The Late Update

And Why

As the regulars here know, I try to have updates ready and posted before 9 a.m. Pacific Time, every Saturday morning. However the update for October 31st is late by over 12 hours.

First of all, let me say I should have posted a warning before Friday. I knew I would not be able to update Friday night, ahead of time.

You see, I've been trying to find some part-time work to make ends meet. Donations from the site have been for shit.

My friend Lee manages a bar here in Reno. He let me know, about a month ago, there would be an opening for a bartender soon. He assured me my lack of formal training in slinging the booze wouldn't be a problem (I have no idea what the hell is in a Cosmo, anyway). It's mostly a beer-and-shots place.

This works well, because my bartending experience is tending a keg at a fair, handing out the specified brand of beer at a festival or dance, or pouring wine from a very short list of options at a fundraiser.

I stopped expecting to hear back from him on it about two weeks ago, since the owners seem to have their heads up their asses in any true business sense. I've watched the owners bitch out regulars who made complaints or threatened to stop coming around. They also pander to some of the lowest creatures I've ever seen (and you know it's low if I complain about it).

But Lee called me on Tuesday and asked me to come in on Friday night to learn the set-up. In order to get me in the door, so to speak, he wanted me to bar-back for a few weeks, on Saturdays. The owners would see I'm a hard worker and a nice guy, they'd agree to hire me as a bartender, and the villagers would rejoice.

Admittedly, I've seen mentally-disadvantaged people bar-back, and do a good job. It's not rocket science. If I can handle the nuances and archaic intricacies of English grammar, bar-backing should be a piece of cake. But you still have to learn where things are supposed to go, where do you find this or that, where the extra toilet paper is and where they hide the key to the dispenser, etc.

Friday night, I made sure what needed to be shaved was shaved, and what doesn't get shaved is neat and trimmed. I dressed appropriately, clean, sturdy clothes, since they are likely to get drinks dumped on them and quite possibly vomit. I'm wearing my boots so that my feet aren't black and blue from drunks stomping on them all night.

I would like to point out that I was very precisely on time, walking in on the tick of the clock. Lee, on the other hand, was late for his shift.

The entire time that we were waiting for him, the female owner, Barb, had a very public shit-fit. Please note that she wasn't even on duty, a bartender named Pete was. Barb at one point threatened to "lay that short little man flat out on the floor the next time I see him." "I have had it up to here with him!" (If 'here' get above her tits, it's trouble; her shirt comes off and nobody wants that.) She cut Pete off at least three times when he tried to defend Lee. Supposedly, Pete being friends with Lee invalidates any rational objections he might have raised.

Lee arrived 30 minutes late. I had already texted him twice, to warn him about Barb's mood. He never replied, but then he never does.

However, as soon as he was in sight, Barb was all smiles and "no, don't even worry about it, honey". Pete immediately headed out the door after giving Lee a hug and good night.

Then Barb had to discuss Pete's shortcomings. Pete is a "disgusting pig". Barb's husband complained about finding a cock-ring in the cash drawer. (Not so loud, mister, everybody will want one) The general consensus was that they needed to hire a bar-back to walk around him to clean up after him. I have to admit, the prospect of being hired to be Pete's personal bar-back raises some interesting possibilities, I'm sure he could find some nice ways to pay me back.

I was still waiting to find out what needed to be done, and how Lee wanted it done.

Suddenly, my ears perk up. I pull out my cellphone, set it to record, and unobtrusively point the voice-recorder microphone directly towards Barb. This thing is designed for conferences and conventions, so I know it will do just fine picking her up (a deaf dodo bird, in it's grave a hundred years, could have picked this pitch up).

They are discussing next week's Pink Party, a "DJ party" that is supposedly quite popular. Lee says something, and Barb practically starts screaming.

"No, no Mik, not Mik, no fucking way. Mik will never work in this bar, ever. Not even as a barback. I don't even want that god-damned faggot in my bar. He's fucking useless, he won't work, and he just gets in the way."

Now, here's the kicker:

I'm Mik. And I was sitting less than five feet in front of the two-faced, back-stabbing, droopy-breasted (yes, we've all seen them, for some reason) slitch.

What does she know about Mik? Nothing besides an application that shows that I do work, I have excellent customer service skills, and probably know more about running a business than she and her husband combined.

She has nothing to connect my face with my name, or my application for that matter. She has no clue who the hell I am.

After a bit, I call Lee over, ask him what's going on. I'm still waiting to start working, you see.

He gives me an innocent look. "About what?" he asks.

Notice I never mentioned how Lee stuck up for me. Or for Pete when Barb was running him down. There's a reason for that. It didn't happen.

"You wanted me to come in to show me what you want done next week," I reminded him. He should have gotten a hint from my tone of voice, but I'm beginning to doubt Lee's intelligence.

"Oh, that," he said, sighing. "Barb doesn't want you working the Pink Party. I haven't had a chance to find out why yet. I'll give you a call later about it." Then he offers to buy me a drink.

I left the bar.

I waited until four this afternoon, and still no call. Finally I call him. I am royally pissed by now.

Barb answers. Understand, I called Lee's cellphone, and Lee sure the hell doesn't live with the cunt. I asked to speak to Lee several times, and she wouldn't let me. She demanded that I explain why I wanted to talk to Lee.

And when I told her my name? She didn't recognize it.

Personally, I counted myself lucky. The fucking bitch might have actually hired me, and, by Nevada law, I have to take the job whether I like it or not.

However, Lee is no longer counted among my friends. He strung me along for a damned month, with the promise of a job I could hold without having to put myself in a straight jacket at 8:45 a.m. every morning. He was not supportive and, quite frankly, acted like I was invisible anytime I showed up.

However, I do have to say that Pete is a stud, and looks damned fine in a kilt. I may have to work on something featuring a similar person as a character.

You may rest assured that Barb will never be depicted on these pages. I only know one person who finds that kind of toxic personality attractive, that being her husband, and I can live without his patronage as well.

I would like to encourage everyone to call Barb and say hello, in whatever way you feel appropriate. Barb is half-owner of the Ten 99 Club in Reno, Nevada (that's in the United States, my Moravian friends), located at 1099 South Virginia Street (zip code 89502), the telephone number is (775) 329-1099. Or you can look for the club on Google Maps, and leave a note (also called a review) there. I'm sure she'll be tickled pink. Please, no acts of violence, I'd hate to think of any of my readers having to get that woman all over their nice leather or latex gear.

Anyway, folks, that is why the update was late. Hopefully, it won't happen again. But it would sure be nice to have some income right about now.