A Hard Day's Night, Part 1

Last night I got off of work at 7:30 am, or whatever time it would need to be to make $85 pesos at $10 pesos/hour starting at eleven o’clock. I walked home with Matt since we were both headed in the same general direction, and he bought me McDonald’s breakfast on Scalabrini Ortiz. He was most upset that you couldn’t order a hamburger at 8 am. I was really craving a McGriddle. Apparently they don’t have that in the UK. They don’t serve them in Argentina either. Somehow a pancake injected with syrup filling then topped with a sausage patty and another pancake is not on the Argentine diet. Only medialunas, coffee, and ham & cheese tostadas, hard-boiled egg optional. Shocker. No hash browns; not even some French fries. It was kind of a sad breakfast. But it was free. Matt was really drunk. Like passing out at the bar in front of the computer when he was supposed to be the DJ drunk. This is apparently a regular occurrence. He was telling me about this girl he was going to go see. Then he would stop and tell me he didn’t know why he was telling me this. He was my boss. I told him a lot of times people feel like they can tell me things they probably shouldn’t. I refrained from telling him I never thought his moral fiber was particularly strong. As I lick that last bit of fast-food medialuna glaze off my fingers I get a phone call from Andres. “You make it home?” “I am at McDonald’s.” “Did Matt make it home?” “We are at McDonald’s.” He and Mallory had told me to run and leave Matt behind, but when I saw that red-hoodie clad figure shivering in the cold, I couldn’t leave him. He was too drunk. So I let him walk with me. It’s daylight. I can fend for myself. “Who was that?” Matt asked. “Andres.” “He called you to check if you were home less than an hour after you left?” Apparently. I don’t think much of it.

But apparently it is common knowledge that Andres has a little crush on me. And I’ll admit, in my heart of hearts, perhaps I knew. But it’s nice to be able to grab him when I know he’ll make me just about any cocktail I need for the floor. I suppose this is bad. It’s like an office crush, but instead of an office, I work in a bar. We also sell coffee. Let’s call it a café-bar. But still. Close quarters, working together. I like the job; I don’t want things to get messy. I think Matt wants to fire the Colombian girl. She seems to just kind of hang out in a corner. I suppose she is shy. To clarify: Andres is nice. I am not interested in being anything more than friends. I suppose I will continue to feign naïveté, although he did say he would take me to Bio this Monday. Not sure why. But I can't really turn that offer down.

Warner and Andrew came by the bar with Maria. Totally unexpected. Must’ve seen the crowd from the ex-pat connection group, who suffice it to say were rude but good tippers. One lady flagged me down saying, “I know you’re busy, but we’ve kind of got a large group so you could you try to pay a bit more attention to us?” “Yes, of course. How may I help you?” “Well this man’s been waiting for a drink for a while.” Oh he is? You mean the drink I gave him ten minutes ago? Ugh. It was too early in the night to hear that. But instead of being rude I was sickeningly attentive to her table the entire night. They left me a $52 peso tip. The Beatles’ “A Hard Day’s Night” played at least three times while I was working. I’ve never felt closer to the lyrics of that song. We had a few repeat customers from the night before. I’d like to claim that was because of me, but really I have no idea. One guy, Ezequiel wants to take me out tonight. After his band has practice. He’s nice and all, but at this point, I might not answer his call. I am pretty exhausted. But $130 pesos richer.