I have bartended on Queen West, in the Annex, and in a faux-lodge sports bar in North Bay. I also volunteer several times a week at the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. In short, I have seen a variety of people in a plethora of levels of sobriety. Since April I have been sparsely employed and mostly living off of my illegal alien boyfriend who has a knack for scoring odd jobs. It was nice to be unemployed over the summer but it started to get old about two weeks ago.

I was strolling along Bloor between Dufferin and Landsdowne one rainy Saturday in an outfit of wellies, spandex shorts, and a dirt biking jersey that belonged to my dad in the 70s — not exactly job searching attire. However, I was feeling opportunistic as I dragged my boots west of Brock and thought what would be funnier than getting a job at the House of Lancaster –especially dressed like this? So I did. The day manager gave me a quick up and down and there I was, the new bartender. “But you look like a sheep herder so try harder next time.” He instructed me regarding my first shift. No probs I thought. I have f-cups and some American Apparel I can transform into something trashy for this curious occasion. The following Saturday I rolled in for my first shift after chugging half a bottle of wine to calm my nerves, too much hairspray, and a dress that showed the twins.

When I walked in I instantly felt nerdy and conservative. The Lanny girls favour tight bootie shorts in black or white with (also tight) tittie-bearing bullshit from Sirens-type tops. I came behind the bar expecting the usual setup –accessible bar rail; gun for pop, juice, soda, tonic; taps of draught beer; and of course white wine chilled, red wine out. Nope, there was a yellowed giant bar-mounted “gun” that dispensed all bar rail, juices and waters, and even wine. The red wine shot out of the spout and actually frothed upon hitting the tiny glass. Not surprisingly, disappointed customers perpetually returned the wine.

I quickly noticed a divide in the clientele. Two types of customers existed: those openly admiring the strippers; and those who are allegedly not interested in the strippers but rather play the part of friend to the bartenders. Mostly sad old letches, these gentlemen stabbed the two of us bartenders with their gazes and made comments like “You are beautiful girl” through thick Portuguese accents. One “friend” stood out in particular. Let’s call him Doug.

Doug came in with a graying comb over, wearing a sports jersey and comfy jeans early in the evening. Seemingly harmless, I served him a few Keith’s and he started to get a little tipsy. When I routinely turned to ask him whether he would like another he cut me off by saying, “Are you looking at me like that because you want me to buy you a drink?”

To which of course I declined because not only was it my first night but also I was unsure of how drunk I could safely get before losing my ability to count money accurately. The other bartender must have overheard this and made sure Doug could hear her, “Yes, please. Hennessey and Coke.”

She then whispered to me that I had better participate in the drinking or suffer through this circus of a night sober and confused. I ordered a Brahma and instead of opening it, I kept the $8.75 and left the beer in the fridge. This was a trick I learned from the waitresses that night. Later on I buckled to Doug who ongoingly was buying staff and dancers drinks out of some bizarre guilty obligation. Grey Goose turned out not to be such a bad way to lighten my mood on the first night of this new job.

Divides were also visible amongst the waitresses. As explained to me by a boobsie waitress with hot pink lips, the Chinese dominated the floor. There were four middle-aged Chinese waitresses on that night and two Chinese got each half of the floor while the remaining white waitress got to float, or pick up remaining business. Unfortunately for the white waitresses, the remaining business was sparse because those Chinese ladies busted their asses (and must have made a killing.)

Not only did the Chinese waitresses hog the floor business but they would swarm those few wasted men who were dropping mad dollars and peer pressured them into buying the waitresses drinks. Except that the drinks were not to quench thirst, they were to trick the men. A Rev at the House of Lancaster costs $9.50 and the waitresses often chose this drink when offered because like me with the Brahma, they just grabbed the cash and left the drink unopened to be resold.

In the heat of that first night a major peeler battle went down. I looked over my shoulder to see a tiny screaming stripper and tables being thrown. The other girls got very involved and a flock of fluorescent bikinis rushed to the scene to assist their sister dancer. It was a huge scene. Cops were called and the rumour later that night was that the screaming one got beat up by a male staff member. Yikes.

All in all it was not an overly busy night at the bar and I still walked away with a decent wad of cash in my pocket. When I was finished, I proudly took the first cab that I have been able to pay for in months down to a very cathartic Queen West party where familiar faces on top of well-clothed bodies stumbled around on mushrooms and beer buzzes.

When I got home I emailed a dancer friend who used to work at the Lancaster on the Queensway and she advised me to beware of the owner who “wears diapers and cuts his wrists” as well as to try not to get stabbed or followed home by Portuguese rapists.

My new job is lucrative enough, does not involve serving food, nor friendliness, nor up selling, nor bussing, nor cleaning. For a bartending job, it’s perfect on paper. I think I will stick this one out –at least until the next rainy Saturday.