Five years ago, I worked at a lil ol' place called The Wave Dance Club. This place was the definition of "swanky", especially for New Paltz. It featured large leather couches, huge fish tanks, a video game room with all the current systems, a stripper pole (with dancers), two rooms of music, and fifty televisions throughout the place, with more on the way.
I began my tenure there on a sweltering summer day. I already had a full-time job, and this was to be my second. I woke up at 8am, got to The Wave by 9, and started my shift as a dishwasher. About three hours into my day, the manager approached me and asked if I'd like to be an assistant manager. "Sure," I said, and happily continued washing dishes. A little while later, as I slammed down the lid of the industrial dishwasher, the power went out. I thought I had done something wrong. I waited. Nothing. I went out to the lobby where two of the managers were hanging out. They assured me that this power outage was not my fault. And in fact, this was the day that nearly the entire east coast lost power, for at least 12 hours. The managers invited me to stay the night at the club, since it was a lot cooler (literally) in there than it was outside or at my apartment. We soon got into the liquor supply, and I had my first mint mojitos, and lounged on a swanky leather couch, where I eventually fell asleep for the night. This job is awesome, I thought. And it was. Only not in the way that I thought it was.
After the weekend, I came into work at 9, dressed nicely for my new assistant manager gig. I was asked to interview two prospective hostesses, and to help with the marketing. Interviews, I quickly found out, were a sham, a marketing ploy. I was to interview these folks, make them feel really good about the place, take them on a tour, hand them two comps on their way out, and toss their applications. Okay, I thought. I hate people anyway. The marketing manager had me help him with ideas for his promotional campaigns and themed events, one of which was the controversial "Yo No Cracker" series. This Friday-night party was exactly what the flyer advertised: a party where Caucasians were pretty much unwelcome. The irony here was that except for our marketing manager, we were all white, and so were most of our entertainers. One poster featured a picture of Condoleezza with a bag of rice, and a speech bubble which proclaimed "Ain't no white rice in here". I thought this was pretty offensive, but rolled with it, because I hate white people, too. The rest of the day was spent in various chat rooms luring young gay men to the club's alternative Saturday nights. I proofread a postcard for our upcoming "Muff Diving with the Olsen Twins" party. At four pm, I left for my other job.
It continued like this for several months.
The owner of this place, we'll call him "George", was full of ridiculous stories, but you believed them all, because...I don't know why. He told us that he had conned his way into Vassar in the early 80's, without ever having graduated high school. That he was infamous as the first student there ever to bring a lawyer to a campus judicial. That the president of the school still knows his name. That he used to own a huge nightclub in the city starting with the letter "T". I complained one day about this guy I hated, and George said (pulling six or seven bullets from his pocket, "Want me to take care of him for you?"
George brought his pet alligator to work one week because of a crackdown in Connecticut on exotic pets. This alligator was awesome, and would lounge on the leather couches all day. Meanwhile, I interviewed more people, (one of whom we actually hired because she said "I have some friends who know some gay people" when asked if she was comfortable with the atmosphere). In a campus article, a manager named "Steve" was quoted as saying, "A security director was hired. He's a former naval officer and underwent CIA training. He's even done security for George W. Bush's daughters." Total bullshit, but it's in print, so it's true, right?
George and Steve developed some sort of relationship, resulting in Steve having a new car and a swanky one-bedroom in the mountains. Meanwhile, I was put in charge of hiring talent and arranging entertainment on Saturdays, and was paid $50/hour for fire-spinning inside (no permit required, I guess). George grew less and less concerned about this new club endeavor of his, and management became really casual.
I knew it was the beginning of the end when I arrived at work on a Yo No Cracker Night. It was about one am. I entered the video game room to see lots and lots of really fucked up people. Mostly playing video games or passed out on couches. This was not unusual. What was unusual was the two inches of water covering the floor that nobody seemed to notice. The gamers continued, unfazed, sneakers half-submerged in water that appeared to originate from the bathroom. I ran to find Steve, who told me that someone had actually ripped the sink out of the wall in the men's bathroom. We had to close the place for the night, and even after heavy-duty steam-cleaning, the whole room reeked of mold. Every time I'd clean the fish tanks, another fish was dead, and none were bought as replacements. A manager was fired for ordering the wrong size cups (too big) for cocktails for five months, resulting in a loss of thousands of dollars. My own job seemed shaky, as I was asked not to come in so much, because they couldn't afford me. One day, I asked if they wanted me in the next day. When I got no answer, I knew. Two months later, the place was history.
But what a good, ridiculous time it was.
