I nursed my fourth knock-off beer
switched to my left hand
& stopped talking for the first time in fifteen minutes
the businessman beside me who was buying me drinks
arched a thick grey eyebrow & said:
“Yure eh likely lad, Rocco.
Ye fit, young, eager
Un wots more, yuv goat
A gud head on yure shoulders.”
So saying he clapped me on the back
drained his pot & roared for another
it was the Summer of ‘99
bartending BrizVegas
working in a trendy inner-city gin-joint
that is, until the owner got busted
for coke by undercover cops
but I was a jack-of-all-trades
got a job in a hotel/motel
- no-one can tell the difference these days -
of an afternoon I'd wash dishes
chop onions, spuds & carrots
polish glasses & cutlery
answer telephones
brag, boast & exchange lies with the Texan Chef
& the gay Maitré D
by evening I'd wait tables
tend the bar
stock the fridges
clean the kitchen
sweep & mop the floors
answer telephones
& take room-service up to celebrities
one night, among many
I got call from room 56
a reggae band in town & outta booze
"Hey mun, canna ave t' soup o' tha day
for seven uf us,
also, cun you get us
2 litres o' pineapple juice
3 lemons & a pint of cream?"
I asked him if that was all, sir?
"D'ye ave rum?"
Wot, Bundy?
"No, Mun. Bacardi... White Rum?!"
In no time the Chef's bell rang
I loaded the trolley
punched floor 5 room 6
& knocked (knock knock na knock knock knock-knock)
"Eeeyyyyyy, D'Artagnan!"
the rasta lion dread-head
sounded like the love-child
of Bob Marley & Fonzie
the stench of ganja hit me square between the eyes
blue-grey clouds billowed out into the hall
but I was blocked at the door
I felt like a five-star pizza-boy, accepted a toke
- no prizes for guessing what they tipped me with -
then went downstairs an tried on a few ten-year-old tricks
y'know, smashed a few plates
rattled the cutlery too loudly
yawned & bitched & complained
until the boss sent me
& my stoned arse home
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