NYPD Test Eve
Saturday night I had my usual 4-2 hostessing shift, which consists of 7 hours of greeting and seating in a restaurant, and 3 awful hours of seating tipsy partygoers in a lounge where patrons do not respect the sanctity of a reserved table, and those with tables complain more than a Jewish mother whose son just dropped out of law school in favor of joining the circus. ("Oy, this table is killing me, I called in 10 minutes ago, why do I not have the best table in the house. And where is my matzoh ??!" - mind you I've never seen a Jewish person in Astoria, just comparable complaints when seating them at tables). To top it off, this shift was particularly unbearable because I knew that I had to take part II of the NYPD test at 6:30 am and was planning on hanging out in the lounge until I had to leave for the exam.
Back tracking a little, the only reason I was taking the test in the first place was because my dad wanted me to do it so I could receive medical benefits, a commodity which is not common in the restaurant business. I agreed to take the initial intake exam which was theoretically some kind of intelligence test, although you needed the IQ of a 5th grader to pass. I think the only questions I may have messed up on were the ones where you had to imagine yourself driving a car. Asian, female, alcoholic driver....uh huh...definately not passing that section. Anyway back to the point, the argument between my father and I regarding me taking exam started back in January when we had a conversation that went almost exactly like this:
Dad: What do you want to do when you get out of college?
Me: I don't know
Dad: Take the NYPD test, they're always hiring and they have medical benefits
Me: Dad, I'm a little female what do you think they're going to have me doing? They're gonna make me do that "to catch a predator" shit
Dad: Well...you like flaunting yourself
Anywho, back to the story, in order to pass the time when we weren't seating tables the Polish hostess and I made a list of the male employees, manager and owners and decided to rank them from 1-23 on who we'd most want to bone and who we'd least want to bone, with one being Justin Timberlake and twenty-three being Chris Kirkpatrick. Throughout the night, the hostess' sister, a waitress (also Polish) and a bartender (also Polish) decided to weigh in on the poll, until we created a a Polish chicks + Risa scale of the bangable-ness of our male coworkers. After we all entered our preferences, I did all the math to calculate the average "I-want-to-do-you" score of each employee because a) I'm asian and b) They're Polish.
At this point, we're all still sober but as a hostess when I clock out at two, that gives me a two hour window between the end of my shift and the closing of the lounge where all hell can break lose, and unfortunately for my dignity, usually does. Like clockwork, at 2 am I left the hostess podium to clock out and per usual spent the next half an hour in my "fuck around time." And by "fuck around time" I don't mean drinking, I mean sipping a drink, while the owners and managers fuck around ask me to do things depspite my constant whine that "[Insert superior's name here] I'm off the clock." To which they usually respond "Fuck you just do it."
Now, the problem I have with drinking at work, is since the schedule revision this summer, I no longer go off duty with anyone else. Essentially it leads me to become an alcoholic, getting off work and drinking alone, unless one of the restaurant waiters gets off shift with me and decides to indulge me in a few drinks. This week, unfortunately, I was alone, until I remembered that my coworker from my office job had stopped in for her 21st birthday and more importantly wasn't drunk. Upon this realization I quickly scooped her up and proceeded to make her do shots until I deemed her drunk enough to qualify for a 21st birthday celebration.
Fifteen minutes and 5 shots later, we were feeling good, and we headed back into the lounge so I could return her to her sister and friends. After that, I continued down my path of destruction by joining Gem and his friends at the bar where his friend was in the process of achieving a bar tab high enough to qualify for use of a credit card. While standing at the bar packed in tighter than a stool sample from Richard Simmons, I was able to down two more shots and then decided to move onto the service bar. Once I arrived I immediately ran into my arch nemisis of on the job drinking - the general manager. From the moment he arrived, rules had been imposed stating that staff was no longer permitted to consume alcohol while on shift, and post-shift drinks were limited to one per staff member. Trying to coyly get myself another drink I asked the GM if I could have my second drink of the night. (the next day he recounted for me how while I made the request I was swaying and had trouble keeping my eyes open - to which I defended "I was wearing heels and I'm asian")
GM: Bull shit that's your second drink
Me: I swear ask [the bartender] - Isnt' this my second drink?
Bartender (in Polish accent): Yes, this is only her second.
Me: See I told you! Ha!
Now the problem with this conversation is everyone is telling the truth in some respect. The bartender had in fact only served me 2 drinks. And I had technically only consumed two drinks, but I operate on the blowjob rule of drinking. Bear with me here. The concept was brought to my attention by one of my bosses on my birthday, in the conversation that follows:
(cut back to 2 months ago, when I'm drunk on my birthday after having done shots with my visiting sorority sisters and half of my bosses)
Me: blah blah blah (irrelevant drunk dialogue)
Boss: How drunk are you?!
Me: I've only had two drinks
Boss: Yeah right, two drinks
Me: I swear, I've had this one and one vodka-grapefruit before this
Boss: Ok, but how many shots have you had
Me: Uhhhhh 8?
Boss (to my friend): Have you ever seen 'Clerks'? She's like that girl from Clerks where the boyfriend asks her how many guys she's slept with and she says 3. Then it comes up how many guys she's given blow jobs to and it's like 25
Me: Did you just compare me doing shots to giving blow jobs!?
Back to the point of the story, I was once again operating on the blow job rule of shot consumption, which was from what I was told the next day - quite obvious. While drinking that drink, I was pushed from teetering on the cliff of coherency into the ocean of obliteration, and the next parts of the story are a compilation of my spotty memories and what I was told the next day by my co-workers.
I remember hanging out by the bar for a while with my coworkers completing the "Coworkers/bosses I want to do" list and ultimately, remembering that I am supposed to take the paperwork portion of the police test in less than 4 hours. While contemplating whether or not to attend this event I continue to sip my drink and lament the fact that I have to take a 2 hour train ride home. At this point, one of my bosses intervenes and gives me cab fare stating "I don't want the cover of the paper tomorrow to read '[Restaurant] hostess found dead commuting on the subway leaving work." To this kind gesture I responded "Thanks! You know what this means right? I'm going to get wasted because I don't have to worry about getting home!"
Around this time, the lounge starts winding down, and the waiters start coming into the restaurant to do their count outs as the crowd disperses at the speed a crowd of highly intoxicated people can be expected to leave. I drunkenly stumble to the count out computer where the anti-drinking GM is standing, trying to cash out the waiters. In my drunken state, I have no idea what conversation ensued, but the end of it was punctuated by me kicking the GM in the ribs while wearing heels. That not being enough for the night, I also chased him into the lounge and tried to challenge him to Mortal Kombat, Princess Kitana style, and called him a pussy because he didn't want to get beat up by a little asian girl. Just consider this for a moment. At this point, not only did I get drunk at work, but I also did it in front of the manager who banned drinking, AND had the audacity (or stupidity) to not only challenge him to a fight and question his manliness, but also to kick him hard enough to leave a bruise. And to top it all off, I don't remember any of this, and was in fact informed of this series of encounters by the manager himself.
I think sometime between assaulting the manager and moving onto my next disaster zone, I was told I ran into another one of my coworkers from my office job. I informed him that I was going to the bathroom, he told me to go ahead, I told him "fuck you," ran into the bathroom, and then stuck my head out and said "I love you!". Talk about bipolar drunk.
Tired of beating up my boss, and having love/hate relationships with my coworkers I decided that the next best place for me to relax was the office in which one of my other bosses was sitting and doing something relatively important. Again the topic of whether or not I was drunk was brought up, and I told him that I wasn't drunk. ("I only had 2 drinks!") And furthermore, I would support this statement with the evidence that I could still do a handstand. Which I did.Repeatedly. While wearing a dress.
After that, deciding to bury myself in the hole of I'm a stupid drunk with no filter between brain and mouth/action (get your mind out of the gutter), I decided to tell my boss about the poll we were conducting regarding the bangability of the male employees of the establishment. He asked for more details, which I somehow had the sense to not disclose, but did tell him "Don't worry, you're doing well with the polls." In retrospect, I'm not sure if he realized I meant that as a general statement, and not in reference to a specific ethnic group residing within the walls of the restaurant.
By this time I'm pretty sure my bosses were sick of me, and a cab magically appeared in the front of the restaurant to take me back to Bellerose. Typical to my drunken self, I decided that I could speak spanish and took it upon myself to conversate with the cab driver who was from Ecuador. Unfortunately, despite my delusional thoughts that I can speak spanish, my vocabulary is limited to asking someone's name (Como te llamas?), well being (Como estas?), and telling them that I don't like to dance unless I'm drunk (No me gusta bailar sin no es borracha). I'm pretty sure after those formalities were knocked out of the way the conversation probably continued in French, which I mistook for Spanish coming out of my mouth.
After what could've been 10 minutes or 2 hours in the cab, we finally arrived at my house, and it came time to pay the man. Unfortunately, I had tucked the money my boss had given me into my bra, and it had fallen out in the process of doing office gymnastics. I texted my boss to see if I had left it in the office, but he didn't respond. Luckily, I had enough money in my wallet to cover it. Stumbling into the house I undressed and got into bed. In the process of removing my bra, the floor became remniscent of a strip joint, as nearly $30 in singles from coat checking and an additional $60 fell to the floor. (Ok a really cheap strip joint, with low quality strippers) I texted my boss again to tell him I found the money. `
As is pretty evident from the nightly ongoings, I didn't make it to the police exam in the morning, but I did come up with a new career plan. I wonder if strippers get medical benefits?