G' Day

Did anyone catch the Flight of the Conchords episode a week ago where Jermaine dates Keitha, an Aussie? It was the funniest episode I’ve seen, if only for their mockery of Australians. Every scene Keitha was in, cracked me up. With this episode in mind, tt was fitting that the Santa Monica rugby club was hosting an Australian touring side. I figured it would be a much better night than Friday, since my shift was starting off with a seventy-five person party. It would have to be a better night, wouldn’t it? Could I be wrong about this? I’ll save you the suspense. The night was far better. In fact, it was insane. I’m guessing the biggest night in months and I wish I could explain why, but I have no idea.

As usual, I got to work early. I was chatting with some old regulars, and by old I do mean their age, when all of a sudden a small parade of pirates came marching up Main Street heading for O’ Brien’s. I figure since Stevie was about to take off, I might as well jump behind the bar early to help out. What looked to be a big pub crawl from the outside, maxed out at around thirty. The weren’t too douchey, throwing around their requisite, “Har!” with every second or third word. If they ever invent a time machine, I’m going back to pirate times (no, not Somalia present day) to see if they actually say, “Har!” I would love to know why we portray pirates this way. Did they write this in their diaries? “Dear Kitty, Har! Har! Plundered gold! Har!” They left as soon as they arrived, carrying with them their eye patches, their fake parrots on their shoulders, and their “Hars!” It was alright, because the rugby team had arrived.

Santa Monica played Huntington Beach, and I’m not sure where the Aussies fit it, but there were a few of them there. It was by no means a crazy rugby party. Two weeks ago, there was a rugby party and my sales were through the roof. Some teams come in and order car bombs and Jaeger bombs for the entire team, these guys, not so much. They drank from their free hour-long keg, then begrudgingly pried open their wallets for a happy hour brew. But something happened at around eight o’ clock, and the bar just blew up. I’m guessing it was a confluence of factors. First, all the rugby players who didn’t make the party, went home, showered and changed, and came back to drink. This includes the Australians who drank the shit out of Captain Morgan. Second, we had a comedy show at nine that may have contributed. Third, we had band playing called The Shore. The first time they played a couple of years ago, they weren’t on the schedule but I kept getting calls for them. Nothing has changed. Whenever they play, the phone rings off the hook. Last, the Independent Spirit Awards took place at the beach in Santa Monica and I presume some of that crowd showed up, too. Whatever the case, when Tim and Aoife came on, the bar was three deep. I had no chance to close out anyone. I left five hundred dollars in tabs open. Hey, you win some, you lose some.

By the time I got back from my dinner break, there was a good crowd, but it had slowed down. I don’t know what it is about Aussies drinking Captain Morgan and coke and J.D. (Jack Daniels) and coke, but these wombats must’ve drank themselves into a state of insulin shock. In general, Australians aren’t known for their tipping prowess. But as my sister said after working in Ibiza, “If you’re from a country that doesn’t tip and you don’t leave a tip, it doesn’t bother me; but, if you come from a country that does tip, and you don’t, then we have a problem.” With that said, many of the guys were extremely generous. Personally, I was just happy to have the business. One of the Aussies rang up a four-hundred and forty-four dollar tab. I was relieved that his card went through, his fifty dollar tip, while not huge percentage wise, was just gravy. What was so unusual about such a busy night is that there wasn’t an ass clown to be seen. There was the guy who ordered a Stella. “Seven dollars,” I told him. He pulled out all his money. “Six?” he replied in that “Is that cool? Like are you Monty Hall and can we make a deal, douche bag kind of way.” Fuck that. I said, “Do you have a credit card? Because I am not here to haggle.” Go to McDonald’s and try and short them on a Big Mac, see how well that works. Oh, I almost forgot. One of the pirates on his way out asked, “Do you have a to go cup?” I responded, “So you can take out the rest of your beer and violate our liquor license?” Now some people come from places that have no laws, Las Vegas comes to mind, but this guy wasn’t from one of these places. He knew what he was asking and responded, “Yeah, if that ‘s cool.” Of course, it is. I don’t know you, but as long as I can jeopardize my livelihood and the livelihoods of thirty others, I’ll do it. Check out the big balls on douche bag.

The night slowed down after midnight, then picked up for the last half an hour. When I checked our sales at the end of the night, we were so far beyond what I consider to be a great night. It was both a pleasure and a relief. We need these big night. What with these tough times, we’re hurting just like everyone else. Well not as much as AIG or Citi, but I don’t think the government will nationalize us if things go south. I don’t know why it was such a huge night. You’d figure after working in the same bar for almost four years, I would’ve stumbled upon the slightest clue. Alas, I have not. I guess if I had, I would’ve replicated it by now. Instead, I was just happy to be in the middle of it all. And to our Australian visitors, “Thank you for coming and G’ Day.”