Serial Update, Part I

Employment found me.

Through a referential sort of "you should talk to" daisy chain, I am now working for a local corporate entity as a bartender down on the Toronto Waterfront. I was hired as a result of the following conversation:

"So, that Fat Fuck has taken over the restaurant?"
"Pretty much."
"Hunh. He's a terrible restauranteur.... I'll give you a job just out of spite."

I had no intention of quitting on the spot. Crazy or not, All-of-the-Above remains the frontman for a professional workplace I may have to reference in the future. Even though he did a number on us, even though he's an asshole, I have come to the conclusion that making needless enemies is not in my best interests.

I had a trial shift at the waterfront bar. It went fine. We established a tentative schedule for me over the following week.

I went back to the once charming, soft, delicious restaurant to get my tips from the previous Saturday, and arrange for a phase-out sort of termination. My tips, for a Saturday night (the money night, I might add), were $70.

"The house float was short. I'm sorry. That's he best I could do. I don't know what happened."

I looked at the money. Looked at him.

You're stealing from me?

"Um.... All-of-the-Above, this isn't the place for me anymore. I can't work for you."
"That's fine," he said, already rubbing me out on the schedule, "I kind of expected it."

Fine, then.

At the very least, it was done.