"It's a Grey Canada Goose!"

Whatever happened to showing a little bit of respect, or gratitude even, towards the people who make your night downtown run smoothly?

I’ll tell you, working as a busboy you witness just about every possible clubbing scenario there is, on a nightly basis.

We, the busboys, see absolutely everything you people do that nobody else does. We see everything from lighting your cig in the club, which you think nobody notices because it’s 2:30 in the morning, and the party is ‘poppin’, and your friend turns to you and say’s, “Don’t worry bro, nobody gives a shit.” We see when you throw up under the table and put napkins to hide it; we even see when you get all liquored up and start dry-heaving with a grenade, all over the dance-floor. We are the eyes and ears of the club, and we see EVERYTHING.

Besides most of the bull-shit that happens with the odd, asshole customer, it’s actually a pretty chill job for three simple reasons:

1)      Who do you think is making all of the cash that you’re spending in the night?

2)      We meet celebrities when they come for after-parties.

3)      We laugh at all the stupid shit you people do.

For instance, I think this particular night was in mid-December, and so far the night had been pretty shitty for me.

My boss, Polash, who pretty much resembles a chain-smoking gummy-bear, who stands at no more than 5’3”, and a temper like Les Grossman (Tom Cruise) in Tropic Thunder, kept giving me shit all night. Every 30 seconds, all I’d hear was Polash, yelling “Stay in your fucking section! Stay in your fucking section!”  Even though I already was. And as if that wasn’t enough, anytime I’d be carrying an ice-bucket with an ass-ton of ice, three 26 Oz bottles of Belvedere, two pitchers of cranberry and orange juice; all above my head in one hand, and nine cups for the table in my other hand, but not a soul would move out of my way, or even acknowledge my presence.

But anyways, it was a pretty shitty night already, and I was in the basement getting a smoke and a Rockstar energy-drink. Suddenly, I hear some loud-mouthed, blonde chick, who was all liquored up, demanding a jacket which was neither hers, nor that she had the ticket for.

“It’s a grey Canada-Goose jacket; how can you not find it?!” She yelled a few times extremely slurred towards Marko, the busboy in charge of coat-check that night. This went on for a few more minutes before I completely lost my mind on her.

I shot Marko a look which he instantly understood as, “I’ve got this.” I turned to her and said, “Listen; first off, do you even know how many of you fucking people have a Canada-fucken-Goose jacket?!” I then pointed to at least 30 Canada-Goose jackets. “Secondly,” I continued, gaining momentum. “You’re not even supposed to be down here!”

“Well I have a ticket, and that means I can come down here to look for a jacket if I want!” She interrupted with the snarkiest possible tone.

“Yeah, you’ve got a fucking COAT-CHECK ticket!” I yelled. “What that means is that you can stand the fuck upstairs, and wait for us to BRING YOU YOUR FUCKING JACKET!! That is what your ticket is for. If we want you down here, then you can come; but we don’t. So, get the fuck out of my face, before I throw you out of the club on your drunk, fucking, grenade ass!”

What happened next was amazing; she pretty much turned white, apologized, and went upstairs nearly in tears to wait for her friend’s jacket to be found.

Marko stared at me in complete awe, with his mouth hanging like in a bad comedy.

I chugged the rest of my Rockstar, put my cig in my mouth, and said, “That’s how you handle a fucking situation.” And then went outside to sneak a smoke with some of the other busboys.

At least an hour or so later, I had to take some chairs back down to the basement, and I saw the girl, still standing by coat-check, waiting for the jacket. As I walked towards the stairs, she practically jumped out of my way; even though I was walking slowly because of the chairs; and she must have apologized at least another four times as I walked by.

Around closing time, about three-ish, the girl was back in the basement, but this time with her sister, and finally being polite. The girl’s sister was actually pretty cute, and really nice, kind of a Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde situation going on between them. She even apologized for her sister’s drunken rants, and bitching.

In the end,  the ‘nice’ sister and I managed to identify the right jacket by checking through the pockets of about 30 Canada-Goose jackets for a Halls wrapper.

The ‘nice’ sister, wanted to give me her “contact information,” as she put it, because, “giving someone a jacket is a really big deal.”

Just as she was about to give me her number, Polash, my boss, ran down and yelled at me, again, to stay in my “fucking section!”

Cock-blocked by my boss. Nice.

Just another night at Time Supper Club.