"The Telus Theatre Incident"

That's the kind of crowd we had to deal with...

For this week’s edition, I decided to deviate from my usual routine of ridiculing girls who get too wasted, and talk about probably my worst night, ever, as a busboy.

So it was back in November, I think it was around my third week of being a busboy, and I was still pretty new. We were hosting a party at the TELUS Theatre, on St Denis, and we had Steve Angello performing. 

Now,  I’m not 100 percent sure on what the capacity was, but I know for a fact that there was at least 2000 drunks, basically forming a wall-to-wall mosh-pit; my section was deep, deep in the heart of the mob, and took me nearly 30 minutes to make a round-trip. Besides that, for the juices to mix drinks, we had to constantly run all the way upstairs, to LaMouche, and carry back as much as we possibly could. Another 20 minutes. But worst of all, there were so many people, on so many different things, that all the walls, the air, the stairs, the floors, you name it, were all drenched from the insane amount of, putrid-smelling, sweat in the air.

As anybody could probably imagine, it was a living Hell. The air was so humid that it was like breathing farts; it was hotter in there than Meghan Fox, before all the excessive plastic surgery, wearing a strategically cut, Mrs. Claus outfit for a Christmas lingerie add;  the floors were so damp that we’d pretty much fall flat on our asses anywhere we went; the stairs were a concrete death-trap; the ice in my buckets either melted, or people from the crowd stole it before I ever managed to reach my section; there were some weirdo fucks on ecstasy trying to run their hands through my hair as I’d pass through the crowd; anything that could go wrong, more or less did.

Anyways, around 12:30, and already over eight hours into work, I was grabbing an ice bucket, and two magnums of Belvedere from the upstairs fridge. Because there were so many people everywhere, I had to carry them one handed and above my head to move through the crowd. I was rushing down the massive, concrete stairs while following my waitress to the table, with the bottles and ice still above my head. For the first few seconds, I forgot how soaked the stairs were. Suddenly, I slipped backwards. As I was fell, my adrenaline started to pump, everything slowed down crawl, and I followed my first two instincts: (1) Don’t trip my waitress, she’s in high heels; (2) Protect the bottles (One magnum is around two grand; so you get the picture that my ass was on the line).

 I managed to fall with some pride at least; I didn’t knock over my waitress and I saved the bottles; what I did forget though, was to protect myself from the fall. My head crashed against the hard steps, I most likely had a concussion. My right fore-arm whipped against the dense corner of the step, and swelled up like I was on the juice in just my right arm; I still have a dent in my bone from it.

 Regardless, I jumped right back up, and powered my way through the rest of the night. It was worth it; I made $285 in tips that night, and I didn’t have to do clean-up, which I’m sure you could imagine, after an event with 2000 people, there’s a lot of mess. The downside: as soon as I got a chance to sit down and relax, it hurt like a mother-fucker consistently for three weeks, and I couldn’t extend my hand, or even make a fist for a good two weeks.

At least I’m a lefty.   

Just another night, at Time Supper Club.