Work has been somehow off lately.
This may be due to the fact that i am in the middle of a bout of insomnia that started around the time I got a cold on Valentine’s Day. And a bunch of personal stuff came up that meant I had to take the last couple of Saturdays off, which meant shifting my whole work schedule, which meant working on days I’m not used to.
Like last Thursday, for instance. The first Thursday I have worked in at least a month. I ended up getting to work two hours late for whatever reason, so my day already felt off balance. I ended up getting a Champagne room sold just as I was trying to close a previous tab, which meant several minutes of frantic running around to several different places to try to get everything done. Once things settled, I coasted by on my room, knowing I wouldn’t have time trying to go back and hustle the main floor before closing time. So I banked on the room giving me a good tip and gleaned what I could from the upstairs tables.
This is a risky tactic. There have been times where I have devoted all my time to one specific table, either because I hoped they would tip well, or simply because every visit led to an avalanche of requests that kept me tied up, only to have them tip me $20 on a $200 tab. Do you know how much work you have to put in to serving someone that much alcohol? How many trips to the bar, or limes shoved into beer necks or perched on the edges of shot glasses? How many strippers’ shoes I have almost been hit by, while I walk past the side stages, how many careless drunk’s flailing arms I’ve had to avoid while carrying a fucking heavy tray? And that I usually do it with them groping my ass the entire time? It’s not a whole hell of a fucking lot, let me tell you. Anyway, this tab tipped out well, so I had around $180 at the end of the night, which was not bad, considering I had missed a large chunk of it. And just as I am celebrating my good fortune, one of the bartenders says I didn’t turn in the final customer signature on one of my tabs.
I have never, in all my time working at this club, failed to turn in a tab slip. I have gone through every fucking time consuming step every single time, gotten the correct signatures to the right places and the right people every time I have a tab. I have never missed one. Except for this one, and it meant I now owed the bar the eighty seven dollar total.
So, there was that highly irregular rain on my fucking parade.
I had Friday off, but social obligations meant I was out until the wee small hours anyway. It was really nice to have fun and be comfortable, though, so that’s all right.
Saturday Involved several of the dancers organizing a Harlem shake video, and a bar patron sexually harassing the fuck out of one of the bartenders so badly enough that she threw not only his drink into his face, but the whole fucking glass. And then his neighbor’s glass, and then the guy on the other side of him’s glass, and then the bar napkins, and then some dirty glasses. It was like watching the video of that Russian meteor exploding. This tiny, sweet, little, blonde girl, who is even shorter than i am, was kneeling on the bar hurling obscenities and glassware alike, and it was the most glorious thing I have ever seen in my life.
The story I got from one of the other girls later, during our goodbye line-up, when we bid the customers adieu, was that he had shoved either a phone or a phone number down the front of her uniform and then claimed to have permission to do so because she worked in a strip club, never mind the fact that she’s a fucking bartender, you ass, and even if she wasn’t you still have to pay the stripper before she allows you to put your fucking hands on her.
Anyway, that guy got thrown out and the bartender got a talking to about throwing possible law suits at the customers. On top of all that drama, it was a fight night, which meant no on earned shit. My night was only saved from epic failure by a science professor who wanted to sit and talk. Some of the newer waitresses were cranky and snappish and one in particular was bitching loudly about not being allowed to go home thirty minutes early and skip nightly cleanup. My boss responded by telling her to go home and not come in for the next two weeks. This lead to a heated discussion and pouty glares and the entire time, I was glaring dagger and thinking as hard as I could, “Bitch, you are a fucking waitress. Your job is not that fucking hard. You show up, you serve beers, you clean the club. No one gets to go home early. Shut your fucking face and do your fucking job because I am tired and you are holding up the god damn line.”
Sunday was more argumentative asses, patrons and waitresses alike, and college kids who don’t fucking tip. Including a table of jackasses who gave me two different credit cards to try because no one had enough cash to pay for two fucking beers. Who fucking does that? At a strip club? How do you reach adulthood not knowing you should take fucking clash to a fucking strip club? Of course they bashed out club policies and threatening to take their business and I’m biting my tongue and thinking in my head “honey, you can’t scrape together the cash for a $10 bar tab. You don’t qualify as business.” Something must have showed on my face though, because they didn’t leave me a tip.
There was also a rumor going around that there was a WWE wrestler and his referee partying in one of the VIP suites.
So work has been somewhat trying lately, on top of which I have not been sleeping. Today, my day off, I spent in bed. All day. Cause fuck you guys, i am god damn tired.