The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

Christopher Moore, �The Stupidest Angel�

Friday morning, as is often the case, I went to work at the paper. For most people at the paper, it�s the slack day, though probably not as much as Wednesday. On Wednesday, the paper is out for the week, making it the furthest point from when we have to crunch down and get everything written, edited and laid out on the page. But on Friday, the rest of the editors know that if they don�t get things done, they can work on things over the weekend, particularly if they�re like me and like to pour a bit of liquid inspiration before plunking down and mashing out a bunch of letters and sentences. Besides � if they don�t get anything done over the weekend, it just means they�ll have to bear down over the next two days, cursing themselves for not being more organized.

Unfortunately, that reasoning doesn�t work for me. My section has the most number of pages, and it certainly has the most words. And since I�m working on the Arts and Entertainment calendar, it isn�t like I�m working on three to five articles like the other editors. Instead, I�m working on something like 200 tiny little articles, entered over the week previous.

That might not be descriptive enough, so here�s an example of an entry:

Yes, that is what I wrote.

Of course, having so many entries means there are a lot of opportunities for errors. Maybe I was hungover. Perhaps my eyes were fogged over from wearing my contacts for far too many days previous. Or, as was the case on this particular Friday, I was exhausted and burnt out because I wrote the cover story as well as the 200 or so tiny little entries. In any case, I couldn�t slack off because, one, I was really far behind because of having to write the cover story. Two, I only had about seven hours before I had to leave and go to my job at the bar. Three, because my section is so text heavy, my section has to be laid out by Friday, copy edited over the weekend, and finalized on Monday by 3pm.

Let�s use some time stamps:

• Fri. July 22, 10am � Start of time clock: The cover story turned in and now out of my hands, I concentrated on entering all of those small, unimportant events. I already knew I didn�t have much room, so ignored the really insignificant events that I knew wouldn�t make the final print version of the paper. Of course this meant the events wouldn�t be listed on the website either (and if you�re still reading, Chicken, don�t give me shit about the spelling of �website,� �cause that�s their style guide. I�ve argued against it.), and if somebody wanted to complain that they didn�t get listed in this, the free section of the paper, they would have a semi-legitimate complaint.

But by this point, I didn�t care if some people might not be able to find information on whatever group was holding a yoga retreat for lesbian Scottish amputees on Maui for a fee of $300. My editing process of �crap� vs. �crap which one person on this entire island besides the person submitting said crap might be interested in,� became much more closely intertwined.

• July 22, 5pm � seven hours and counting: I finish entering everything of relative importance, and transfer it over to the pages. I�m over my limit on space by nearly 900 lines, or about 2 full 11X17 pages of entries. I open a blank document and layout the entries in their entirety so I can take it with me and copy edit, even though I know I will have to cut the majority of the entries that I check for errors.

• July 22, 6pm � eight hours: Taking the pages with me, I begin the 20 minute walk back to my car, as our new office is in the middle of Downtown, where the lowest monthly rate for parking garages is $80. From there I drive to work in the middle of rush hour traffic, taking nearly a half hour to travel the less than four miles from one workplace to the other. After parking, I begin copy editing at 7pm.

• July 22, 8pm � ten hours: I started working behind the bar. We�re busy. Very busy. At the end of the night, after tipping out the barback, the doorgirl and the bouncer, I walked with $317, making Patrick, the manager for the bar, correct when he said I could expect to triple my tips from what I made with the old bar I worked at. It�s not the highest amount I�ve made in a night, but it takes second place.

Normally, the end of my Friday shift at the bar means I can finally relax. The paper is usually edited and I don�t have to work again until Monday morning. Not this time, however, because the bar is having a special event on Saturday night, and Patrick asked me to work on Saturday � Saturday morning, that is. I rush to clean up and get home, but still don�t manage to get to sleep until 5am.

• Sat. July 23, 9am � 23 hours later; 19 hours awake and working, and five hours since the last time I set foot in this bar, and I�m back. The day shift is a completely different animal in terms of bartending. At night, people go out in groups. They�re there for the band, or the party, or the chance of hooking up, and I�m just there to facilitate all of this. During the day, you get people walking in by themselves, hoping to find somebody to talk to, and they don�t care if you�ve had four hours of sleep and which people would leave so you can have a cigarette or at the very least, change the music on the stereo.

And you as a bartender, at least partially, want to keep them there, even if they�re thoroughly uninteresting, or slightly crazy, or have been drinking since the night before and you can�t understand a single fucking word they�ve said.

I was fortunate and had a fairly lively crowd, even having about ten people at one point including Titty McBreastalot who has the most obscenely oversized fake breasts that I thought were only used for bad movie parodies. Across the bar sat Muscles McBraindead, who had these ridiculous profane lumps jutting out of his shoulders, biceps, and, I�m not kidding, his neck, who kept asking Titty McBreastalot if she had a sister.

I counted down the hours for my shift to end at 6pm. The hours went by slowly.

• July 23, 5pm � 31 hours later; 27 hours spent awake and working: Some people came in early for the party that�s supposed to begin at 7:30, saying they wanted to get some preliminary drinking in and they wanted a good seat. I can tell it�s going to be a crazy night, and silently have a moment of religious affiliation (affliction?), thanking whomever is responsible for not having me work. At six o�clock, Patrick comes in to take over, I finish up with closing duties, and park behind the bar to cash in the drink tokens that various day patrons bought me. Two hours later, I give thanks again when I see how busy it�s getting.

• July 23, 8pm � 34 hours later, 30 hours that I�ve been awake, 28 hours that I�ve been working: I�m on my third beer when I take a look around. There are three bartenders, one barback and one cocktail waitress, and they�re all running their asses off. And still, they�re really behind. There�s a long line of people waiting for drinks, and the bartenders are dangerously close to running out of glassware. I push the beer to the side and start working again, running from table to table to pick up glasses, empty ashtrays and wash glasses.

The place is so packed that I have to constantly shout for people to get out of the way, and my actions resemble a poorly thought-out video game, where the hero has to avoid making contact with anybody, lest they spill my handful of empty glasses, try to pick a fight, or give me some sort of STD.

• Sun. July 24, 1am � 39 hours later, 35 hours that I�ve been awake, 33 hours that I�ve been working. It finally slows enough for me to stop working and I plop myself down at the edge of the bar. Various other people who have seen me charging past them, hair now matted down with sweat, remark that I work too hard. I tell them they don�t know the half of it.

�Thank you, my friend,� Patrick says to me, putting down a pint of Black Butte Porter in front of my face. �You,� he continues, �drink for free tonight.�

I�m really too tired to take advantage.

• July 24, 2am � 40 hours later, 36 hours that I�ve been awake. My 33 hour working shift is now ended. Patrick is ecstatic about the night. They broke all kinds of records, they did better than the two other sister bars, there were no fights, and little problems. He starts pouring round after round of booze he scored for free off his distributor, pausing only briefly to call the owners to tell them to �gargle his balls.�

• July 24, 6am � 44 hours later, 40 hours that I�ve been awake. The crew of nine has dwindled to four, and one finally decides to make a break for going home. The three of us decide to go next door to The Hideaway, which is now just opening for business. Patrick, now thoroughly plastered, starts immediately insulting Ron the bartender, whom he�s good friends with, but Ron is not in the mood.

�Patrick,� Ron says evenly, �You know I love you. But now is not the time. I�ve had a bad fucking day and my day only started a half hour ago.�

�You�re a Redsox lovin� piece of fat fucking puke shit,� replies Patrick. �Oh, and you can gargle my balls.�

Patrick orders another round. I�ve been too tired to even attempt to keep up with others, and thus I�m reasonably coherent. Coherent enough to realize that the bartender really doesn�t want us there, anyway. Five minutes later, Patrick is asleep on the bar, dangerously close to falling off the edge. Ron nudges him.

�I got it,� I offer. Recruiting the last hold-out from my bar, we pick him up and start walking him back to our bar, where we can put him in his office chair. I know that even with my coherence level, it�s going to take at least two hours before I can get in my car. I start formulating my plan to slip away from the bar scene, but my train of thought is interrupted when the big fucking Hawaiian guy leaps out of his Gotti-styled SUV and starts running at us, fists raised.

He tackles Patrick, but holds him up, while my friend and I get ready to fight. Two other big Hawaiian guys jump out of the SUV, fists raised. Meanwhile, Patrick and the first guy start laughing uncontrollably � it�s obvious they know each other. That in itself isn�t a surprise � after 16 years of bartending, Patrick knows everybody.

The two other guys, who turn out to be the son and the nephew of the first guy, aren�t so sure that it�s friendly, mostly because they don�t believe their father would be friends with this drunk haole guy. It takes a few minutes to convince them that everything is cool.

You know those scenes in Goodfellas where a tense moment with Joe Pesci is defused and somebody says something stupid to get it all started up again, usually with gunplay? That�s how this morning was going. Just about the point where everybody had decided that everybody else was all right and that we were all just in search of a good time, Patrick would say something to the son like, �you should listen to your old man, he�s a good guy. Maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass and grew up a little, you�d realize that.�

And then we�re back to nearly having a rumble in the parking lot at 6:45am.

Still, even Patrick knew we were dangerously close to having some serous moments of violence. In a quiet moment where the son was talking to the father, Patrick took me aside. �Go inside for a minute, I don�t want them cold-cocking you.�

�Well, I don�t want them cold-cocking you especially if you have no backup,� I said.

�No, it�s a respect thing. If they see I�m willing to stand here and talk to them by myself, they don�t have anybody to act tough toward.�

�Or they might go three on one.�

�Yeah,� he said. �Send Ron out here.�

Ron�s a lot bigger than I am.

I go in the bar, and Ron is waiting. �So,� he says, �you were just about to leave and instead decide to get in an argument in the parking lot with the Hawaiian Mafia.�

Oh, fuck.

Ron goes outside to mediate. Within five minutes, everybody is happy again. Patrick sits down on the steps by the entrance and promptly goes to sleep. The Son and the nephew come in and turn the corner. I�m assuming they didn�t see me sitting there, slumped low, exhausted.

�Yeah,� says the son, �we go piss, and den we kill dat fucka.�

I wait for them to turn the corner, then bolt up, snatching Patrick�s arms under my shoulders, and half-run/half-drag him across the parking lot. We get into our building, lock the door, and I get him upstairs into his office.

• July 24, 8am. 46 hours later, 42 hours that I�ve been awake: Of course, in my hurry, I left my backpack in The Hideaway, which has my keys. I can�t leave this bar, because I have no keys. Theoretically, I could take Patrick�s keys, lock the door, go to the Hideaway and retrieve my bag and then return Patrick�s keys, locking up when I left. But there�s still the problem of the Hawaiian Mafia next door wondering where the guys they wanted to kill went to.

Well, I thought, I�ve been wondering how I was going to get some rest anyway. I�ll just sneak behind the stage and take a nap.

• July 24, 1pm. 51 hours after my work day began on Friday morning, I woke up. I thought I would wake up at ten when the morning bartender started setting up for his shift at 9:30. Instead, I stood up from behind the sound booth, five lonely day barflies sitting at various stools. The day bartender looked up, surprised.

�Have you been there this entire time?� he asked.

�I don�t want to talk about it,� I said.

�Black Butte Porter?� he asked.

�No,� I said. �I�ll have a bloody mary.�

I finished my drink and went back to The Hideaway, where I got another bloody mary, more out of penance for leaving my bag there all day. Ron said the Hawaiian Mafia guys started five different brawls while they were there.

�You just missed one of them,� he added. �He left about twenty minutes ago.�

�Good,� I said, sipping my drink.

• July 24, 3pm. 53 hours later, I was home, and another two hours after that, I was asleep.

About eleven hours later, on July 25, at about 1:30am, an arsonist set fire to my bar.

You think I�m joking.

I�m not.

Patrick was working that shift. Relax, he�s fine and was released from the hospital. But I thought about everything that I had gone through, and I realized something. Patrick was working at that bar at the same time I was working at the paper. When I showed up at the bar on Friday night, he was still there, drinking with friends and hanging out.

He left at about 8:30pm, though he had to go work at another bar that night from 11pm until 4am. The next morning, when I opened the bar, I discovered the cleaning lady had taken the office keys and I had to call and wake him up to have him let me in and get cash for the register. He stayed until about 1pm that day, only to come back at six that evening. The rest I�ve described, but when I went home, he was still passed out in his office. He worked again that evening, and ended up having to put out a huge fire, mostly by himself.

I should stop bitching so much.