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Capitol Latino

Politics, Culture, Reporters, Thieves

Yesterday I was an hour and a half late for work and today missed my shift because I misread the schedule and thought I had the night off. The horror I felt when I arrived at hokndov tonight to have Rachid tell me, “I tol’ you man! I sey, ‘You work tonight’ you tell me ‘No! … I no work tonight, I sleeping.'”

All of this may be true, as I do vaguely remember Rachid leaving, but I don’t remember the stressful process of scanning every available surface in the apartment for nightly trinkets to handle any situation: a lighter, a banana, a GPS box, a business card for his friend’s limosine(sp?) service, etc. all go into his many coat and pants pockets. I do the same thing before I leave for work. We are barmen.

But Rachid shows to work on time and doesn’t miss days to writing his work schedule down incorrectly. Or in my case, not writing it down at all and just remembering it wrong.

And then the horror of realizing you read it wrong…

First I ran into homeless Greg outside of outside of Tune Inn, next to hokndov. Despite the frigid winter cold tonight, he was in good spirits, having just acquired a brand new sleeping bag.

“I dun cussed your dude out tonight … ”
“Who? Kid James?”
“No, Rachid.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“You know … For not waking your ass up!”
Jesus. It was worse than I thought. Homeless Greg knew, through Rachid.

Just as homeless Greg walked off to bed somewhere in his sleeping bag, Dan walked out of Tune Inn. Again, conversation was concerned, and ended with Dan saying, “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

Chit! I’m fired. I stopped in the hokndov doorway for some nervous deep breaths. Ready. Go. Through the door — the bar is half-full — and into Rachid between the iced tea and the ancient cigarette machine. And “…you tell me ‘No! … I no work tonight, I sleeping.'”
“I don’t work tonight, Rachid.”

But on the schedule under Thursday was Pablo as CLOSING WAITER. I could feel the blood drain from my face. I closed my eyes. Fuck.

My mind flashed to my tomb in my parents basement where I lost two of my “twenty-something” years; a house they no longer own, and never really did. No direction home. Just like homeless Greg. If I am fired from hokndov tonight.

“I tol’ you too-many-tines you work to-night, you see? you see schedule?”
“Rachid, what are they going to do?”
“Wha? Who?”
“Am I fired?”
“Listen toome. Come. Listen. Edgar … I talk to Edgar … He say give you one more chance.”

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