"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.

Drunk Girls, Vomit, and Cups

Last time, I talked about the drunk blonde who was stirring up shit for the coat-check busboy; so this week, I’m going to stick with the same theme of girls who get too liquored up, and wind up doing stupid shit in the club.

Anyways, it was New Years’ Eve, and before I even continue, YES, I worked on New Years (New Years’ drunks are way, way better tippers than ordinary drunks). So, while all of you people were out partying, getting liquored up, grinding up on each other, throwing up on each other, sexing on each other, and falling asleep on each other(probably in that order); I was at work. And in all honesty, New Years is probably one of the best possible nights to work at a club, because while all of you were out paying to drink, I was getting paid for drinks.

So, the whole night had been pretty packed, I had already been shot by at least 20 confetti poppers (most of them from my boss, Polash, so I’d clean my section quicker), and sprayed my probably even more bottles of champagne from clients yelling, “Yeah! Fucken New Years maaaan! Effin Eyy!” as they threw napkins (which had just taken me 10 minutes to get them) in the air.

At this point in the night, it was already a good half hour after the New Years’ countdown, and as usual, I was making my rounds throughout my section.

Suddenly, I see- a girl at the top of my section turning pale in the face, getting all clammy, and staring at the same spot on the floor without blinking for about 15 minutes; essentially all the omens that predict she’s about to throw up a lot, and at any second.

Some of the other busboys, who were closer to the kitchen, spot the impending disaster (we have a sixth sense about people about to throw up), and ran to grab a bucket, with a mop trailing not too far behind.

What happened next, will never grow old, or cease to amaze any of us. We went to bring her the bucket so that she could throw up without making a mess, and she refused it.

Instead, she looked at us, waved away the bucket, smiled, and threw up in not one; not two; but three cups consecutively, and with zero spillage. We stood there, dumbfounded.

Now I’ve got to say, normally when someone throws up in my section, it kind of ruins my night, but in this case I have to admit, I was pretty impressed by this 100 lbs girl’s skills at puking, so impressed, in fact, that I even brought her a Canada Dry to soothe her stomach; for free, and out of the goodness of my heart.

Anyways, at the end of the night, we went to clean the table, and one of the busboys accidentally grabbed the throw-up cups thinking it was the usual napkin, lime, juice and liquor concoction.

 I think you get the picture for what happened next.

Just another night, at Time Supper Club.

"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.