Why Work Has Made Me a Borderline Alcoholic

So I’ve got this fabulous job at a restaurant that isn’t yet open with a handsome hourly wage that I do not get paid (except once, in cash, with whispers). The pros:  I can wear jeans and t-shirts to work everyday, my hours never begin until after noon, and there is alcohol everywhere all the time. The cons:  I have no money, I am sick of Ramen, and there is alcohol. EVERYWHERE. ALL. THE. TIME.

A little like this. Minus the angry Santa.

At the end of each full half-day at work, we all gather ‘round the bar, a beautiful oak-and-mahogany number, and wait for the manager to offer some words of encouragement:  “Well, we have no money to pay you…Dana, do you want something? How about a beer?” God love him, it’s the only thing he can offer me, so I say yes. Then, we drink until someone gets bored or we have to go home. The best shifts at this budding establishment combine two major passions of mine:  alcohol consumption and sitting on benches for two to four hours. According to the Big Man, all of this training is paid. However, according to the Bigger Man above him, we should order red coffee mugs and the plumber will get here when he gets here. There’s a lot to be done in this new place.

That being said, I do want to work here. As I mentioned before, there are attractive hourly wages and a good group of people, from wait staff to kitchen guys, owners and managers (by which I mean manager; singular). Perhaps the fact that I value these things above financial stability indicates the same mindset as the Bigger Man and his coffee mugs. Perhaps this is why I still work here.

In any case, the point is they feed me beer. By the pint glass, by the tall boy, sometimes by the 20-ounce bottle. I’m thinking about getting my own growler to take home at night. And this is not (always) PBR; this is the good stuff. Primo booze. I’ve also received free plates for my kitchen and several glasses of wine for my efforts. The perks are amazing.

Keep in mind the shoulder strap is CRUCIAL.

But here comes Part Two:  I also write articles about bars. This started not too long ago, and it’s certainly been worth the time. In the past month and a half, I have come to hone my knowledge of both local watering holes and the beers inside them. But now, in combining my ample consumption of free company beer with my investigative, hands-on research of local dives and Irish pubs, I am fast becoming something in life that I never imagined I’d be:  a borderline alcoholic.

I know, it surprised me, too. In most respects, I am a fifty-year-old man trapped in a 21-year-old’s body:  I fall asleep before midnight, wear the same pair of pants everyday, and consider Don Cherry, the Leafs, and fucking Satellite Hotstove to be a Saturday night with just the right balance of greatness, disappointment, and frivolity. But, as it turns out, this fifty-year-old man is a drinker. A beer-a-day man who doesn’t mind being a three-beer-a-day man every once in a while. Or a beer-and-cocktail man. Or a beer-and-whiskey man. Whatever.

So how do I cope with my increasing consumption of alcohol? The same way fat people cope with gaining  weight:  change the tag on those jeans from a 10 to an 8 and you’re two sizes skinnier. I am not a borderline alcoholic, I am simply business drunk (NOTE:  Starting now, I will be bolding all new vocabulary that applies to my life, kind of like high school textbooks). And, in my line of work, it’s just common practice; I can’t help that I have to meet certain standards. After all, in the business of not getting paid, alcohol is a requirement.

Na zdrowie. Drink up.

New Year’s Resolution #7:  If you can’t solve the problem, then maybe it’s not a problem.

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