Hussle and Heart-to-Hearts
29 November 2014
Diary entry:
I’m sitting at Gatwick Airport. It’s four in the morning. I’ve been up since six o’clock yesterday morning. I worked from seven until midnight (four hours ago). I’m pretty tired, still feeling a little crook, but also very excited.
I’ve got three consecutive days off work this week. Being the opportunist that I am, I scoured the budget airlines for the best flight deal and low and behold, I find myself on the way to Faro, Portugal.
I’ve been to Europe three times now, including my twelve month GAP year. Every time Portugal was on my ‘go-to’ list but for some odd reason, I’ve never quite made it!
Looks like the third time’s a charm.
Baptism by Fire
The Tuesday prior to my getaway, I was working with the Events team again. I didn’t know if I could handle yet another full shift being scrutinised over every little detail. I also doubted my capacity to tolerate Leja’s acid-tongue on repeat.
But alas, I had no choice, so off to work I went.
As I walked through the back doors and past security, I mentally braced myself for the morning ahead. ‘Count to ten’, was the advice given to me by the thirty-one year old Saint Lucian waitress.
Fortunately for her, her Caribbean sass had seen her triumphantly butt heads with Leja. The consequence of which, resulted in the two women being kept separate from one another. ‘Barred from Events for life’, she explained with a wink. A disappointment, Ms Saint Lucia assured me, she was more than happy to shoulder.
Lucky for Ms Saint Lucia! If West Indie attitude was the only offence against the angry little Lithuanian, I was screwed.
When I made it to the bar floor, no one was around. Save for the sous chef, I was the only person in the building. Granted, it was only seven in the morning. The bar didn’t open until ten, but the roster was clear that I needed to start at seven sharp.
Where were Hans and Leja?
I asked the sous chef what was going on. He told me that he didn’t have a clue and turned his back on me.
RUDE.
I didn’t have any phone numbers to call and figured there was no other option, other than to assume menial tasks while I waited. I filled all the sauce bottles and mayonnaise jars. I polished the cutlery and wiped already clean tables. It wasn’t groundbreaking but it was better than sitting and doing nothing. The time alone was somewhat meditative.
Everything was calm… until it wasn’t calm.
Approximately forty-five minutes after my arrival, the museum curator ran into the bar demanding to know where the tea and coffee were for the meeting upstairs.
I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
After about ten huffs and puffs and a few waves of the arm, the woman finally explained to me that there was a function starting in fifteen minutes. It was a function for one of the big banks and their ‘spare no expense’ executives.
‘This is a client the museum does not want to lose!’
My eyes bulged, ‘WHAT? I know nothing about this. Is it just tea and coffee?’
The museum curator’s eyes bulged even further. ‘Where is Hans? No, it’s not just tea and coffee. It’s also sixty egg and bacon rolls.’
At that moment the sous chef emerged from the kitchen. Upon hearing the words ‘sixty’ and ‘egg and bacon rolls’, his eyes also bulged from his, otherwise expressionless, face. With no commentary, he retreated to the kitchen in a huff.
Inhaling, I reassured the museum curator that everything was under control. She cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. There was no point.
As she walked out of the bar, I fanged it out back into the kitchen. I bellowed down the bleached-white alcove: ‘FUCK, did you know there was a function this morning?’
The sous chef emerged from the cooler room. He calmly replied, ‘Yeah, I ‘m cooking egg and bacon rolls for it now. Where is Hans? He should be here to set up.’
I stared back at him in disbelief, ‘Dude, I asked you earlier what was going on and you said you didn’t know. I’ve been out there refilling the fucking tomato sauce bottles for the past forty-five minutes. You looked shocked when you heard the curator.’
He stared back at me, ‘I was surprised that you hadn’t started the coffee and tea yet. SHIT!’
‘SHIT’ was the perfect sentiment. The control Nazi, aka Hans, fucked up!
Getting my ‘military’ on, I bolted down to the cellar and straight to the industrial coffee machine. I proceeded to cram half a bag of pre-ground coffee into, what I hoped was, a clean filter. I pressed, what I hoped, was the start button and ran back upstairs to organise the tea.
The hot water machine hadn’t been turned on and I couldn’t find the power button. Taking pity on me, the sous chef joined me on the bar floor to help. We found the ‘on’ switch but it was going to take a solid ten minutes to heat up...
SHIT!
The five minute count-down was on!
As the curator reentered the bar, I didn’t even give her a chance to speak. Instead, I yelled, ‘the machine wasn’t turned on. Go upstairs to your staff room and boil the kettle… BOILLLLL THE KETTLLLLEEEEE. Damn it!’
Clearly startled by the volume and gusto of my direction, and perhaps slightly invigorated by the dramatics of it all, the overweight woman moved with a surprising degree of speed up the stairs and into the staff room.
I ran back downstairs to the cellar. The coffee was done! BEAUTY!
Catching the security guard on my way back up into the bar, I aggressively bestowed upon him the job of coffee and tea pourer. He knew better than to argue. I was flushed in the face and sweating at the brow.
Back in the kitchen, the sous chef was boiling batches of water in saucepans for me.
The whole situation was satirical. I had the curator frantically running the kettle on repeat, the security guard steeping tea and the sous chef running industrial sized pots of boiling water up the staircase. Work health and safety, what?
Surely this had to be a skit from Faulty Towers and not my actual life? It was the farthest cry from law I could have taken. It was also the most exhilarating! In that moment, dare I say it: I was actually having fun!
Ten minutes past the deadline, and we managed to conquer the function.
WE DID IT!
The museum curator, the security guard, the sous chef and me!
As we stood in a circle in the middle of the bar, gathering ourselves in silent recognition of our triumph, Hans strolled in. I could tell from the arrogance on his face that he knew well and good that he had fucked up and wasn’t about to acknowledge it.
With not so much as an apology, he said, ‘Why did you use the wrong sugar cups?’
The curator, sous chef and security guard scurried out of the bar, anticipating my explosion.
It was time to action some of that Caribbean attitude. I may not have been black, but at that stage I sure as hell wasn’t white. I was red, red with absolute anger: ‘You’re kidding right? You’ve got no right to pick shit when you didn’t even turn up. Where the hell
have you been? I didn’t even know there was a bloody function on! JESUS CHRIST!’
‘Don’t blaspheme’, was the only response he afforded me. I wasn’t about to let this one slide. The guy was a cunt, and I was raging. ‘JESUS… Jesus, Jesus, JESUS, fucking JESUS… perfect word given I just had a baptism by fire!’
I wasn’t angry at the situation so much, mistakes happen. I appreciate that as fact. I was angry because Hans flat out refused to apologise and felt it was appropriate to criticise the efforts of our little makeshift team.
We had banded together and saved his arse! He needed to be humbled, so I stared him straight in the eye and calmy explained the reality. ‘You know, I’m new here and I haven’t done this before. I could have just said: “Fuck it, I don’t know! This is his fuck up” and walked away BUT instead I did my best to resolve the situation. I did my best to save YOUR arse. I deserve a freaking THANK YOU and an apology. I need a job, but I don’t need one so badly, that I will tolerate your abhorrent behavior. Your reaction was awful, and you should be ashamed.’
I could tell from the flickering of his eye that he knew I was right. Still, he evidently couldn’t recognise on his own failure. Instead of a ‘thank you’ or a ‘sorry’, he said ‘I slept in. I don’t know what happened. GREAT, Now I have to spend the entire day angry at myself for sleeping in. In fact, I’ll probably spend the entire week angry at myself for sleeping in. Great, now my week is ruined.’ Hans’ attempt to victim flip didn’t work on me, it did however, make me feel slightly better that his neurotic German perfectionism would eat away at him all week and hopefully into the weekend.
Just a cultural difference?
Given the excitement of the morning, I was pretty jaded by the evening. My shifts
were growing to be in excess of ten hours. The prolonged periods on my feet were intense.
No one else wanted to work with Hans and Leja, which meant there was more than a full time work load available to me. I knew the situation was only temporary. I knew that I wanted to head back to Sweden, and I knew I needed the money, so I agreed.
Absolutely none of the other staff would work with Hans or Leja. Consequently, I was the only person rostered to clean the enormous function room at the end of the night. I was shocked to learn that Hans had already gone home, despite turning up late. Not even a goodbye.
FUCKER!
My lack of excitement and pure exhaustion must have shown on my face because what happened next, very much took me by surprise.
Midway through ‘spit-bucketing’ the left over wine and beer, the Polish
waitress appeared in the doorway. She had been sent from the bar to the function room to help me pack-up. Apparently, Vilte had frantically told her to find me immediately. She was worried that I was upset and needed help.
Was this the same Vilte who had been mean to me and hurt my feelings the previous week?
Yes, yes it was.
Wednesday brought the small reprieve of working the bar floor. As I arrived and prepped myself, I noted that Vilte was on shift again.
A reprieve it may have been, I was concerned that Vilte would hassle me about my nose stud again. She’d shown me compassion the night prior, but I wasn’t confident on how far that extended.
I started my shift and did my best to avoid any direct contact with her. The absurd thing was, as I tried harder to avoid her, she tried harder to engage with me.
What was going on?
‘Hi, Rebecca, how are you today? I bet you’re glad to be back with us on the bar floor. We’re happy to have you back.’
Vilte was being super nice to me, cracking jokes, smiling and looking me straight in
the face. There was no way she could have missed my nose stud. Evidently, this time she didn’t care.
Somewhere between her bullying and me drowning in the chaos of the Events team, I think we’d become friends!
How did I miss that?
Diary entry:
Vilte: The woman is actually lovely.
Yes: Lovely!
The Wicked Witch of the East has turned into the Lovely Lithuanian. She’s officially become my new favourite!
Working with her is so easy. She doesn’t ‘pick’ at everything the waitresses do. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t boss people around. She isn’t rude. She’s nice, easy and relaxed to work with.
Maybe I jumped the gun in judging her?
Maybe this means I have also jumped the gun in judging Leja? Perhaps these Lithuanian women just need more time to warm up to you before they get too friendly?
Tomorrow I’m going to give Leja a second chance. Sure, she’s very young and sure she has a mouth on her like Verruca Salt, but maybe she’s just marking her territory and setting her boundaries. Typical young female shit… come to think of it, typical female shit, period!
I’ll definitely need to give her a second chance!
Diary entry:
Nope, no second chances!
The woman is a little fuck-‐tard!
Leja is a nasty, self-‐important, border line retarded, socially inept, rude little girl!
Hans on the other hand, apparently isn’t as bad as I had initially thought. Merely misunderstood it would seem.
Hans and I were in the cellar getting the wine glasses ready for the impending function. I could tell he felt guilty about the day prior because he was being uncharacteristically friendly and chatty.
Taking the higher ground, I didn’t want to drag out the angst of the previous shift by holding a grudge. I engaged in his useless chit chat about wine, cheese and travel. After a lengthy discussion on German Riesling, he randomly changed direction on me:
‘You know, I can’t help it. I can’t help being this pedantic. I’m German. I don’t mean to come across as intense. I just like things in order, you know? I literally cannot handle when things aren’t perfect.
When I was a kid, my father had this cupboard. Each shelf was for a different school subject. I had to keep all my books, pencils and homework on the relevant shelf. Every afternoon when I finished my homework, I had to neatly place it on the appropriate shelf. My father would go through every page and read it line by line, ripping pages out and making me do it all over again if he saw a mistake or if he didn’t think my handwriting was neat enough.
There was no play until all my homework and chores were done to his standard… NONE!
After homework, I had to do my chores. After my chores, there was the inspection of my chores. Everything in my life was done to military precision. Shirts hung with even
spaces between them, pants folded and placed in perfectly aligned stacks and shoes all in one
straight row. Only after my father had approved all of this, was I allowed to go and play.
Rarely did my father approve. You can imagine it didn’t leave much time for fun!
I’m also an only child, so no siblings to share my torment. My father’s focus was solely on how I could be a better person.
This is why I like perfection… I don’t know anything different… Maybe it’s a German thing? I don’t know. It frustrates me that people in the UK are so lax with their standards. In
my world: near enough is not good enough… PERFECTION is attainable!
I didn’t say a word as Hans spoke. It was clear he came from a complex background that had fostered manic tendencies. I didn’t like his character, but I understood it better after his disclosure.
On the Thursday before my trip, I arrived for yet another shift with the Events team.
Despite not being a drinker himself, Hans knows a lot about wine. The night before, he told me that he hails from a region that specialises in Riesling.
I promptly advised that I’m not a big fan of Riesling. Hans was adamant that my dislike was misplaced. He passionately argued that the only Riesling is German Riesling and all other wines purporting to be Riesling are hack-jobs.
Given that the dynamics of our relationship had recently improved, I wasn’t of a mind to argue. In any event, I’ve never tried German Reisling and wasn’t in a position to comment either way.
I shouldn’t have been surprised when I turned up to work, that Hans was waiting for me in the change area. ‘I have something for you, follow me’. He turned on his heel. I put my apron on and followed suit. We trotted up the stairs within the museum, into the staffing area and over to his desk.
I stood aimlessly beside his desk, as he took a seat and riffled through his satchel. Enthusiastically, he pulled out a bottle of German Riesling. ‘I thought of you when I remembered I had this bottle at home. Now you can try German Riesling and tell me that you love it.’ He smiled as he handed me the bottle.
WOW.
I was touched that he had thought of me, but also a little surprised. I didn’t know how to react. It was a big gesture to prove a point. Taking the bottle, I wondered:
Do I hug him in thanks?
Was that appropriate?
Shake his hand?
Was that sterile?
Pat him on the back?
Was that corny?
Or, do I just take the bottle with a smile and walk away?
After awkwardly jutting forward to give him a hug and then retracting last minute, I settled on one of the latter options. I patted him on the shoulder and said, ‘Thank you. Oh, my goodness, you shouldn’t have!’ There was a pause before I stupidly asked, ‘Do you mean for me to take the whole bottle?’ Hans laughed, ‘Well, it’s not like a brought you a sip! Of course, I mean for you to take the whole bottle.’
In between the Italian buying me Milo, Creeper Peeter cramming chocolate truffles into my mouth and the German buying me wine, it had been quiet the fortnight for edible gifts.
They say booze takes the edge off. Despite this instance only involving the exchange of a sealed bottle, it still rung true. The dynamic between Hans and I had drastically improved. We had gone from rigidly avoiding each other to purposely ‘accidently’ brushing past each other.
Were we flirting with each other?
From his hand on my shoulder, to his ‘accidental’ bumping into me, to his grabbing of my hip upon passing, there was a lot of unnecessary touching happening, and I didn’t mind in the slightest!
Scowls were now replaced with winks and blank stares with smiles, so much had changed within the last twenty-four hours.
While I wasn’t sexually attracted to Hans, a part of me liked that I had somehow managed to conquer the emotionless beast. My ego couldn’t help but flirt back.
This was a victory!
HANS: ‘Rebecca, can you set the dessert spoons out on the table? I’ve already done the forks.’
ME: ‘No worries. Do I place them on top?’
HANS: ‘‘Fork’ is a feminine word and ‘spoon’ is masculine. In school they teach you that the spoon goes on top of the fork.’ Hans lent over me and took the spoon from my hand. He gently placed it above the fork, ‘See, the spoon lies directly on top of the fork. You know, like a man on a woman’.
ME: ‘Oh, I see. I like it. I like it a lot.’
HANS: ‘Yes, that’s right, except the spoon faces the opposite direction to the fork, like a sixty-nine.’ Pause. ‘The number, that is.’
ME: ‘Oh, I see. Sixty-nine style.’
HANS: Laughing, ‘That’s right. Oh, hang on, you haven’t got them close enough. This is ‘spooning’, you’ve got to get them close… really close to each other…’ Moves the spoon closer to the fork.
ME: ‘Oh sorry, not close enough for you?’
HANZ: ‘No, I like them really close… touching…’
ME: ‘Basically, on top of each other, hay?’
HANZ: ‘That’s right. Like I said, masculine spoon right on top of the feminine fork.’ Perfect… he’s right on top of her.’
ME: ‘I’m glad we did a good job.’
HANZ: ‘Teamwork!’ Smiling.
On Friday, I finished with the Events team just before midnight and returned to the bar floor. I had one more day to get through before my trip away.
Just after two in the morning, the lights were turned on and the bar phone rang. I answered. Giggling down the receiver, a heavily intoxicated woman explained that she had stupidly misplaced a white envelope that contained several fifty-pound notes. In amongst the giggles, the woman explained that there would have easily been a thousand pounds in the envelope. ‘I’m such a butter fingers’ she giggled.
I was horrified for the woman. She was clearly very drunk and while it may
have been funny under a haze of booze, it was going to be mortifying in the sobering light of the morning. I explained that no one had handed in any money and that the likelihood of anyone being that honest in London was slim. The woman laughed again and thanked me before hanging up.
Later that morning, being Saturday still, I started work at ten in a very poor state [discussed below]. The phone rang and I answered. It was the same woman, however this time she wasn’t laughing. She bellowed down the receiver, as she hysterically begged me to tell her that the envelope had been handed in.
‘The money is a work kitty’, she explained. ‘The envelop contained in excess of a thousand pounds. ‘
Who walks around with a thousand pounds in a bloody envelope? I’d had less than five hours sleep, wasn’t feeling well and wasn’t in a sympathetic mood. I handed the receiver to Vilte, who took over the conversation.
Vilte informed the woman that the envelope had not been handed in. The hysterics turned into uncontrollable wails, broken only by the occasional snort as the woman struggled to re-inflate.
There was nothing anyone could do. This was London! Honesty doesn’t reign in this kingdom. I’d seen countless examples of this fact.
Over the course of the morning, five of her colleagues called in separately to ask about the envelope. We gave the same response each time: no white envelope was handed in and likely, never would be.
Cheese Please…
I haven’t exactly been living a clean and healthy lifestyle since arriving in London. While I’m running as much as I can, I’ve taken to pairing my frequent consumption of four pound no-name Australian Shiraz and blue vein cheese with the contradictory combination of halal sausages and beer.
DELICIOUS
In addition to blue vein cheese, beer, wine and faux pork, I was also, until recently, smashing the old Wensleydale cheese. In fact, the day before my trip, I was smashing it so hard that I didn’t realise I was eating a moldy block.
Not surprisingly, I got food poisoning.
Not surprisingly, I had to work.
It turned out to be the worst shift of my life! The morning was a struggle, but still within the parameters of tolerable.
By evening time, it was a different story. Working the bar floor, I experienced intermittent bowel movements, stomach pains and hot sweats like never before.
My complexion took on the ever-changing colour characteristics of a mood ring
circa 1995. Suffering the dairy-sweats, I lost at least ten percent of my body weight in pre-vomit perspiration.
I spent the entire evening clenching every orifice, while intermittently running to the disabled bathroom and letting loose the ramifications of expired cheese. I made it to nine in the evening before accepting that a vomit was imminent.
After clearing a dirty Jaeger-Bomb glass and having the warm medicinal-like aroma waft up into my temperamental nostrils, I knew it was time!
I ran to the disabled toilet and crouched on the floor, attempting to control my heaves and stretch out my stomach spasms.
Upon reflection, I should have gone home. It was ridiculous that I stayed, but at the time, I felt I couldn’t because I was one of only two waitresses working. I was also working with Vilte that night. She was being super nice to me, and I was terrified that pulling a sickie would jeopardise our newly formed friendship.
Note, I was also terrified that I would vomit on a customer but my fear of falling back into Vilte’s bad books trumped my self-care instincts and work health and safety knowledge.
Leaning over the bowl, I vomited a little. It wasn’t much but it made me feel a lot better. Ten minutes later, I returned to the toilet and vomited a little more. This continued every ten minutes for the proceeding hour. Each time I would vomit a
little and each time I would feel a little bit better.
When ten o’clock hit, a wave of nausea hit me tsunami style. My intestines felt as though they were rising up into my chest, making rapid pace for my mouth. I knew I needed to chunder! There was no more ‘little vomiting’, it was going to come thick and fast.
I practically threw the food I was carrying at a table and ran into the toilet. I bolted the door, only just making it to the bowl. Mouth open, it all flew out of me.
It was uncontrollable.
I held onto the side support rails of the lowered disabled toilet. I could feel my lower extremities levitating with the force of my violent heaving. Legs dangling and fists clenched, I was certain I looked like a vision from a horror movie.
I didn’t care!
Everything I’d eaten within the twenty-four hour period post-moldy cheese was projecting out of me like a rapid. I felt like a high-powered hose that wouldn’t turn off, spraying the joint one-eighty degrees!
The force of my vomit was hurting my insides, when all of a sudden it stopped deadpan. Stunned and disorientated, my mouth was still wide open. I was
hunched over the bowel. SILENCE.
I dry gagged a few times before standing up. I looked at myself in the mirror. SHOCKING. White as a ghost, vomit residue dripping from my lips, the only redeeming post-vom quality was the illusion of drastic weight-loss.
I looked like shit but felt amazing! There was nothing left inside me. I felt like I’d cleared my body of the poison that had been rotting my guts since nine o’clock that morning. I confidently inhaled, assured in the fact that oxygen couldn’t be vomited.
Making my way for the exit, a crippling pain began to ache in my intestines.
At about eleven thirty, I was light-headed, sweating and ready to pass out. I was certain a number of tables had left early because I had breathed vomit breath on them when offering the dessert menu. I couldn’t last the remaining hour of my shift and risk being made to stay for another hour for post-work beer.
I told Vilte that I didn’t feel well and needed to go home. She could tell from my opaque complexion that I wasn’t lying.
I dragged myself home on, what seemed like, the longest five-minute walk up the street and hauled myself into bed. I had a plane to catch in four hours.
Viking Ventures and Nordic Nonsense
This entry is part of the title, Viking Ventures and Nordic Nonsense. If you missed the earlier entries, you can find them here.
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