Nightmare on Queen Street

On Thursday, I was at the National Portrait Gallery, complaining to my friend Frank about not being able to find a job. “I can’t imagine a girl like you walking into a bar, asking for a job and being told ‘no,’” he said. Well, I hadn’t asked any bars. Working all night for minimum wage in a country that doesn’t tip isn’t exactly my idea of fun. I told Frank I didn’t understand why people bartend here. “Because people like you need jobs…” Oh. Yeah, he’s right.

The next day, I went and dropped off some CVs at a few bars. About 15 minutes later, my phone rang. One bar had another place that was understaffed and wanted to know if I could bartend that night. Well, I’ve never bartended before, but as long as they’re okay with that, I’m okay with that.

I get there about 6:30 and it’s busy already so I don’t really have time to go over the basics. Instead, I’m told I’ll be helping out collecting glasses, etc until 12. This is fine with me. The bar is huge, packed with people, and there is a lot to keep me busy. The clientele is very specific: all businesspeople in suits coming to “unwind” after work. The skeeziest of the skeeze, willing to hit on the girl cleaning up their empty beer bottles. Mostly I just ignore it, but one guy legitimately creeped me out.

He was at the bar alone (red flag!) and asked me when I got off work. There was no way I was going to tell him that, so I said I didn’t know. He said “I’ll wait for you” and I laughed and walked off. Later on, I see he’s taken a seat by the door and he’s watching me. He keeps asking me when I’m getting off work. I went and talked to the group of bouncers at the door and told them that I was nervous about him. We came up with a plan; if I think he’s following me out, I say “pizza” to them and they take care of him. When I actually left, I snuck past the guy, through another exit so he wouldn’t see me.

Anyway, midnight finally rolls around and the bar is quieting down. I haven’t drunk a drop but I am covered in beer, tequila and Jager. I smell like a frat party. The manager has left for the night but the bitchy second-in-command is there. I tell her that Wayne told me I could leave at 12. “Ummm, could you stay a little longer?” Normally I wouldn’t mind extra hours but the bar was so painfully slow. I ended up staying until 1 AM anyway.

I was planning on catching the last tube home, but since I stayed late, the tube was closed and I had no clue on where to catch a nightbus home. The bouncer that helped me earlier felt bad and walked me to the bus stop. The moment I step on the bus, I hear a noise like someone pouring out a litre of Coca-Cola, fizzing and splashing. A drunk girl is puking all over the bus. Of course I take the seat farthest away. A few stops later, the bus stops and the driver tells everyone to get off, someone’s been sick and he isn’t allowed to operate anymore. I wait for the next bus and get on it for a while before I realize it’s the wrong bus. I get off again near Holborn and have absolutely no clue where to catch a bus to King’s Cross, so I walk down the street past every bus stop until I finally find the right one.

I get on my third bus of the night and Thank God no one is puking. (Someone puked at the bus stop though.) An old Italian man sits next to me even though there are CLEARLY other seats on the bus and starts talking. He says he lives in Angel and asks me where I live (I obviously didn’t tell him). I get off at King’s Cross and he follows me off the bus… even though that’s definitely not Angel. He keeps talking to me and I have to walk out of my way until I lose him just so he doesn’t follow me home.

Finally I get home around 2:30, all my schoolmates, buddies and peers are grouped outside, jolly after a drunken night out. I’m staggering like a drunkard but really I’m stone sober and exhausted as hell. When I get to bed, I can’t sleep… instead I stay awake until around 4, thinking about how dumb I am for starting such a tiring job when all of my work for finals is due.