De Bier Haus Nights, Continued

At De Bier Haus, each staff member is entitled to one free drink per shift, called a Staffie.

So after work one Friday, about eight o’clock, I was sitting at the bar, having my Staffie – a glass of Lake Chalice Syrah – when Laurie pulled up a chair. Laurie is a nursing student with a sarcastic edge. She ordered a glass of Lake Chalice Sauvignon Blanc, and asked me my plans for the night.

“It’s Canada Day,” I explained, raising my glass. “And it’s Friday.”

“So,” she replied, “you’re drinking with me?”

We laughed, and talked for a few minutes, watching the after-work happy hour crowd, before Sam suddenly came by with another glass of wine each. “From the man at the other end of the bar,” he explained, gesturing toward a man with a mustache. “He says you girls work hard and deserve it.” As we looked, the man with the mustache raised his glass of beer, drained it, and left.

Laurie and I shrugged, and started on our second glass, moving to the fireplace.

We talked about everything from relationships to life plans to bras and traveling. She told me about her boyfriend and her classes at school. I told her about my life in Canada and how much I miss John. When our glasses were empty, we ordered the beer on special, but Laurie surprised me by insisting on picking up the tab. When I went to the bathroom, I came back to the table to find a glass of cider in front of my chair.

Needless to say, by the time Alley and Kylie got off work, Laurie and I had had four or five drinks each, and I hadn’t spent a dime. I had also had a little more to drink than I had intended. Alley put some David Bowie on the stereo just for me, and everyone wished me a Happy Canada Day. The other girls had their Staffies, but they wanted to buy me a drink too. At the end of the night, I’m told that I was dancing, and that everyone found me hysterically funny. Alley put me in a cab home in the wee hours.

How embarrassing.

I had a fun Canada Day that Friday, but when I showed up for work on Saturday morning, I could have felt better. My memory of the previous evening was hazy. My head was quite floaty and my stomach was a little sick. But, I knew I had to pull it together. I had a long day ahead of me – Saturday was our busiest day.

Then, to make matters worse, Matt, the 32-year-old pub owner (who had unfortunately witnessed our revelry the night before), asked me to work a double shift. His main bartender had called in sick, and he was in a real bind. I wasn’t really up for working twelve or fifteen hours, but I needed the money, and besides, I didn’t exactly feel like I had a choice. So, I agreed – reluctantly.

I was about to work the bar for the late night Saturday shift, when the pub became a night club.

Unable to eat, and without much sleep the night before, I took a break and went to Starbucks to caffeine-fuel myself for the long night ahead. I drank a black double Americano and read my book, steeling my nerves.

When I got back to work, most of the tables had been moved, to make room for the dance floor. The DJ was setting up, and everyone was having a last-minute break.

I felt terrible. I’d been at work for ten hours, I was exhausted, I was hung over, and I knew that the night had not even begun.

Ryan, the other bartender on shift, advised me to drink a Red Bull, or he said I’d never make it. He could tell that I was flagging, and it was just getting busy.

I took his advice. The Red Bull gave me wings (actually just temporarily restored my alertness).

For the next two hours, I actually felt pretty good. The caffeine kept me awake. Ryan had a habit of dancing to the loud music, and he completely had my back, showing me short cuts on the tills and pouring the more difficult drinks, like blended cocktails and layered shots. His energy was infectious, and soon I was having a pretty good time. Besides, the DJ was playing good club music, like Michael Jackson and Lady Gaga.

It was really hard to understand what people wanted half of the time, though. When they wanted Rye, they said CC, and when they wanted ginger ale, they said Dry. I poured a lot of Jager Bombs and a lot of Vodka Redbulls, a lot of tequila shots and a lot of beer. In fact, I made 150 drinks in three hours: about a drink a minute, and well over a thousand dollars. 

However, this being New Zealand, I wasn’t tipped a dime.

I was shouted several drinks, but considering the state of my hangover, I politely declined.

The place didn’t close until 3:00 a.m., and after all the clean-up, it was closer to 4 when I actually got off work. By then, I’d been at work for sixteen hours and I was on the caffeine crash. My face was practically melting off, I was so tired, and I could barely keep from drooling.

It was the time of night when crowds of drunken youths wander on the sidewalks, the guys play-fighting, and the girls hugging themselves in small dresses and gossiping dramatically. Getting a cab home was hard work. Four or five turned me down although they were empty, saying they had been called for someone else. 

Finally, a nice Indian man picked me up, and on the way, he chatted about his childhood in Punjab and his move to New Zealand eight years ago. He said that living in New Zealand was a better life, but that he missed his family. I made appreciative sounds and tried not to fall asleep.

Unlike my kiwi counterparts, I tipped the man.

I fell into bed sometime after 4. The loud club music had damaged my eardrums, and yet the sound of traffic still kept me awake. Or maybe it was the Red Bull. Behind my eyelids I saw a kaleidoscope of ice, tumblers, straws, limes, shots poured, bottles opened, cash exchanged, and drumbeats in the distance.I fell fitfully asleep, dreaming that I was still tending the bar.