burn the place down if it didn’t fold before I had the means to.

I think I’m rambling about this, because I was smashed by a bouncer last night. After the Wonderboom concert, my friend Brett tried to sneak a label out the bar. Now, I agree with Brett— if you pay for a label, it’s yours. In or out the bar. But rules is rules. And the bouncer in charge had other ideas. He flattened me on the sidewalk while charging Brett down, with a classic clothesline maneuver. I lay on the floor afterwards, seeing stars and yellow birds. It felt like I’d been bliksemed by a WWE wrestler. When I got my head together, I looked up and met the scornful glare of a giant, wearing New Rocks. “You came!” I screamed.

Without the backing story, he didn’t know what I meant. “Jussis China, take your moffie friend away,” he told Brett, releasing him from the cage fighter’s choke hold he had him in, “It’s time for you two to wai.”

So I just have to tell the bouncer who slammed me into the ground last night: Thank you. Good work, you knights in shining New Rocks.

I'm not entirely sure what I can take away from my days as a day bar tender. Yes, I gained priceless knowledge in the department of pouring a shooter with a meniscus- which is a shooter poured to the brim, so that it forms an oval on top. But what did I really learn as far as life lessons and morality goes? I’ll figure it our eventually. I’m just really glad Bert didn’t beat me up to the sky when he had the chance.

The waves are really small again, but it’s magnificent outside. It’s about a foot at the Fence. J-bay and St Francis are small, too. The wind yesterday blew everything away. It’s a good day for chilling on the beach and nursing a sore head.
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