So that happened. My sister got breast cancer at 28 and I moved to Bainbridge Island, Washington to help take care of her. It was terrifying, exhausting and all-encompassing, but there was a personal freedom in it that I had never experienced before: I no longer worried about what I was going to do with my life. What was the point? What mattered was making sure my sister didn't die, and is there any higher calling than taking care of someone you love? This is a dangerous game, however, as the problem becomes this: what in the hell will you do after? Whether they live or die, you still have to move forward. Our lives couldn't continue on the in the cocoon that had formed during her diagnosis and treatment once she was better, and that was a huge adjustment. Also, two weeks after we moved together to Portland after her treatment, she was in love. Two months later, she was engaged. It was a lot, to say the least. What was I doing in the meantime? I was back to waiting tables, this time in a man's shirt and tie, working one double after the next. A "double" is perhaps the most innocuous term for one of the most depraved thing that exists in the restaurant industry- that is, you work the lunch and the dinner shift with a break in-between that is too short to actually get anything done and long enough to be really fucking annoying. Then there was the shock of being on my own again with no life to go back to as my sister sprinted into a whole new one without me (remember, I had just left LA and moved home, all primed for my sabbatical at 32, and then my life became about saving hers) was almost more than I could take. To put it simply, the situation was complicated and as a result, I wrote a whole memoir about it, so I won't prattle on about it here.
I will say it was one of the darker times in my life, working doubles at Harrison, a new and fancy restaurant downtown, decorated with a smattering of avant-guarde art, blue velvet booths that needed constant crumbing and a seemingly endless supply of crystal glassware that I spent the better part of my days polishing. Then there was its completely insane manager, a man named Sam, who looked as if he never slept and although a diabetic, rarely ate. He lived in that restaurant and expected everyone else to do the same.
"I need you to work 9 shifts this week," he would say, and before you could answer, he would for you, intoning, "Please and thank you." He'd even clap his hands together, like everything was a done deal, maybe shake yours, and there you were, pouring ice tea for businessmen in the afternoon and wine for them at night, and none of the day or night was yours anymore.
If I'd actually had any free time, it remains vague what I would have done with it. I didn't really want to go home, as my sister and I were still living together and any time I came home to her and the boyfriend, they were doing something annoying, like giggling and making nachos. And then I just wanted to be alone, forever alone. I couldn't write to save my life. (Hell, I could barely get out of bed. Also, I had planned to write a memoir about the miracle of my sister's survival from a wicked cancer and the spiritual journey our whole family was involved in, the Hindu mysticism that guided us and they way my sister and I sort of fell in love with one another when she was sick. Now, however, none of it was exactly true. We sort of couldn't stand each other, and it was nearly impossible for either of us to see the others point of view. "You both certainly have your perspectives," Ma said, during a period where she refused to discuss any of it with either of us.)
What I remember most from those months were buckets of red wine and running. It was the running that saved me, runs through the neighborhood in the dark, in the pouring, sideways rain, blasting Liz Phair and Pete Yorn and The Garden State soundtrack and, embarrassingly, Maroon 5. That first album was pretty decent, right? Right?
Anyway, I recovered and gained some semblance of a life. I managed to get out of Harrison just before it closed and secured a sweet gig cocktailing at O! (The name has been changed to protect me from random internet searches, etc., but I think we all know what we are talking about here, at least anyone in Portland). The best thing about O! is that if you work in the bar, they let you run with more tables than anyone is allowed to outside of a third world country, and therefore, lots of money can be made.
I guess O! was where I was finally on the other side of that glass, inside the cocktail lounge, with all the beautiful people. But 18 years ago, there was no such thing as a Douchebag. Apparently, they are multiplying so quickly now, that they spring from the sidewalks in the Pearl if you pour enough Mojito down certain cracks. I'm sure you are all familiar with this species, born sometime after 9/11, right around the time our country rediscovered irony. Ours are the old school versions, (pre-Jersey Shore) with terrible designer jeans and huge pointy McShiny shoes, tight, air-brushed and bejeweled tees. They crammed themselves into the bar for years, hitting on that certain breed of girl who thinks a belt can double as a skirt and orders either a "skinny girl" margarita or a Mojito that's "not too sweet."* I can't say for sure when the Cougars officially marked out their territory all over God's green earth, but now, they and the DBs make O! into big, fat, hot mess.
Yep. That's about right.
I ask you: Do I need a woman who is only a few years older than me, in white jeans, a matching white vest with only a tank top underneath, orange skin and spider legs for eyelashes snapping her fingers at me because she simply must have her fundido right now? No, I do not. Ditto her "date" for the evening, the douche who, after 3 or 4 Grey Goose and sodas, informs me that what he is drinking is in no way Grey Goose, who, when I inform him that he is indeed drinking Grey Goose he refutes me? Is it any wonder when I take his drink away and bring him another, that I am forced myself to drink the one he has barely sipped? No, it is not. Once however, on what is termed First Thursday in Portland -- a spring break for Cougars disguised as a high-brow gallery walk -- I got to express my frustration to one Douche in particular. The above occurred and when he ordered his umpteenth drink, he made sure to tell me, "Hey, hey, Grey Goose and soda." I actually looked at him and said, "No shit, dude. No shit." It was immensely satisfying.
For five and a half long years I toiled in that bar, making more money than I would have thought possible without taking my clothes off, and despite so many more horrific customers and long terrible nights, I don't remember all that many specifics. It blends and blurs. I know, however, that there is a tiny bit of magic in a restaurant when you are slammed beyond belief, the whole place is, yet somehow, all the cogs in the wheel fit together perfectly and everything clicks and everyone survives it together - you have run your ass off, you have truly worked, you are worked, and you all come out the other side.
What I will remember and miss the most are the people who survived those five years with me, all the craziness, the late nights, the massive ups and downs, my mom getting sick and finally, meeting the love of my life. Here are some highlights and shout-outs to all of you.
Every 3 am night/morning at Touche, including: Lynsey constantly putting out my cigarettes, wasted on a half glass of wine, adorably oblivious to hot Russel's obsession with her, ditto Jeff's and every other dude at O!'s obsession with her, sweetly falling asleep on my couch with Wally curled up next to her. Katie making me stay for one more, just one more, I mean Mims, what do you really have to do in the morning, really, you don't have to do anything, and we will just stay for one, maybe two. But that's all. (Repeat this scenario at Fratelli's and Low Brow. Then repeat it again the next shift.) I drank more in my five years at O! than I ever had in my life, making up for the relative sobriety of my 20s and getting it all out of my system. This also includes bus boy and bartender crushes. And for that, everyone, I thank you.
Any shift worked with Lucas Bruckert. Could there be a man with a better attitude after working a year of doubles straight though? I literally would have killed a litter of puppies if I'd had to do the same. The kid was so innocent when he started at O!, he had no idea what he was in for. He had never worked in the industry and was the hardest working busser I've ever seen. And the funniest. (And later, the funniest waiter and manager.) No better audience for my jokes or sob stories in restaurant history. If I ever get this one-woman show together, Lucas had better be in the front row. I also adore him for latching onto the term, "Glorious!" and shouting it at inappropriate times during service. Ditto when he convinced Keith that a large party in the bar were actually a group of swingers who had come to O! several years in a row and that we'd caught a couple of them the year before doing in it the Havana bathroom. I will also never tire of his rendition of a certain monologue from A Few Good Men, which includes the phrase "faggoty white coat." For the record, this is exactly the kind of coat O!'s waiters wear.
The outrageous mouth and on-demand crying skills of Miss Katie Horley. She's an oxymoron, people, there's no doubt about that. She also forgets that I am *13* years older than her at any given time, so therefore she'll say things like, "That was so '06," which to her, is an epically long time ago. Or is a reference to college? I'm not sure, since I graduated in 1995. She has endeared herself to me completely, mainly by possessing a mouth bigger and more outrageous than my own, which is no easy feat. Crass, bitchy and incredibly sweet at the core, she is the only person I've ever known who claims to have been aroused by a bus boy's forearms. They were nice, however. I've gained a flower girl and surrogate little sister all in one.
The bartending skills and stupendous company of Chino Lee, not to mention Paul, Nitiya and the whole Fratelli gang. This was the place to go after a good shift, a bad shift or an in-between shift, where the bartender would never give you the stink eye if you sat for longer than was polite, reading a book or watching "Man vs. Food" on the flat screen above the bar, who let you have just a "scotche" (read: large splash) of wine and then another and another. Oh, and some Italian bread and olive oil and balsalmic. Or was that just me? Thanks to all the gang for putting up with the "Oba-dose" and for providing such a great place to hang. RIP Bar Due.
The kindness and general insanity of Jeff Colton** This is a man who, while wasted, went online one night and decided to change his name to Uncle Silky. Also a man I wanted to physically strangle at certain junctures in his O! career, but who's dedication to O! put the rest of us to shame. Not to mention his amazingly in-depth text messages about the cosmos and the books we should write and the (mostly) clinically insane women he dates. Amazing.
To my long-term fellow bar maid lovelies, Jenny, Kristin and Lynsey, I cannot thank any of you enough. (A shout-out here too, for less long-term lovelies Frank and Meghan.) For putting up with my once-a-month vacations to keep my long-distance relationship alive, for being there through the shitty-shit-shittiest moments with customers and management, the worst of the douchebags, the crazy, shit-show nights, for the talks over the bar and by the walk in, and for knowing that you always had my back. Hope you know I'll always have yours.
*Listen up, bitches. Enough. Mixed drinks are sweet and they all have a shitload of sugar in them. You sound like a jackass when you order them less sweet. Also? Booze will make you just as fat as sugar. So order a freaking vodka soda, pull that belt/skirt down over your ass, try not to fall as you teeter around the bar in your clear heels and just please, for the love of cocktailers and bartenders across the earth, shut the fuck up.
**Jeffrey, I'm sorry I was the worst "icing" victim ever. I mean ever. I'm not sure I've ever seen you and Katie's faces look more disgusted. And we all know that's saying a lot.
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