Working Girl

And so it was that in the topsy-turvy mobius strip that is my life, I have arrived back at Frame #27: Working At A Cheesy Bar.

It was innocuous enough. Take the register job at an organic chicken and waffles counter, bank on the hostessing shifts at the owners' nicer restaurant to turn into serving tables, this being the real money that will get me through these days of the "reimagination of journalism" and unpaid internships.

And working at the shack is fine in the day, busy as all get-out from the Frisco foodies who groove to the cachet of grabbing tasty po' boy sandwiches from a hard to find alleyway in the ex-industrial area of town. Lines around the block, happy, greasy-fingered people hanging on the loading dock/eating area outside. But at night we close down the window facing the alley and open up to the dance club we share floorspace with, becoming the official supplier of chicken and waffles to the nightlife set. Therein our story takes place.

My first night training was great- it was hip hop/soul night and ?uestlove, the drummer from The Roots was DJing. I got paid to accept free beers from the owners, people watch the immensely chill crowd and bob my head to dope beats.

But my first solo shift fell on all ages night. I didn't even go to all ages night when I was all-aged. I exchanged pleasantries with Marcello, the taciturn Mexican cook who would be my culinary backup for the night, propped myself up on my elbows in our little pickup window and steeled myself for I knew not what.

You know who does go to all ages night? Painfully awkward groups of thirty-something women ("we just want to dance!"), jailbait, the creepers that love them, and greasy faced emo kids clad exclusively in clothes whose unbought cousins are making their inexorable decline towards the Forever 21 clearance rack:

-fedoras

-ill-fitting vests

-80's aerobic gear

-gladiator sandals

-white skinny jeans on men

-nerd glasses

-blazers. everyone in blazers.

Kind of like this, but less matching

But it wasn't just the emo/hipster thing that was offending my delicate sensibilities that night. There was a gleeful ignorance of traditional aesthetics in the club. It was as though the crowd had subscribed to a different rule book of what constituted attractive self-presentation. I had seen this before, but where? A woman twirled by in white Sketchers, black leggings and a pink flannel mini-dress, ruffled and Bedazzled with rhinestones about the shoulders. But of course! They were channeling my old friend, Euro trash!

These are not big chicken buying demographics.

So we make it to 11:35 and the awarkwardness is summiting glorious heights on the dancefloor. One young fellow proudly shuffles up to my window, the crotch of his grey skinny jeans inexplicably bagging down around his knees. Could this be a sale?

"Hey, um, you having fun yet?" he begins, tenatively. I flash him a tight lipped smile, willing patience. Marcello waits expectantly behind me, tongs in hand, a mountain of uncooked hot wings at the ready. Baggy crotch scans my carefully-lettered menu. His jaw drops slightly and he turns back to me.

"So, like, what kind of music do you listen to?"

We sold $21 of product and I rubber-necked a severe drought of social styling for a full four and a half hours. I know you guys here in the "real world" are all about it, but I'm not sure about this whole "job" thing...

In search of a patron,
CD