there was a time I was rambling around Colorado
and I needed some money and as luck would have it
I was at a bar only to witness the barback/busboy
get fired right in front of me.
it was an ugly scene, because the bloke
had been slacking and smoking weed
when he should've been filling ice
and tossing articles of chicken bones.
as I finished my local craft beer,
I kindly asked the semi-attractive bartender
if they were hiring, half joking, but still,
and she called the manager over.
he was a rotund man of 30 or 60,
and he looked me up and down,
then he asked me a question:
"Ever work in a restaurant before?"
I told him that I had,
but then he requested I prove it
by scratching his douche-bag-level goatee
and asking me what the term is for when they are out of something.
"86" I said and that did the trick,
I think, because he smiled and walked away,
whispering to the semi-attractive bartender,
who then came to me and said I start the next day.
An interesting postscript to this tale
is that I worked at that awful place for 2 weeks,
keeping to myself, stealing booze,
living it up at 22 years of stupid.
I met some people,
smoked some weed,
climbed a mountain,
let a woman conquer me.
Moving on, I made my way to LA,
then I went insane, so the plateau
prior was nice and formidable,
just kismet eating my skin as I believed.