"Welcome to the work place."

“Until further notice…” Peter trailed off hastily as he explained when I could start having shift drinks after work again. I was late for the second Sunday in a row, partially due to having a few drinks that Saturday night and partially because my alarm on my phone didn’t go off.
“Oh my god!” I screamed when my roommate was shaking me out of bed. It was now 11 am and I should have been at work for 10:30. “Oh my god! It’s 11 o’ fucking clock!” I screamed again once I regained consciousness. “What the hell! Ahh! What em I going to do?” My mind was racing and dragging its syllables with the drunkenness of the night before. I jumped in the shower and raced to the cabstand within ten minutes.

“Hi!” I jumped in breathlessly. “I’m going to The Loft. Thanks!”
I had been working as a hostess for the past few months at The Loft and really liked it. It was not hard at all to seat people, chum it up with the equally as bored doormen, and get free drinks at the end of the night. Not a bad gig at all. The only trouble is that old habits die hard and a night of drinking accompanied by a late morning was something that I had been fired for before. Today wasn’t going to be that day.
“Ahh! I’m so sorry Pete!” I said as soon as I came in that morning. I whipped my scarf around from my neck and peeled my heavy corduroy jacket off. “I swear to god Peter, my alarm didn’t go off. My roommate had to come in and wake me.” I spewed out with what little breath I had left. As I bent down to put the coat in the hostess stand I could feel the blood rush full speed to my head so quickly that my face was throbbing. When I lifted my head I hated his expression. Arms folded across his chest and feet planted widely apart, his face told me he didn’t give a shit about my story.
“And the same with last week?” His expression turned accusatory. “How about this, you don’t drink here Saturday nights until further notice. If you can’t make it into work then don’t drink the night before.” I nodded in agreement, mostly shame, as he continued. “You are almost an hour late. Get over to the stand instead of over here and look like you want to be here.” My stomach turned with nausea and guilt as I sauntered over to the hostess stand. I closed my eyes as I rested my head on my hand, I felt like I was going to vomit.
The door opened and a party of three needed a table. The restaurant was dead on that cold morning and my assistance was not needed.
“Hiiii guys. Welcome to The Loft. Do you need a table or a seat at the bar?” Seat your damn selves, if you make me walk I can’t promise I wont throw up all over you and your table.
“A table please.” The female usually interjects in hopes of focusing on the brunch and not the Sunday football games. I led them to the first section of tables and inevitably the female asks to be seated elsewhere for “more comfortable seating”. People become charmingly picky when the restaurant is slow. That booth in which is blessed with their derriere is just so lucky to have been strategically hand-picked out of the sea of sub standard squatters. “Ummm,” She’ll say, chewing on her lip. “Would it be okay to sit there?” She points and looks at her friends for the okay. We walk in unison to the booth and one if not two of the critics will hop up on the cushion like a five year old testing his new bed. Confirmed that the comfort has met their standards I placed the menus on the tables and wished them a fabulous time here this morning.
If it were like that past Saturday night the scenario of the party would most likely start out with a couple out to dinner first. That’s how the place starts to fill up, inviting our most favorite drunken ignoramus. At dinner he usually has his arm stretched territorially over the back of the booth. Facing whatever game is on, he manages to pay enough attention to the girl as he does to a few other females across the bar. With a girl on his arm to make him look sought after, a good view of the bar and a drinking problem that would put Danny Bonaduce to shame, his night has been mapped out. As his loving girlfriend yaps about god knows what, his gaze wanders around the bar towards the hullabaloo of dancers trying to find their rhythm. Which girl could he hit on while out with his girlfriend and still get ass that night? This is the perpetual bar hunt. Drunken boys looking for drunken girls to woo with fat drunken tongues and booze spilled down their shirts.
Towards the end of the night the girlfriend, or most of the females actually, is usually masked by a hideous display of makeup smudged down her face. A result of a teary conversation with a stranger in the bathroom about what a jerk her boyfriend is, she has shamefully drank away her self consciousness. She has no need to lose inhibition tonight when she’ll find herself crying herself to sleep and trying to rid her drunk self of jealousy. I only see what happens until they get to the door, after that I have no speculations.
Out here people are alcoholics and to explain what I see outside the realms of a structured establishment would make one swear to drinking celibacy. I severely admonish the preceding stereotype but how true it is. College girls come out looking like prom dates and after a few cocktails look like they were in the bottle of vodka, messy hair, ripped clothing, runny makeup and all. College guys wait for this helpless stated of inebriation and pounce like a shot at a 12 pt. buck. Money. He would display her to his friends proving how “easy it was for him to get a girl.” They slap each other’s shoulders to acknowledge his easy victory and then tire her out enough to move on to the next. The battle of the sexes continues and here she is saying, “I can’t find a decent guy.” He says, “I need a chick that’s not a skank!” Well you idiots, the bar isn’t Match.com. The old guy from eharmony would not deem any of these relationships “compatible”. You go the best colleges in this city and still you don’t have a clue, jackass.
I am afraid to comment on the installation of this new found bar relationship. Witnessing these two said characters collide in what looks like a combination of heavy petting and grooming one another. Hands all wrapped up in her hair as he whips her head to god knows what rhythm, she is holding on to the sides of his shirt partially for dear life. In a crude attempt to be sexy she is released from his grip and whips around to plant her ass in his lap. Together they hold on to one another’s hips to force each other one way and the other. His face is lost in the side of her neck under her hair and her hands awkwardly grab on to his head and pull him closer to the side of her mouth. This has been after five minutes of perfect strangers dancing. She whips around and together they suck on each other’s mouths like they haven’t seen each other in months. As if he were some long lost boyfriend who went to Iraq and found her there that night. That’s what that looked like, this is what drunk romance looks like. To them they were the sexiest people in the room.
I’m lucky enough to witness this twice a week. I do enjoy it for the most part and it keeps me from drinking the way I used to. As an avid participant in the sport of drinking, I have fallen victim to a few bar relationships. Not that it can’t happen, it’s just that it should never happen the way people make it happen. Although beer goggles do have a way of making not only the world, but you yourself, look like the man, I ask that you all give it your best shot (wink, wink) to think of the sober ones around you witnessing the rise of an unromantic empire.

"Welcome to the work place."

angelica harrison

Allston, United States

desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

10% off

for joining the Redbubble mailing list

Receive exclusive deals and awesome artist news and content right to your inbox. Free for your convenience.