Karma is my Boyfriend

“No listen. Listen to me Gibby, you prick. The men’s toilets are right above section C and it’s raining piss in here like there’s no tomorrow. It stinks. I’m collecting the piss in a bus bin, Gibby. A bus bin. Yeah. And that’s six tables and twenty-six covers I’m losing three times a day until the poxy thing is fixed. You’re supposed to be on call for us, Gibby.”

He’s chomping on a piece of gum, giving out to the piss-filled bus bin as though it is Gibby himself. I’m proofreading an email for him, and it is shockingly written. I don’t understand what he is trying to get across to Dave at all about the Deliveroo ratings. Table twelve asked me for the bill ten minutes ago and the head chef is screaming down the radio in an Italian accent, Table sixteen in deh liff! He sounds furious, but every time I go upstairs to report a server error he’s carrying on as though the Italian government has just been exposed. Governo Ladro! I decide to leave the email; there’s no saving it without offending him. I get up and he turns to face me, chomp, chomp, chomp. I point to the laptop and shoot him a thumbs up. He looks pleased with himself.

“Tomorrow morning at the latest Gibby. My bar smells like a urinal.”
I scoot past table twelve and print the bill from the floor till, sliding it onto a silver billing tray. Forty-six ninety-five. I’ll leave the bill on the table and grab table sixteen out of the lift, drop a bottle of wine to twenty-one and then take their payment. Bill, sixteen, twenty-one, take payment. Bill, sixteen, twenty-one, take payment.
“Guys, I call table sixteen on deh liff and no one answer! Table sixteen on deh liff!”
I drop the bill on twelve and fumble for the mic clipped to the neck of my shirt.
“Copy table sixteen.”
I knock twice on the wait station door and push my way inside. I have to knock twice because it only opens one way. I don’t have to knock twice today because I’m by myself until six but it’s

muscle memory at this stage. The place is littered with dirty plates and the dumbwaiter says G. Ground Floor. I slide up the shutter. One steak sandwich, pepper sauce, sweet potato fries and a side of blue cheese dip. Rotten choice on the customer’s part but I grab the plate with my left hand anyways and slide the shutters down with my right before grabbing the docket from the ticket holder above the lift and spiking it. Straight back out onto the floor and past table twelve who are politely signalling me to pay. I made eye contact and now they think I’ll be over as soon as I drop this food, so I’ll have to switch up my order of tasks. Bill, sixteen, take payment, twenty-one.

“Now, your steak sandwich.” I say, placing the food down in front of a withering old man. “Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?”
“Em, well, I’ll just take a bit of salt and vinegar, please, if you don’t mind. Oh, and I’ll take another pint of Guinness as well, love.”

“No problem at all.” I say, turning on my heel and heading over to the floor till. I punch in my employee number and ring through the pint of Guinness. It’ll print behind the bar and Gina will make it and drop it down at the drinks station with the wine. I can run them both at the same time.
I grab the card machine and the salt and vinegar and drop the salt and vinegar to sixteen on my way back to twelve. Bill, sixteen, take payment, sixteen and twenty-one.

“Now, guys. All together or separate?”
“Can we pay separate?” One of them says, and I want to slap her hard across the face. No you fucking can’t you silly bitch, can you not see I’m up the walls? Do you not have Revolut?
“Of course! Do you know how much you want to pay each?”
She turns the bill to face me and starts pointing. “I had the bacon and cheese burger with chilli fries, the sauvignon blanc, and the coke zero.”
So what you’re saying is you sat there with your bill and didn’t calculate how much you want to pay because apparently I’m a fucking whizkid who can do quick maths, cartwheels, and suck your husband’s micro-penis at the same time.

“Let me just grab my calculator there. Sorry.” I slip my phone out of my back pocket and lay it on the table, unlock it, pull up the calculator app, and start inputting data. Silly Bitch blanches and then starts pulling out her phone, as though to engage me in a race to see who can calculate the amount she owes first. She’s too late.

“Now, so you are twenty-four fifty.” I type in the amount on the card machine and hold the screen out to her. It says, ‘Tap here’ on the screen. She holds her card over the head of the card machine and seems to read what it says on the screen as she does this.
“Table twenty-one on deh liff!”

I haven’t even dropped their drinks yet. I fumble for the mic with my free hand.
“Copy table twenty-one.”
I finally hear the beep of the contactless on the card machine. I go back to the calculator and subtract Silly Bitch’s total from the total amount owed and type it into the card machine, holding it out toward the husband. The contactless beeps. He seems to have a brain cell.
Bill, sixteen, take payment, sixteen and twenty-one, twenty-one.
“Thanks a million guys.” I say, but I’m already walking away when they return the thanks and start packing up their things. Back into the wait station, eyeing the wine and the Guinness on my way past. Twenty-one is in the lift on the left this time. I take it out and spike the docket and throw the dishes under the heat lamp above the KP station for a minute. They can’t be getting their food before their drinks.
Back out onto the floor. Damo is still on the phone in section C. I approach the drink station and grab a tray, placing the Guinness and the two empty wine glasses on it. I balance the tray in my left hand and grip the wine cooler with the wine in it in my right, and out of the corner of my eye I see another couple pointing at and contemplating table twelve, which hasn’t been cleared yet. On my way past they signal me, and I stop briefly to acknowledge them.
“Is this table free?” One of them says.

“It is indeed, just give me a few minutes to drop some food and then I’ll clear it for you guys.” “Perfect, thank you.” They proceed to give me no time whatsoever to do what I said I was going to do and start to slide into the booth around the dirty plates and glasses. I swear to God.
Bill, sixteen, take payment, sixteen and twenty-one, twenty-one, clear twelve.
I take off again and stop briefly at sixteen to drop the Guinness.
“How is everything for you, sir?” I ask.
“It’s perfect, thank you.” He says. I love him. He is an angel and a star customer.
I move on, rounding the DJ booth and entering section A where twenty-one are looking impatient. They see the wine and their eyes light up.
“Now, guys, sorry for the wait. We’re a bit understaffed today.”
“Don’t worry about it, girl.” The younger guy says. He’s looking at me in a sexual way. Here we go. “You’re a stunning waitress. You’ve got some legs on you!”
“Aw, thanks! It’s not easy work, I’ll tell you that.” Do I look like I want attention from you right now you ugly prick.
“Now guys, I’ll give you a taste first and if you don’t like it I can switch this out for a different bottle.” I take the wine out of the cooler and twist off the cap, pouring a drop in each glass. They’re two guys, and they aren’t used to good service. The younger guy thinks this is me flirting, wanting to hang around the table to chat to him for longer.
“Oh, don’t mind if I do.” He winks at me. I don’t smile. My patience is growing thin. He’s swirling it under his nose, and he looks at me again before taking a sip. “Ah, it’s perfect.”
“Great stuff. I’ll leave you with the bottle so?”
“Do girl.” He says.
“Perfect.” I stride away. Bill, sixteen, take payment, sixteen and twenty-one, twenty-one, clear twelve. Actually, I should really clear some of twelve on my way back to the wait station. Clear twelve, twenty-one, clear twelve, have a smoke, take drinks order off twelve.

“Now guys, I’ll take these out of your way.” I approach the table and start sliding the plates over to myself, stacking them. Barbecue sauce sinks in under my nails and I resist the urge to gag. Back into the wait station, dump the dirty plates, scoot round to the tap and rinse my fingers under the cold water. Switch off the heat lamp. The plates are boiling now. I grab two napkins and pick the plates up with them, heading back out onto the floor. All the way through the bar, round the DJ booth and into section A.

“Back already?” The younger guy says with a transparent smirk.
“The chefs are quick!” I say. “Now, the tortelli?”
“That’s me.” The older guy speaks, raising his hand half way. I place the dish in front of him.
“And the steak sandwich for yourself.” I say, placing the other dish in front of the younger guy. “Thank you, love.” Go fuck yourself.
“Now, can I get you guys anything else?”
The pair of them look down and ponder their dishes for a moment, beginning to shake their heads. “No, I think we’re OK for now.” The younger guy finally seems to have found interest in something more important than women.
“Perfect. Enjoy, so!”
Clear twelve, twenty-one, clear twelve, have a smoke, take drinks order off twelve.
I jog back over to the till and grab blue roll and spray from underneath before heading to table twelve. Jesus, sixteen drinks fast. He’s almost due another pint of Guinness. If he wants it badly enough he’ll go to the bar. Gina will look after him. I should take a drinks order while I’m clearing the rest of twelve, actually.
“Now guys, I’ll clear the rest of this away for you.” I grab the empty glasses and swing round to place them on the bar across the way. Spray the table, break off some blue roll and wipe it down. “Can I get you guys anything to drink?”

“What’re you having, John?” The old lady squints her eyes at John. He’s scanning the taps along the bar.
“Do you have Beamish?” He asks.
“No, sorry. Only Guinness or Murphys.” I say.

“Ah, I’ll take a Murphys, so.” He says.
“Good stuff.” I say, and then turning to the lady: “And yourself?”
“A glass of Coors please, love. And a half-pint glass of ice.”
“A pint of Murphys and a glass of Coors with a half-pint glass of ice. No problem guys.” I finish wiping the table and go back the way I came toward the floor till. Punch in my number and ring through the drinks. I need to clean the KP station, check back on twenty-one and offer sixteen another Guinness.
Clear twelve, twenty-one, clear twelve, drinks order off twelve, have a smoke, clean KP station, check back on twenty-one, drinks order off sixteen.
I dump the blue roll and spray and dip out the side door, pulling my vape out of my apron. It’s one of those disposable Elf bars – watermelon. I don’t even want a smoke, but I need air for a few seconds and this is the only way I’ll get it. I pull out my phone and check the time. Twenty-to-six. Deirdre is due in at six, and then I can relax. She’s a good waitress, at least. But she’s annoying.
It’s raining. I watch it fall from under the awning. It ricochets off the vents jutting out of the back of the buildings across from me, each droplet bouncing back and forth like a pinball machine. Huge bins are lining the alley, some of them rolled at an angle by lazy feet forgetting to put the brakes on all four wheels. Our bin is full – the lid is propped open by a white plastic bag, its contents spilling around, hanging from the bin like a camels stomach from its mouth.
I slide the Elf bar back into my apron and go back inside, refreshing my internal task list. I can see table twelve’s drinks at the drinks station, ready to go.

Drop drinks to twelve, drinks order off sixteen, check back on twenty-one, food order off twelve, clean KP station.
“Sarah, the back wait station is a mess.” Damo is standing at the door to the wait station, looking busy. “Can you clean it when you get a chance?”

“I’m too busy, Damo, I need to do a few things first.” I say.
“Why’re you out smoking if you’re too busy?” He asks, looking pleased with himself for catching me out. Because you’re a fucking alcoholic drug addict who doesn’t know how to do a roster or help his staff you stupid prick.
“I was literally out there for ten seconds.”
“Ten seconds that you could’ve been spending cleaning the wait station.”
“Grand, I’ll do it now so. Can you drop those drinks to twelve, check back on twenty-one and offer sixteen another Guinness?”
Damo hesitates, his folded arms unravelling awkwardly. He breaks eye contact and starts to walk away, pulling out his phone again.
“You do that first then, and do the wait station after.”
“Alrighty then.”
I grab a tray at the drink station and load it up, carrying the drinks over to twelve.
“Now, guys.” I say, dropping the Murphys in front of John and the Coors in front of his lady wife. They seem nice.
“And we’re ready to order food as well, love, whenever you get a chance.”
I hate them.
“Yep, no problem. What can I get you guys?”
BANG.
I jump. John jumps. His lady wife jumps. We all look over to the source of the bang. Damo is lying on the floor in section C, shouting in fright. One of the roof tiles has fallen out of the ceiling. The

plumbing underneath the men’s urinal has exploded directly on top of Damo. An unstoppable waterfall of piss and shit rains down on him at high speed, the sound of the falling water drowning out his cries for help. My mouth drops open. My hands cover it in shock.
Another ceiling tile gives way and the rush of water intensifies. The pipes have burst all the way open. The smell of raw sewage is a vomit-inducing onslaught. Sixteen and twenty-one have abandoned their tables to run toward the source of the action. Gina runs out of the bar.

“What do we do?!” She shouts. It sounds like a waterpark in here. The sewage begins to flood section C, creeping out toward us like an apocalyptic mist of disease and death. The stench is so awful. I have no idea what to do. Damo is crawling helplessly toward us, too, dragging his humongous body through the shitty, pissy floods. His bald head is brown.

The younger guy from table twenty-one darts forward to help Damo, and for a split second I find myself admiring his gallantry. Then he slips and falls on his ass and he becomes one with the broken dam of sewage pipe entrails, and my eyes widen even further and my hands cup the sides of my head. I can’t believe this is happening. The younger guy is screaming now, the highest pitched, peafowled scream I’ve ever heard. He no longer tries to help Damo, who is trying and failing to find his footing among the expanding mass of human excretion, but is now trying to use him as leverage to get himself up. An alarm sets off in the lobby. Gina has gone to call someone. The old man from sixteen has brought his Guinness with him for the event. He stands beside me with a slight hunch to his posture. He’s smaller than me. He is my best friend. John and his lady wife are in tears. The bar will have to close for the foreseeable future.

“Deliveroo one nine six two in deh liff!”
I pull the ear piece from my ear. The cartilage hurts where it’s been pressed there all day. I feel like dancing in the shit. Dancing in the shit and the piss and on Damo’s bawling, brown face. It’s not even six o’clock.