judgment day in the land of golf carts

i, for the first time in my life, was a victim of blatant prejudice. it happened this friday, in peachtree city, where money is abundant and golf carts run wild. that’s right, golf carts. there is not a course to be seen closeby, but for some reason, everyone in the town owns and uses daily, golf carts. fukking bass-ackward, it is.

so mike and i, excited at the prospect of making an easy hundred or so dollars for a measly three hours work, embarked on our trip 36.8 miles southwest of the metro atlanta area, in good spirits and pressed slacks. he was bartending, i was greeting and taking coats for a small private party from 6-9. we were in good spirits and pressed slacks. pressed, lint rolled slacks, because for some reason, i thought it would be a fantastic idea to adopt an all-white cat from the shelter two years ago. knowing everything i own in my wardrobe is black or dark-like. i love her, but shit... the clothes hanging in my closet have white hair on them, from some mesterious osmosis-type aerial transfer from the ground up.

anyway, we were clean and ready for action, and for the first time, EARLY. so early that we were able to find the house and grab a bite before we had to go and set up.

*just a side note, everything in that city is exorbitantly nice. the bathrooms at chick filet were bigger and prettier than my entire loft, which in retrospect, should have been a precursor to throwing a couple red flags in the air.

the houses in the neighborhood we were bartending in were huge. no, gigantoid. wait... superfously retarded gargantuan. one of the ones we passed had eight air conditioning units. eight. i can barely afford one, according to the assholes at georgia power. if entities were estates, this mansion would have been god on steroids, smoking crack. the guest houses (yes, houses, there were like two or three, minus the "toolshed", which was probably decorated from pottery barn) could have been mistaked for the cottages one may rent in aspen, drinking champagne by the fire on a bearskin rug. and to boot, it was on the lake, which in georgia is just the word they use for big pond. but one the water, nonetheless.

so, although i think the concept of owning and actually driving golf carts through a city that’s not an island less than 1 mile in diameter, the houses for the most part, were really very pretty. including the one we were contracted to, tucked in the remote backside of the neighborhood. it stood stolid and strong, as if it were puffing it’s chest out, with it’s reagal windows and elevated entryway. we parked on the street, and quietly made our way up the hill to the doors, which were easily twice my height. i pressed the doorbell and waited, peeking in through the side windows, waiting for movement behind them. and waited. and waited...

the door opened about a full minute and a half later, to a tanned, latino-ish man in a black crewneck shirt and gray pants. i’m not very good at distinguishing nationalities. not-so-tall, dark, and ditinguished leather handsome, i guess, would be the best way to describe it. anway. his belt buckle was undone, and hanging open in a come-hither kind of fashion. he didn’t really give us a second look, just gruffly remarked, "did you ring the doorbell?" i replied that i had, and he ushered us inside and popped his head out the doorframe to look for himself. he spent a couple seconds mumbling to himself curses and such, and i reveled in the pure... affluence...of the foyer. an elegant tailored-oak staircase, cast iron ornate railings, check. plush tassled rug, check. velvet, check. fukk, everything was velvet... the rug, the only-for-decoration curtains on the burnt-gold french wooden frames, the toilet paper in the bathroom.

no, i’m just kidding with that last one. but for real. probably.

so the yet unnamed man of the house closed the door and says as he buckled his belt, "you can go ahead and go into the kitchen, my wife is in there, she can probably tell you what you need to know." he then turned around, gave one last dejected glance at the doorbell, shook his head, and walked upstairs.

we walked through the foyer to the sitting room, again velvet everything, and hung a right into the kitchen. i caught a glimpse of a framed photo of mr. unnamed and what i presumed to be his wife, a pretty, young latina thing (you may delete the comma in that phrase and it would work as well)with very long black hair and magniloquent breasts. she was a looker; quite the trophy for any man.

walking into the kitchen, which was quite nice and designed not only classically but efficient as well, that young latina thing turned around with a big smile from her place at the h’ors de vours table and...

smiled at me, while i said my name, and waited for a response, and said mikes name, and waited for a response... oh, god, i thought. my smile faded as she inquisitively looked from my eyes to my hair to my lip ring and back again, and through her smile (still an impeccable illustration of someone so surprised their face literally doesn’t know how to register this information) she said, "is there any way you coould take out the lip ring?... this is a very conservative event with many of my husbands CEOs, and it’s very important that... that theres no..."

oh, god. i’m not going to get paid tonight. that’s all i could think, that my four-hundred dollar weekend was now going to be a quarter less and whatever gas it took to get to and from peachtree city. i touched the ring on my lip. "well, no, not really." i said. "i need to take it into the store to get it taken out for me, and... no. i can’t."

now, what i did right there, was lie. i have switched out my lip rings several times, and though it was true i would have to go back and get the ball replaced because i don’t have the pliars or patience to do it myself, i could have popped out the ball and put the ring in my purse.

she looks at mike and says, "i would still love to have you bartend, though, i just can’t..." looks back to me and makes circular hand gestures "...i need the look to be more conservative. she obviously understood that because i have a lip ring in my mouth and some light pink strips in my hair (they’re faded for fukks sake) i can’t comprehend the english language.

"i’ll leave, it’s fine." this was true. i had officially begun to hate her velvet mecca of grandiousity and charlatan lifestyle. "really, mike, i don’t mind, i"ll go. you stay and make some money."

but really, what a pain in the ass, all to please this stupid cunt of a trophy wife who has enough velvet for a goddamn royal families wardrobe. no, thanks. mike assessed the situation, and went to call ed, to see what he should do. we both walked outside, and i stood on the palatial steps coming up to the door. he walked down to the car, lit a cigarette.

i stared at the house. the windows were dirty. noticed some chips on the brick steps, and the paint on the top of the archway was stained with a green mold, maybe algae. the grass was growing back from the dead, and was yellowed and brittle, like chopped straw. the lock on the right windowpane, on the inside, had electrical tape on it, holding it shut. the foliage lining the perimeter of the yard was unkempt, and the weeds underneath unruly and tangled. this wasn’t so great. it was a big house in a stupid city, waiting for better things to come to it. i walked down to the car.

i looked at mike. "you know, i could take my ring out. if you really want me to, i can. then we can make some money and be on our way."

mike shook his head. "nah." he said. "she was just looking for reasons not to use us. if it hadn’t been your ring, it would have been your hair, or my tattoos... people like that should be killed." i smiled, nodding my head in agreement. "it’s cool. i’m not gonna stay. i’m just going to grab my barkit and we can go." and just like that, he walked up the house on the hill, grabbed his shit, and we left.

he was right. people like her, well, they really only think one way. it didn’t matter that we’ve been requested to bartend at parties. it didn’t matter how great mike’s drinks were, or how well i could take people’s coats. she didn’t want us around her, to sully her perceptual image of regality. i highly doubt that the guest of her party would give me so much of a head nod, much less find it of dire importance to speak of the "help".

when mike went back in to grab his kit, he said she was irate and said she had specifically requested bartenders that were very clean cut and conservative. i highly doubt she did that, she just wanted to say she did so she wouldn’t look like the moronic golddigging whore she really was, mainly because i am the opposite of conservative. i don’t think ed would have chosen me had she said that word, conservative. mike looked at her and said, "sorry lady, i don’t know what you want me to do about it. we’re here, and you don’t want us. what do you want me to do?"

she called her hsband down, who was on the phone with the doorbell repairman, trying to get the "damn thing fixed!! what do you want?" he evidently was understanding of mike but to tell you the truth, i really just think he wanted to get back to fixing his doorbell. a man who answers the door to complete strangers with his belt undone does not strike me as a type of man that worries about a lip ring and tattoos. she bitched some more, and mike said, "good luck with your fukkin party..." and walks out.

i wish i could have been there to see her face, see if that smile was pasted on it from twenty minutes before. she never called ed, and we have no idea what her party was like. hopefully, she choked on an escargot and died. she is the reason why i don’t think people should procreate.

we went home, popped in kat williams, and hung out until i had to go to work at the club. it was completely worth not making that money, and not being around that woman all night long, to just laugh and chill out in my 800 sq foot apartment, relaxing. i would hate to be her.

no, wait. i would hate to be him. i would have already been dead from a .22 through the skull.