The Squeeze

Chapter IV

"What the fuck is that?" Startled by the piercing noise that had viciously yanked me from a deep sleep, I'd tossed on the clothes lying beside my mattress and hurried to the hallway to see what was happening. I wasn't the only one. Heads emerged from behind partially opened doors, resembling gophers popping cautiously from their holes. All rooms now vacant, my question was being echoed in a variety of accents and languages. "It's the fire alarm!" someone shouted. "We'd better get out of here!" Racing back into my room, I grabbed my wallet and passport before joining the conga line down the stairs and out the back door.

We were a small crew and had become fairly close over the past three months. Living, working and partying together will do that. The bar and serving staff consisted of myself, Baden and Colleen from Australia, Isaac and Dan from New Zealand, Rachel and Cindy also from Australia, and Jono, aka The Bru, from Durban, South Africa, whom I'll get to in a moment. The back of the house was staffed by a handful or so of lads from Slovakia, Poland and the Czech Republic. Their names escape me at the moment, but they were cool.

We lived and worked at The Belvedere Arms. Located outside Ascot in Berkshire, England, the name made it sound far more prestigious than it was. In reality, it was a cesspit of self-righteous, pompous Brits drinking their lives away and yammering on about Polo. The captain of our ship was Steve, a small, hyperactive man in his thirties whose consistently high stress level was infectious enough to warrant its own vaccine. 

Like the rest of us, Steve was fairly new to the pub. He'd moved from London the previous Autumn to manage the place in an attempt at a slower, simpler life. He knew a lot about running a bar but nothing about slowing down. As anyone in the hospitality industry can attest, restaurant management and stress management go hand in hand. Steve tried his best to keep the owner, guests and staff happy but failed as miserably in doing so for us as he had for himself. Due to his unhealthy state, he'd developed a strange pimple on his right cheek that refused to go away. Squeezing it became a nervous tick and very distracting while conversing with him. 

Since his arrival, Steve had had a difficult run, with constant embarrassing moments. His biggest failure happened on New Year's Eve a few months prior. Steve sat The Bru and me down to explain his plan: "You know I used to be a flair bartender in London, right?" We nodded as he began excitedly squeezing his pimple. Well, I'm going to do some flair on New Year's Eve. I've practised a routine and everything." 

For anyone who may not know, flair bartending is basically juggling bottles and barware. It's actually quite a cool thing when done right and much harder than it looks. However, it's also incredibly unfitting for a clientele of mainly retirees in the English countryside. The Bru and I both knew this spectacle would be as well-received as a striptease in a Monastery, but out of both curiosity and pity, we let him continue.

"At eleven o'clock that evening, I'll stock the main well with some very expensive booze I bought. When I do, I need you guys to stay at the other end of the bar and give me space. I'll take care of the rest." The squeezing continued as he described the image in his mind, "I'm going to lower the lights, put on some music, flip some bottles and light the bar top on fire. It'll blow everyone away! Then, I'll give away free drinks until my bottles are empty. Sound good?" 

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see The Bru's head tilted down and about to burst as he strained to hold in his laughter. "Ja, nice one, my Bru." I was next. Steve's beady eyes were anxiously fixed on me, his glasses magnifying a squirrel-like stare. His right index finger and thumb were working overtime, squeezing away at the tiny volcano on his cheek, begging for approval via Morse code. His smiling mouth was wide open, revealing clenched, grinding teeth. His jaw muscles were nearly bursting through the skin. He was on the edge of his seat, leaning in closer and closer. The squelching sound from his squeezing grew louder as he lessened the gap between us. He looked so pathetic in his excitement. I didn't have it in my heart to let him down. "That sounds awesome, Man!"

Transforming a laugh of amusement to one of excitement is an art form. Most people can't pull it off successfully, but back then, I could. "Very cool idea, Steve. Everyone will love it. I can't wait!" Satisfied, Steve allowed the space between us to increase once again. "Thanks, guys!" I half expected him to click his heels as he scurried away. The Bru and I laughed and shook our heads. 

At eleven o'clock p.m. on New Year's Eve, 2008, Steve prepared for his big moment. His face beamed with so much excitement that his pimple was barely visible. The music was pumping. Bottles were flying. Flames danced across the bar top. He was killing it. The patrons couldn’t care less, but Steve didn't mind. All week, he'd been waiting for his time to shine and turn that countryside pub into a London nightclub in hopes of increasing the tiny amount of respect we all had for him. He was good too! I'd worked with a fair few flair bartenders previously, and they could have all learned a thing or two from Steve. His four minutes of rural stardom were short-lived, however. 

It began with a crash, followed by "Ah! Fuuuck! Noooo!" It happened so fast that we nearly missed it. Two of the expensive bottles had exploded as they slammed into each other, shards of glass covering the ice well like a fresh layer of snow. Weeks of practise and hype had culminated in a now inoperative main well on the busiest night of the year in front of nearly one hundred people. Everyone was frozen and looking at poor Steve, who seemed to be shrinking in shame.

"Bahahaha!" The Bru was amused. We'd both been drinking since our shift started hours earlier, but he'd also been running up to his room to snort lines of coke. He was wired and feeling too good to show sympathy for our poor leader. "That oke is fucking useless, Bru! Like, My Man! What an idiot. Bahahaha!" His laughing grew faint as he disappeared upstairs to powder his nose. 

I felt awful for Steve, but there wasn't much I could do for him. "Hey, it happens Man. You were going good at first. It was really cool!" My words fell on deaf ears. Steve was unresponsive. Fighting back tears, he began melting ice and trying to get that side of the bar in working order again.

With Steve on clean-up and The Bru recharging his battery, I was alone behind the bar with a mob of people wanting drinks. I loved being busy back there, so I was in my element and ended up having a pretty fun night. Steve, on the other hand, laid low for the rest of the evening, most likely sitting in his car squeezing his pimple and reliving something everyone else had laughed off by then. 

Steve wasn't a bad guy; he just tried too hard in all the wrong ways. And we didn't help the situation much, to be fair. Drunk most nights and occasionally "forgetting" to ring things in, The Bru and I weren't exactly picture-perfect employees. To top it off, we gave out a lot of Sass: the Bru to Steve and me to the guests.

"A pint of Amstel pleeease." With slicked back, curly grey hair, protruding ears, a tiny, thin-lipped mouth, and a massive nose, this pompous lout resembled a rat wearing a pair of specs. His accent, so proper and thick, could have been that of an American actor overdoing it in some piss-poor British mini-series. "We don't have Amstel on tap, I'm sorry. Only in a bottle." The taps sat sparkling between us. Everything available in a pint right under his pointy rat nose. He pressed me more "Oh no, that simply won't do. I would really like a pint of Amstel pleeease." 

As annoying as Rat Face was, at least he'd said please. Not many of the other tools that came in did. "Sorry, we don't have it. Everything we have on tap is right in front of you. A couple are pretty close to Amstel. Would you like to taste them, or can I get you a bottle?" Frustration took over the rodent's expression. "What I really want is a pint of Amstel. Agh. Isn't there anything you can do?"

Not only was he being unreasonable and asking for miracles, but now he'd also forgotten his manners, having not said please this time. I was done, "Sure, of course. If you just give me a few minutes, I'll grab my woven basket, head out back to the Amstel tree, pick you a few pints and keep them ready in the fridge back here for you." I waited with a big smile. Having witnessed the entire interaction from his side of the bar, The Bru was in stitches. 

"Oh well, you don't need to be like that about it, do you?" This guy had to be joking. He'd come in pushing my buttons and now tried to give me shit for a bit of sarcasm? "I do when you ask me stupid fucking questions. We don't have Amstel on tap, and nothing you say will change that. Now, you can either order something we do have or go find somewhere that serves Amstel." I could see that The Bru had already poured us shots to celebrate me telling off the winner of our 'Git of the Night' award. 

Ratatouille decided to stick around and order something else. What that was, I can't recall. I was half-cut at the time, so the minor details are fuzzy. Not that I cared, but I knew he wouldn't leave. It's not like there were many options in the middle of nowhere. "Bahaha! Fuck that oke, Bru! These guys ask for too much." The Bru handed me a shot. "To you, My Man! You do not fuck around, My Bru! Bahahaha! Cheers!" 

There was also a guy that used to come in and drink Guinness. He was a real jerk. No eye contact, no manners, no class. "What is that supposed to be?" he asked, staring at his freshly poured pint. "I tried to draw a Shamrock. I guess I need more practice." I smiled and took his money.

The Bru loved it, "Bahaha! My Man! Drawing cock and balls in that oke's Guinness is next level, Bru!"

For three months, I practised my shamrocks when this guy came in, each time failing miserably and handing him a cascading pint with the side profile of a penis, mushroom tip, testes and all. Each time, The Bru laughed harder and poured us a shot. 

While my poor attitude was directed mainly at rude guests, The Bru, as I mentioned, focused on our captain. The Bru had it in for him for some reason, and Steve knew it. A people pleaser at heart, Steve would do anything to get people to like him. Francis, an older, heavy gentleman, would come in with his dog and sit at the bar most nights. We all liked Francis. He was different from the rest and treated us with respect. Steve, however, took it too far, sucking up to Francis every chance he got to the detriment of their relationship. And therein lay the problem. Steve tried so hard that he put people off, and no one more so than The Bru. 

He would go to great lengths to stay on The Bru's good side. Remember, Steve was our boss, but he made it his mission to befriend The Bru. The worse he was treated, the harder Steve tried. When The Bru was late for work due to being strung out from the night before, Steve said nothing. When The Bru's girlfriend came down from London to find him in bed with one of the servers, Steve turned a blind eye to their full-blown domestic in the middle of the dining room during service. When The Bru's cocaine dealer turned up in a black, tinted-out car with another delivery, Steve pretended it didn't happen. Steve even treated him to a game of golf one day after learning that The Bru had played competitively until his coke addiction forced him to move out of London and join our team while he "cleaned himself up". Still, despite efforts and concessions, The Bru's loathing was intense, and Steve's anxiety suffered for it. 

After the New Year's Eve fluke, the entire team no longer took the establishment, or Steve, seriously. Our rooms were directly above the dining room. Mine sat right over the back section, and my shower would leak through the floor and onto tables if I stayed in there long enough. We literally lived at work, and with no doors separating our quarters from the bar and kitchen, we had free rein after hours. We'd party in someone’s room, then sneak down for drinks and gourmet spreads from the walk-in cooler. Even when we caught wind that cameras had been installed focussing specifically on the beer taps, we didn't stop.

I had a steady hand and would creep down most nights to grab us all pints. We stuck with Peroni. Not because it tasted the best but because it was the foamiest drop on tap and, therefore, the easiest to write off as spillage. Crouching to avoid the camera, I'd pull glasses out and fill them to the brim. Once my tray was void of space, I'd crawl across the floor with my cargo above my head until I cleared the camera's field of view. We'd laugh at the thought of Steve watching the video and seeing pints of Peroni floating across the screen. 

To be clear, I no longer condone this type of behaviour. Those were my younger days when I was wild and carefree. That's no excuse, of course, but what's done is done. I would never conduct myself like that nowadays. Saying that, I don't regret it either. It's part of my story.

Our lives are like puzzles, each of us collecting different pieces as we construct our own to look back and reflect on one day. Some pieces of my puzzle are good, and some aren't, but if I changed even one, I'd be different from the person I am right now. While I'm not proud of the bad pieces in my puzzle, I am grateful for them. They're building blocks of development and growth—learning tools. And the day I stop learning is the day I throw in the towel. I've worn many hats throughout my life so far. Some stuck, but most didn't. But one hat I never want to take off is that of a student. 

Back at The Belvedere Arms one night, the crew partied pretty hard. I was away at the time, having taken a train to Brighton for a change of scenery and some salty air. It was a hot topic when I got back, though. The pub had some people living close by, and they called Steve at half past two in the morning to complain about the noise. He was pissed and let everyone know. We continued our shenanigans, only in a quieter fashion after that. Then, while I was in Munich visiting my friend Jonny, it happened again. The same neighbours called Steve at the same intrusive hour. At his wit's end, Steve said nothing this time. Instead, he devised a plan, which, coincidentally and unfortunately, took place the night I returned from my holiday. 

And there we were, standing in the snow and wondering what was going on. Well, I was, at least, having been away and thus unaware of the party and complaints from the night before. I suspect the others caught on when they saw Steve storm up.

He glared at us, face beet red, eyes flaming, and squeezing his pimple like a dairy farmer trying to get every last drop from his prized cow. "How do you fucking like it, huh?" Steve never yelled or cursed much, so he had everyone's full attention. "Getting woken up at half past two in the morning when you should be sleeping? It's fucking horrible, isn't it?" Nobody said a word. "That's twice now that the neighbours have called me in the middle of the night because of you! All of you! Making fucking noise and carrying on! No more! I'm sick of it!"  

Photo by liam ward on Unsplash

I'd love to report that we were all moved and full of remorse from his outburst, but that wasn't the case. Once again, Steve's grand spectacle was met with indifference. Nobody cared. Cold and annoyed, we just wanted to go to bed. Catching onto this, Steve’s inner fire dwindled. "So, um, yeah... I pulled the fire alarm so you can all see how it feels to be woken up. No more loud partying, okay? Good night." 

In hindsight, it was actually a powerful move. Had Steve been a less anxious, more confident person, his tactic would have potentially hit home and straightened us out a bit. But it's Steve we're talking about. At the very inkling of upsetting us, he wavered, his stunt losing all effectiveness. Instead, he was met with silence as everyone walked away toward bed, leaving him alone, stressing, worrying and squeezing in the snow. 

Convincing myself I'd done no wrong due to my absence on the nights in question, I decided it was time to move on. Every other night, I was a driving force in getting the party started. That didn't matter, though, because on the nights we were punished for, I wasn't there. It was a strange logic but one I’d bought into at the time. Looking back, I probably just wasn't happy there overall and used the fire alarm incident as an excuse to pack it in. I told Steve the next day, and he asked me to think about it first.

Two days later, Steve and I sat down for a meeting. The bags under his eyes were so big you would have thought he was the one packing and leaving town. The pimple on his face had grown considerably, so it looked like he was forming another head. He squeezed away while he spoke. "I know you were out of town when those complaints happened. What was I supposed to do, tell you my plan? I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do. Getting woken up in the middle of the night isn't fair. It woke my fiance up, too. I was so angry and just wanted to teach them a lesson. I'm sorry to have dragged you into it." 

I felt sad for him, but my mind was made up. Still, he was struggling, and I didn't want him to blame himself. "Look Steve, the other night did piss me off, but I can see it from your side too. You're right, it isn't fair that you and your fiance were woken up like that. I am still going to leave, though." 

His face reflected his pain, his composure crumbling like the side of a building freshly struck by a wrecking ball. The squeezing began to slow. He'd heard the answer he'd been dreading. Another failure for our unfortunate captain, whose ship seemed to be slowly sinking. 

"But I'm not leaving because of you. It's just time for me to head to the next place. It's slow right now, so it's the perfect moment. Regardless of the other night, I think I'd be going anyway. I’m a traveller, Man." I gave him a cheeky look, "Besides, I heard this place is getting a makeover. A polo theme, right? That's not really my style. I don't get it at all. How can it be considered a sport if the jockeys are always in here drinking, smoking and eating like shit?" We both laughed. Steve was bummed but understood. I told him my train left the following morning, then we shook hands, and I thanked him for the past few months.

As I turned to walk away, he stopped me, "Can I talk to you quickly about Jono?" His question caught me off guard. I turned and sat back down. "The Bru? What's up?" I was all ears, ready to collect intel and warn my partner in crime if necessary. "He really hurt me, Man. I've tried so hard to be his mate, but he just talks shit about me."

This was new. Steve didn't look angry or anxious. Instead, he seemed genuinely sad. "I overheard him talking about me the other day. I listened through his door, and I heard my name. Then, he called me a cunt. A cunt! After taking him golfing and everything, he called me a cunt." 

I'd heard The Bru use that word to describe Steve many times before, so I wasn't surprised. What did surprise me was how worked up he was about a simple word. Of course, I knew it was unacceptable to use the word cunt in many countries, including my own, but in some, it was pretty standard.

"I wouldn't take it too personally, Steve. The Bru's from South Africa. It's part of his everyday vocabulary." He didn't seem convinced. Were those tears in his eyes? "Not the way he said it. First, he said my name, then he called me a fucking cunt. I heard it, then went home and cried for ages."

Pity took a backseat at this point. Sitting across from a grown man crying over being called a name opened my eyes to the situation. The whole thing was toxic. An emotionally unstable manager overworked to the point of exhaustion trying to get some transient young people on Working Holiday visas to care about an undercover shithole as much as he did was not a recipe for success. Steve was a disaster, the staff were unruly, and the drama was intensifying. It was messed up and something I no longer wanted to be a part of. This reaffirmed my decision to move on. 

Collecting himself, Steve continued, "I'm going to get him back. I know that guy Marcus is a drug dealer. The Jamaican one in the black car. He drives down from London with cocaine for Jono, right?"I lied, "I thought that was just The Bru'sfriend. He's never mentioned anything to me about coke. Are you sure?" Fury replaced sadness as Steve's eyes widened. "Yes, I'm sure. That's his drug dealer. I'm going to speak to the cops and get them both busted. Then, we'll see who the fucking cunt is."

From crying to laughing, this guy was at his breaking point. Sneaking upstairs and listening through doors, then seeking revenge for hearing something he'd expected but couldn't handle? Poor Steve. I hoped he would find peace at some point. We said a second round of goodbyes, and I went upstairs to finish packing. 

Later that night, I told The Bru about my conversation with Steve. "Bahaha! He is a cunt, Bru!" The Bru was cracking up, as usual. I doubt he ever took anything seriously. "It's just a word. Sort your life out, Bru." He thanked me for the heads up and said he'd be leaving soon as well. That was the last time I saw The Bru, but I can still hear his crazy laugh. 

The next morning, I walked along the roadside to the train station. Stepping aboard with my backpack and music blaring in my headphones, I sat across from a man in a suit reading a newspaper with an empty expression on his face. Within a few stops, our carriage was packed with men and women in business attire, also reading newspapers and with empty expressions.

It was a procession of zombies treading water on their daily commute to jobs they thought they needed in order to live lives they thought they wanted. The irony was they probably took one look at me, sticking out like a sore thumb on the Monday morning train, hat backwards, tunes pumping, backpack at my feet, thinking I was lost and wasting life. I smiled at my little secret, looked out the window and enjoyed the ride into London.

Big cities have never been my forte. I find them overwhelming and chaotic at best. That morning at Liverpool station seemed even worse after having spent the previous three months in the quiet countryside.

People racing about in expensive business suits or equally expensive tracksuits. Old Romanian women selling roses. Men down on their luck trying to sell enough copies of The Big Issue to buy some lunch. Teenage girls with fake orange tans, eyelash extensions, and pencilled-on eyebrows. Overweight, unarmed Police officers strolling by without a care in the world. Bright signs with too many names changing faster than I could read them. Muffled announcements echoing off the damp stone walls in a tone that said, "I don't really give a shit whether you catch your train or not, but here's the info anyway." Pigeons scurrying after crumbs while trying to avoid being trampled by the stampede of frantic commuters.

Ah yes, London. I'd only just arrived, and it was already time to leave. 

At Victoria Coach Station, I enquired about potential places to go. I had two in mind and needed to make some calls.

The first was to Padraig, a tall, handsome fellow traveller located in a place called Brandon in County Kerry, Ireland. I'd visited that magical village of twenty-eight people and three pubs the previous Spring for Padraig's twenty-fifth birthday. That's a story for another day. Until then, I'll just say I'd fallen in love with Brandon and was considering returning to that hidden Irish gem.

That was option one. Option two was more appealing for a couple of reasons: It was somewhere new, and I was following my heart.

"Hey, Anna! It's Mike. I'm in London, and I can be there tomorrow morning. Is it alright to visit you?" Anna and I had worked together on Hamilton Island in Australia three years earlier. We hadn't seen each other since, but we'd kept in touch, and I'd never stopped thinking about her. She had long blonde hair, full pink lips, and blue eyes with flecks of orange in her irises. She was absolutely gorgeous, had great taste in music, and always made me laugh.

As with most people, my spontaneity caught her off-guard at first. Then, remembering who she was speaking to—Señor Spontaneous himself—Anna accepted my self-invite to stay with her and check out her country. I grabbed some snacks for the thirteen-hour trip and a small ‘I Love London’ bear from a gift shop at my future hostess’s request, then went to get my ticket.

Fifty pounds for an open-ended return trip to use within three months wasn't bad. I hopped on the bus, and within a couple of hours, we were in Dover in the south of England. I watched through the window as bags were pulled out from the luggage compartments and left on the floor. "f you see your bag on the ground, get off the bus to have it inspected. Otherwise, remain onboard for now." There was no sign of my backpack, so as the driver had instructed, I stayed put.

Not long after, I was looking for a seat on the night ferry so I could rest before the final leg the next morning to Amsterdam.