between penguin suits and peanut shells

I had to buy a uniform for work for the first time the other day. White, non-patterned button-down shirt. Black pair of front-pleat pants. Pair of leather business shoes, black. All to be returned at Target within 28 days for a full refund. Save that receipt.

I was hired, through casual employment, by a company that allocates experienced food and beverage personnel to various public events or social gatherings.

In addition to the penguin costume, I also have to adhere to strict grooming standards. This would be a tall order for most backpackers, but as someone who has not been completely clean shaven since college, I found it especially difficult. (Actually, that's not true, but it is strange looking in the mirror now).

The formal uniform and grooming regulations had me a little nervous about what sort of clientele I would be serving. I mean I can mix a rum and coke like a champ, but as for Mojitos, Cosmopolitans and Manhattans.... Well, let's just say that to me, a Highball is either a hanging curve or a decidedly unfortunate anatomical deformity. But my misgivings turned out to be a non-issue on my first day when I ended up pouring beer for four hours at a rugby match. It was actually quite a spectacle.

There were dozens of us, all dressed like piano keys, milling around under a circus tent at the beginning of our shift. We were completely clueless. Our manager barked instructions to us. She told us who would be doing what, but not how to do it. I suppose it didn't matter anyway. Only half of us knew English. It was a gong show. I loved it.

The next day I found another job as a barback at a spot called The Mustang Bar. I watched the Super Bowl there and it's just down the road from my hostel. It's sloppy, loud, and a real hot-spot for Perth's younger crowd. It's basically like Coyote Ugly, except without all the hot girls dancing on tables, or the gratuitous pitchers of water.

So three or four nights a week, I wander around the place for six hours collecting empty glasses and tapping kegs. I don't have to worry about mixing drinks, cutting people off, checking IDs, breaking up fights, or throwing people out. Gotta love a a steady wage with no responsibility.

Towards the end of my first shift, one of the more experienced barbacks came up to me while I was sweeping up broken glass in the middle of the dance floor. "Well," he said with a knowing smile, "how do you like it so far?"

I looked up at him, sweat dripping from my face, my fingers sticky with dried beer and wet peanut shells clinging to my shorts.

"It's perfect."