A Pub Cook we called Dick in Mouth

** This posting contains buckets of profanity. Enjoy.**

A curious title for this chapter it may be, and thankfully I can’t lay claim to its origin. For that one must look to Allen, who came to work at our little East Toronto Pub some years ago. Allen was an American from Rochester working in Canada under the table. He had followed his girlfriend back to Canada when she returned home from schooling in his fine state. Allen was an exuberant and sometimes gregarious fellow in his mid twenties. He was a capable cook and great company during the frequent slow nights. In fact he was a bit of a riot, finding all kinds of inventive ways to abuse Canadian customs and express ignorance of our cultural and political differences.

He was most often outspoken and frank, reserving just enough guile to present his tone as wit. He played the part of the hapless transplanted American perfectly, boldly ranting about his status as a kept man and regaling us with his tales of woe. Indeed, his girlfriend was a bit of a cold-shouldered shrew. At times she showed some redeeming qualities in social situations, but mostly her role to us was as adversary to Allen. Often she called looking for him promptly at the end of his shift, or showed up to drive him home. As the months with Allen wore on, we began to glimpse her motivation for the short leash.

Allen liked to drink. Actually that is inaccurate. Allen liked to have a drink, but he hated to get drunk. At least that held true when he was sober. He often bemoaned his abhorrent drunken behaviour and its salacious themes as those of a lout. It happened on the nights when his girlfriend was absent visiting friends in Rochester or out on the town. Allen would close down the kitchen at midnight and show up at the end of the bar. Strangely quiet and introspective, someone would surely ask. “Allen, what’s up man, why so quiet?” His answer would reveal his inner demons. “Oh man, I promised the nag I wouldn’t drink. Maybe I’ll just have one. Shit man, I can have one, right? Just one shot of Vodka, she’ll never know. Don’t give me anymore after that.”

The solitary shot of cheap vodka on the bar. I can still picture how he looked at it, stared at it, examined its crystal clarity, its viciousness. Some nights he would stare at it for two minutes before touching it. Then he would raise the glass to his lips, and sober Allen was gone. By the time the empty shot glass hit that bar he would have5 changed. “Woooo! Damn that shit was good. Hell yeah, gimme one more!” It literally happened that fast, it was the craziest thing I have ever seen. Sober Allen was crass. But that little filter that we all have in between our brain and our mouths, his was alcohol soluble. It was made of sugar, and vodka melted it faster than anything.

The things that came out of that boy’s mouth were unbelievable. Other than the hooting and the swagger, the first sign that Allen was getting drunk was that my new name was Dick in Mouth. Actually at that point everyone’s name was Dick in Mouth. “Hey Dick in Mouth, what the fuck is Pea meal Bacon? What kind of retarded fucking Canadian bullshit is this? Who puts shitty ground peas on their fucking bacon? And that shit is not even fucking bacon, some whore asshole in Quebec called it bacon because they can’t fucking speak English. Bullshit!” I would start to respond, “Allen, take it easy man, you love Pea meal bacon, and …” I would be cut off at that point. “Whaaaaaaahaha, fuck you Dick in Mouth, go suck your Mom’s cock. Fag! Baaahhh!”

People at the bar loved it for about fifteen minutes, and then it was time to send him home. The good part about it was that he was jovial throughout the whole episode. Even when he was telling you to suck your mom’s cock, he was smiling. Also, the whole thing from start to finish was over in half an hour. He was a convincing guy, beaming and swearing like a sailor who fucked a trucker who fucked a coal miner who fucked a drill sergeant and had a curse baby.

The drinks would go in fast, one after another, and the argument about cutting him off would continue until someone gave up. He would usually consume about six or seven shots of booze and then go home. Most all of the Americans I have met in Canada eventually go home, and sadly that was the case with Allen. Our lives suddenly seemed as tactful as a church barbeque, dull without all the vigour and profanity. I don’t imagine he stayed with the girl, and for the sake of everyone around him I hope he kept his drinking in control, but never really stopped.

Showdown at the Basement Bar - Millenium Lounge Part 2

I didn’t stay at Millenium lounge long enough to find out the history of the place and how it came to exist in such a state of abandonment. The owners were a hard working older Greek couple that ran the place by themselves. During the week the small restaurant had a kind of cheap and dingy appearance, with beat up tables and deep couches scattered about. It was a subterranean basement lounge, existing on a level beneath the legitimate retail shops and restaurants of the Danforth, both literally and figuratively. The only people I ever saw eating or drinking there during the week were a few old Greek men who seemed to be friends of the owners. Friday and Saturday were a different story altogether. On those nights the place was rented to Jamaican party promoters who marketed and organized jams in the lounge. In order to accommodate all of the people that were to be crammed into the small space, all of the tables, chairs, and couches, were moved into the back stairwell. This back stairwell I speak of was actually a fire exit, which of course is illegal and dangerous to block. I learned where all of the furniture went one night by chance while looking for a means of escape from one of the predictable and regular melees that were to become common fare in my world.

The furniture was moved to the fire exit, the DJ equipment was brought in and sound checked, two or three security personnel rolled in, and the bar staff arrived, such was the beginning of the party. The jam progressed nicely every time until that magic point when all hell broke loose. It happened every night that I worked there with varying degrees of severity. The location of the fight within the bar, along with the time of the night were key to determining whether or not the event would continue after order was restored.

The ceilings were low, and by midnight the stagnant air hung with a thick fog of marijuana smoke. Most nights I was high from the fumes alone, but hey who’s complaining about that. The funniest part of this was watching some Rasta leaning on the bar smoking a huge blunt while the owner ran by spraying air freshener just in case the police came by.

The final night of my employment at the Millennium Lounge ended with a fight as usual, but with a twist. It was not uncommon that the altercations were between girls, but that evening a very special woman was at the heart of all of the drama. It began with a scream from the washroom area at the back of the bar. Being close to my location I was in good position to observe a bleeding girl run into the crowd to seek shelter from the mystery assailant. A moment later her troubles were revealed in the form of a burly pursuer with a tormented grimace. My first impression was that the behemoth was a man, but a closer look proved her to be female, at least in the technical bits a pieces kind of way. To this day I remember that she wore a denim shirt open over a black t-shirt, jeans, and Timberland style boots. Her hair was loosely braided in cornrows that seemed in need of attention. She stood six foot three if she stood and inch, and most likely could have done well on an NFL defensive line. At the time there was a bar between her and I, and for that much I was thankful. As the other girl ran and was absorbed by the crowd, the monster’s rage continued unabated. Seeing that her prey had eluded her she faked a lunge at the crowd and smiled as they flinched in unison. It was then I realised that the packed bar had somehow shrunk and that there was now a large empty space surrounding our huffing antagonist. All of the partygoers were collectively pushing towards the entrance and away from our enraged friend with the wild eyes.

Seeing that she was clearly in control and unchecked, she spun to face me and advanced towards the bar. Unsure of her intent I began my retreat towards the kitchen where there was an exit. There I bumped into the owner, the little Greek woman was standing her ground. She must have been the only person in the place who remained unafraid of the angry giant. At that point the three bouncers had finally managed to push their way through the crowd, which was steadily moving in the opposite direction. The showdown had begun, and for dramatic effect the DJ had killed the music. The Jamaican gladiator grabbed two Heineken bottles, and grasping them by the necks smashed the ends off along the wooden surface of the bar. Other than in movies, I had never actually seen this done before and the effect was terrifying. The bouncers tried to surround her, but she kept the bar at her back and swung wildly with her makeshift weapons. Safely behind the wood I had a perfect view of all the action with minimal risk. By now the other patrons were getting into the action and the crowd jeered, taunted, and gasped at every jab and parry. One of the bouncers lunged while she was distracted, causing her to slip backwards and drop a bottle. She turned back towards me and tried to snatch another empty Heineken, but the little owner lady was too fast. She pushed past me and swept all of the bottles behind the bar in one swift motion. Infuriated, our colossal menace tried to clamber over the bar to get at the owner, who dexterously ducked behind me and ordered me to stop her. I turned to flee but the owner was again barring my progress and telling me to help the bouncers. Needless to say, the six dollars and hour she was paying me was not nearly enough money to motivate the kind of loyalty required to engage in battle for my boss. Now having the advantage the bouncers tackled her from behind, and after a fierce struggle managed to eject the beast.

At the end of the night I decided to look to see what kind of emergency exit the kitchen offered if there were ever a reoccurrence of such an event or perhaps worse. When I opened the door to the back stairwell I found it blocked by all of the tables and chairs that used to reside in the dining area. That detail sealed the deal and I quit then and there. I heard through the grapevine that a few months later the husband got beaten at an event and they closed the bar down. I was saddened to hear this because I quite liked the couple, even though they were desperately cheap. I never wished ill will on them. But, when you engage in that kind of business to keep the doors open, I guess the outcome was foreseeable. I ran into him a year later, he had a job as a caretaker for the building I worked in and was in good spirits. He seemed so much happier now that he didn’t have to carry a can of air freshener around anymore.

Mr. Bartender, Gimme Labatt Ice - Millenium Lounge Part 1

Dancehall music was pounding through the sound-system with authority, to the delight of the packed room. I was doing my duties, minding the bar and trying to appease the tiny Greek woman who owned the place and kept us on a short leash. Over the din of the crowd and the pulsation of the music came a sort of repetitive chant. It was in the background of my consciousness for about thirty seconds before I came to realise that it might be directed at me. I looked across the bouncing heads on the dance floor to see the DJ at the opposite side of the space with his arms held up in frustration. In one of his hands was the microphone into which he was now yelling over and over, Mr. Bartender, gimme Labatt ice, Mr. Bartender, gimme Labatt ice. To his credit he was keeping time with the beat. I then noticed that I was clearly the last to clue into the request as one by one heads were turning to look at me as if this intrusion into their vibe was somehow my fault.

I suppose the DJ had it in his in his mind that upon hearing his appeal for a beer, that I would stop my work and cross the floor diligently carrying his request. I looked at the owner who sneered and shook her head, apparently she too realised that I had been beckoned. I looked back to the DJ and shrugged to show that I would not be bringing him his beer. With that he put down the microphone and proceeded to march across the dance floor, dodging bobbing patrons as he came. When he reached the bar he asked “Yo! Whappened to me beer man? What I gotta do?” His question in a heavy Jamaican accent was asked in earnest. He really thought I would bring him a free Labatt Ice. Before I could respond, the bossy owner stepped in front of me and began scolding him for wasting our time, reminding him that this was a business trying to make money and we were not here to serve him. With that he paid for a Labatt Ice and slunk off back to the DJ booth. That was my first job in Toronto, I was twenty-two and the venue was the Millenium Lounge, on the Danforth in Greektown.