by Martin Anton Smith
It had been a hard year for me & the other Hospo P.O.W’s. – just like all of us everywhere, and throughout time who know our gladiator’s game.
It was now almost all over, bar the work-day today, & then our staff party would go down. The coffees that day had flown out the door – some literally as was this particular cafe-restaurant’s tradition on its last day of the year.
And as always – what an uneventfully eventful year it had been. The wine glasses had been polished & repolished a million times. Sixty-five million crumbs had fallen off our seventeen swanky restaurant & thirty-one cafe dining tables. One thousand & fifteen raised voices had broken out. One hundred & eighty-five ‘Customer to Staff Chastisations’ or as the boss called them ‘CSC’s’ had appeared – this was when bad tempered customers went off at us verbally. That said, that was a relatively low number & due to our professionalism, only in 3 instances had things gone in the other direction – a staff verbally berating a customer. We low paid customer service oiks had on the whole expert emotional control.
Now let me continue with numbers. Ninety-three plates & two-hundred & three glasses had been destroyed. Nine-thousand mains had been served; sixteen-thousand snacks menu items & one-hundred & fifty-one-thousand alcoholic vessels served. The head chef Nicole had only ‘beaten up’ the sous chef Tim just once this year – though like all Chefs the bark was always worse than the bite, which she actually did once – at least so the legend went. There were two hundred & forty five hours of overtime issued.
Unofficially It was rumoured there were three instances of inter-staff bathroom coitus events. And for all the numbers, only two staffers had quit. Yes, there had been the usual staff competitiveness, but no more than you’re usual ‘hospo’ joint. In short, banter was good, banter was had, banter was enjoyed.
In the pressure cooker world of hospo, you had to be able to give shit, receive it & then throw it back out the window. We were all good at that. We had to be. The wages had of course been shit, but we modern day downtrodden P.O.W slash serfs can’t ask for more – after all – why would we waste our time? This kind of profession allows for only a meagre existence, & pay rises are as rare as hens teeth with an extra row of mini hen’s teeth sprouting on them.
These are the brute facts of our battle conditions. No – we don’t want sympathy, but we want people to know our plight. As they say – a little knowledge gos a long way.
Our serf’s profit comes not from cash but from experiences – from our exuberant social lives – & it’s been this way for millennia. Yes, sometimes it’s all too wild, namely the late nights, the substances & the hangovers – but we’ll all stop when we’re all thirty five & retired from the frontline battlegrounds anyway.
And so back to the story – the after party for us was set be as they say ‘a real cracker’.
We didn’t have much to look forward to in general, but we always looked forward to this kind of thing – our premier staff party night. We would use it to blow out the demons of the last year, & welcome the new ones coming, & usually these things became unofficial farewells too, given the nature of turnover in the industry. It was the same at every year end staff party everywhere in every cafe pub restarant or club in the world.
Our Owner-Manager boss Gavin allowed us limitless free alcohol & a day off the next day – I mean what could go wrong with that scenario? Our wealthy sometimes-a-gentleman owner at the very least made sure he treated us well on this day, once a year.
Yes, it was to be our day in the sun & no one had yet taken it away from us – if they did it would be true sacrilidge, & that’s no exaggeration.
The longest shift of the year was always the last shift, before the party. The anticipation of it was laced in the air as we plied our trade washing dishes, serving vacant looking over-tired customers, frothing cofees, flipping steaks and setting tables.
The clock finally struck ten pm, & we all finally finished for the day, having kicked the last of the dangling hanger on big drinker customers out. Yes siree! It was Party time for us serfs & P.O.W’s! We the modern downtrodden could rise up for a few glorious hours of merriment!
We filed in to the main restaurant tables filled with overflowing booze @ snacks. We chatted snacked & talked of the year & how fast it had evaporated before our eyes. The great thing about War and or crap jobs like ours – for aren’t they versions of each other? – is always the camaraderie. Every slogger or digger knows, you can’t get the same camaraderie outside shit jobs or War itself.
After only a couple of drinks each, Gavin soon piped up with his ‘yearly owner-manager speech’.
Gavin was about sixty, businessmen plump, bald with pug-like features, always immaculately dressed. As always, he coughed a few times to clear his throat. This made him seem like an old English lord so we called him Lord Gavin, behind his back of course. And so the Lord himself began began his words.
“Well staff, I’d like to thank you all for a great great, record breaking year –
I won’t tell you what our sales were –
For then you’d surely ask for a pay rise”
We all half laughed, but we were sighing on the inside – being low on the social totem pole, we all had very fraught financial lives. We were definitely what you might call hand to mouthers.
But we were all young, so our delusions of the future kept our minds afloat. Some of of still believed they’d get rich one day.
Gavin continued on, his chrome dome was as usual glistening with minor nerve sweat.
“We’ve had three new employees this year & oh how a delight they’re all been….
We’ve managed a small renovation in the Restaurant….
Yes, it looks great & thanks to tilly for mounting that beautiful ornamental lampshade….”
Tilly blushed a scarlet color, not that you’d know with the lighting so low.
Gavin continued, taking a hanky out to wipe his forehead.
“We sold ten percent more wine this year….
That was thanks to Greg our micro brewer, & his tasty new brew…
Ah Greg a great Ale – but why, I wonder did you called it Sucker Time Ale?…
Still – they buy it at fifteen ninety a Pint don’t they?!”
Greg one of the older ones at thirty seven, doubled over himself slapping his legs.
Greg our 5-foot, 55 kg micro brewer then piped up confidently:
“Well, I wanted a play on words of that favourite saying –
‘there’s a sucker born every minute’ so Sucker Time Ale seemed a great name”
All us workers laughed roaringly – because we knew how our alcohol prices were & partly because we knew we were suckers too.
Gavin kept it short & said his last words of the opening act.
“And so to all staff, I’d love to thank you – we couldn’t be here without you –
Beers don’t pour themselves…
Steaks don’t cook themselves…
Plates don’t wash themselves…
Tables don’t clean themselves…
Customers don’t serve themselves…
& until the Muskobite AI Hospo Robot 1000 that I pre-ordered arrives in 2032 – all that won’t change at all!”
Gavin said the last line quite theatrically but his timing was a little laboured, & his voice squeaked a little at the end. But all in all it wasn’t bad. We still all laughed heartilly – mostly at him, but partly with him. Despite his flaws, Lord Gavin could be funny at times. I’ll give him that.
The next five hours was a blur of alcohol & ratcheting upwards, drunken raucius conversations & frivolity. It was all pretty stock standard stuff:
At some point people started dancing on tables. At some point a female started crying over a relationship matter. Someone broke a tray of steamed glasses. There were a few pashings & gropes. . .& why not? After all, Pashing & Gropes make the best Gin & tonic – do they not?
Then midnight arrived with the swiftness of a hungry cheetah. Now would come the wild fun of our traditional years end party game – all the staff excluding top level managers played “Musical Chairs”. They those hoity toity’s, though they were few & far between would always stand by the walls staring at us like vampires. This year the only one other than Gavin was Leonard – Gavin’s long term, loyal, & very praying-mantis-looking blond youngish middle-aged accountant.
Gavin was about to push play on the music for musical chairs when he was interrupted. Leonard with giant loping strides had wandered over, out from his vampiric wallflower spot. Yes, he was looking grim – but then again, he always looked grim, so I & the others weren’t yet worried. We should have been.
Leonard, crane-like leaned over & whispered in Gavins Ear. This was when we all started to worry & mutter to each other that something was probably up. It now had that air to it. We didn’t know it, but Leonard & Gavin’s conversation had gone down like this, all done with mostly inaudible whispers:
“Sorry Gavin, I was to tell you this earlier – sorry but I got held up with the exact figures”.
“Figures Lenny, what figures – I thought we’d sorted the figures & all was great?”
“Well, Gavin I made an error – I forgot about an important expense – that bloody fancy lampshade”.
“What? The $1000 dollar lampshade – that imported thing – what about it?”
“Well, I accidentally bought the diamond lampshade instead of the faux diamond one – it’s worth $30,000 & that’s what was deducted from our account”.
Gavin’s face went from alcoholic red to pale that of a typical grey alien.
“So Leonard what the fuck exactly, are you telling me?”
“Well, we can’t get a refund as the Italian company’s gone under & we can’t resell that lampshade easily – but I’ve got a quick nasty solution…”
“Damn you Leonard…what is it then..come on, tell me!!”
“So…if we fire one staff member for a year, we’ll all be square”.
“But Leonard you moron – who will do the fired one’s work?”
“Easy just get the remaining ones to all work seven percent harder – y’know – ‘spread the load’ “.
Gavin’s mind ticked over. The pools of sweat continued to drip & hit the growing sweat puddle on the floor between his fancy shoes. He couldn’t fire Leonard – that would cost him ten times as much. Knowing that, he made a quick exec decision. He thanked Leonard shooed him away with his hand. He now stood bolt upright & addressed us now nervously waiting ashen faced plebs. Our drunkenness & smiles had worn off entirely. Despite his now military posture, he spoke gingerly. Sweat still pouring off his dome but now going down his chin to be absorbed by his crisp white shirt.
“Er…ahh..ok…sorry about that staff – nothing’s the matter really other that one small thing. We have an error in our sales bookkeeping from the last financial year….look I won’t bore you with details….and I hate to tell you this under these circumstances…but the long & short of it is one of you have to go”.
There were gasps all around, murmurs & a few cries. We couldn’t believe it. Even though we were all still all young to youngish, we were all well too life wounded already to fight against it. Also we all knew each of us had a less than 10% chance of being the unlucky one.
Gavin then cheerily said something even we young old timers were surprised at.
“Now let’s get back to our Musical chairs – only this time instead it has real stakes…the first one to not get a chair will lose their job immediately, and then get $500 severance pay”.
The stunned mullet-ness hang in the air for what seemed like forever. I looked over at Sally, she was overweight she was crying lightly – she knew she might not get a chair. I looked over at Craig – he had a gammy leg & now a deep frown – he knew he might not get a chair. I looked over at Tilly – she was tiny & easy bumped away – she was sobbing – she might not get a chair. Everyone else also looked nervous despite no obvious disability or impairments – they all knew they all had a chance to be the one fired.
Of course we could have mass protested. But no one piped up. We all had learnt to be helpless, like the twenty first century serfs we deep down knew we were. Then sometime welled up inside me. A feeling of courage. I had never had much of it – it was an intoxicating feeling.
Gavin pushed play on the music button – it was the music was Wagner. We all walked around the chairs, circling like buzzards, sobbing & wailing, shoulders drooped, barely lifting our feet above the ground. We were like POW’s on a long march.
Finally, the bombastic Wagnerian music used during ‘The Third Reich’ stopped. Gavin’s index finger had spoken, his wiggly fat faux sword of Damocles had come down on us. Everyone scrambled to the seats like mad men & mad women. But I didn’t go for a seat at all – I simply kept walking, cool as a cucumber straight towards the exit door about a full ten paces away.
While those long paces counted down, I felt good. The feeling of self-sacrifice for the betterhood of my community was like an elixir. I knew that now my mental & spiritual deadwood would be sliced off, removed, & then a gracious metamorphosis would begin. I would suddenly unlearn my learned helplessness. I knew in that heated emotional hurricane that I’d never see these people or this town again – I’d make sure of that. I told myself that while my heart was beating like a thudding bass drum.
As I was one pace from the door, there was only one more thing to do. I turned around & looked at Lord Gavin & said without pointing & with confidant, measured, & gravitas infused words:
“Fuck you Gavin you tinpot fake Hitler Fuckwit”
Then I turned my head toward the door to traverse the last step to exit – then I turned my head back towards them again – I’d forgitten to ear bash Leonard too.
“Fuck you too Leonard – I know your a snakey prick!”.
Leonard guiltily averted my eyes & stared at his shoes for all his status he was now a naught little schoolboy being told off by the rightfully mad teacher.
I was glad I hadn’t let Leonard off the hook – those sneaky political types love to hide in the shadows, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
I took the last step opened the door & then slammed it with all my animalistic fury…it made a dirty great
BANG!!!
Sure, with my “big exit” I had sacrificed some decorum – but equally It’s always wise to add a little truth- laden-spices to the mix of work life. That slammed door was maybe the most loudly slammed door in History. Yes, dear reader – I went out with a bang, as every self-respecting POW should. I’ll hang my hat on a heavily slammed door any day of the week.
I’d like to say that after swearing & slamming that door my life changed immeasurably & I rose up the social ladder, became rich, flew out to a new town, got married to a catch & even had two point one kids. I’d like to report that.
I’d like to report that I finally threw of the shackles of all that learned helplessness & modern-day serfdom away – i’d like to report that too. Unfortunately this is the real world & not a crap hollwood movie. So that good stuff didn’t happen – I just found a new restaurant & a new ‘Gavin’, a new Leonard & a new ‘crew’ of fellow POW’s slash modern day serfs in a nearby town. I dug in like the seasoned profesional serf-soldier I was.
Of course, I knew that after a honeymoon period the same kind of crap stuff as before would happen again. It would be simply be a slightly rehashed version of what was. I had come to realise that ‘modern serfdom’ is for most a permanent affliction. it comes with deaths & rebirths akin to a life lived in a series of parallel universes.
So yes, I am at peace with my serfdom.
They do say a change is as good as a holiday – & at least us modern day serfs & hospo staff are still allowed to cut, run & restart. I think it’s fair – all we ask for is to die & be reborn & steal a few laughs & maybe a few drinks along the way. We are too battle-hardened & so realistic, to expect anything more.
Eventually, given enough years – we even grow to love the Lord Gavin’s & Leonard’s of our world. Yes, the Gavin’s & Leonard’s of the world will always take things away from us with one hand, but we also always knew they’d first give us something with the other first.
Life, you see – is all about having correct expectations & knowing when to walk & when to stay. Get that right & no one can touch you.
For ours is a modern-day serf’s story – a Hospo P.O.W’s lament.
Some of us are even smart enough to write about it all when we are finally out of the game. A much smaller slice some of you, are even more smart to actually read it.
And for that , we thank you – it’s nice to be heard.
The End.
Anton Martin Smith Writer 