You Call it Work, Some Call it Paradise
by bill avery
With the rigors of higher education at an end, he was set free to explore the wonder we call life. His aspirations were high, and his insatiable enthusiasm was sure to lead him to the top of the ladder-whichever ladder that may be.
His journey didn't lead him to $100,000 a year, or two week, paid vacations to Bali. It led him to a hotel profession cleaning up fresh messes of Vodka Vomit and Hennessey Hurl after 21st birthday parties, and refilling the ice at hotel room LushFests.
Four years of study for this? He could've done this out of high school, right? Wrong! Little did he know, college had sculpted him to be the finest vomit mopper, ice slinger, and beer chugger there was. And though it may seem like the glamour had drown in the puke bucket, after the work was done, an open invitation to join the madness was sure to be sent his way.
He had found his niche, and nothing would stop him. This niche: college, but without the books and homework. His life hadn't changed from the previous four years; he just shed all the shitty schoolwork. A professional partier if you will.
The first weekend arrived and all was normal-until he received a call to bring a bucket of ice to a room. With every step as he neared the room, he could increasingly hear the evidence of a raging party. He knew that sound well.
"I wish I was partying," he thought.
With a quick knock, the door swung ajar. Standing before him were 20 women and enough liquor to drown Dublin. This wasn't your ordinary party. It was a boogie 'til ya puke batchellorette fiesta, and he had penetrated the forbidden zone. This feat was matched by no man, except for the silent gay man in the corner, and the tardy male stripper.
The women embraced his entry and offered him an ounce of bad medicine, which he refused.
"I get off in 40 minutes," he said anxiously. "I'll return and take you up on that offer."
Upon his return, he was greeted with that offering and a cold barley pop. After a bombardment of questions he retorted with one of his own.
"This is a batchellorette party right, so where's the stripper?"
"He's on his way, but we were kinda' thinking you could warm up the crowd a bit," one partygoer said. He was speechless but considered it for a minute. These women had little George Washingtons burning holes in their pockets, and one girl even used her cleavage as a handy storage place for the paper generals. He knew he could make an extra buck, but just then the doorbell rang; the entertainment had arrived.
That was his cue, so he bid farewell to his new friends. Just before he was out the door, a rather attractive woman whispered into his ear, "you know, you're the only straight male in the room. You might be the only one getting lucky tonight." Speechless again, he finally recovered with, "so I'll see you all at the bar then!"
As he walked down the hall, he wondered if this was a fluke or if this would be a common occurrence? Time would tell, and time soon began to offer these gifts frequently.
The dream was real. He decided he would never underestimate the power of the peon sector again.