plonq | You can have any drink you want...

... as long as it's a Black Russian or a White Russian. Fifty cents for a high-ball, a buck for a double.

The crew bar was a dark, slightly claustrophobic space at the back of the ship. My memories of the bar are vague, partly because I saw the place through a filter of alcohol-induced haze, but also because it has been more than twenty years since I was in there. There were windows behind the bar, but they were mostly covered so that it was dingy in there, even during daylight hours. I only saw it a few times during the day when it was my turn to sneak away from the job site to procure a 24 of cold Olympia. I swore that I would never drink another Olympia after I left there, and I have only broken that vow once when a customer at another location gave us each a beer as a tip for delivering his furniture.

The décor was a short-pile, dirty-orange carpet, and lots of dark panelling and veneer giving it a stylishly sleazy early-70s look. Behind you and to your left as you entered, there was a 26" television on a shelf mounted just below the ceiling. The television was always on, and it was always showing untranslated Chinese action films, that involved lots of Kung Fu, and people making impossible backward leaps onto high walls. I didn't watch it very much, but the few times I looked for any length of time, there seemed to be a standard formula at play: token dialogue, confrontation, whoop-ass, impossible leaps, more whoop-ass. Advance to next level.

The bartender was... Haitian I think. I don't know that for a fact, but I vaguely remember somebody telling me that he was Haitian. Knowing the crew that I travelling with though, that was as likely as not to be speculation on that person's part. "He's black, and he's not Jamaican. Must be Haitian." He was not fluent in English, but he knew enough to be functional bartender, as long as you didn't order anything outside of his limited repertoire (which consisted of "Beer", "Black Russian", "White Russian"). In fairness, you could order any beer you wanted. If you wanted a Kokanee, you only had to ask for one and he would happily produce an Olympia.

"May I have a Samual Adams please?"
"Samual Adams... is that beer?"
"Yes!"
[Handing over a cold Olympia.] "Okay, here you go! Fifty cents!"

I know that the bar had official hours, but I don't recall ever seeing them posted anywhere. There was usually somebody around shortly after lunch to sell cases of beer, but the other drinks did not start flowing until after dinner. The unofficial hours were after dinner until the bartender is too drunk to serve any more. I learned that it was better to go there later rather than earlier. Firstly, the crew were much more relaxed and friendly after they'd had a few drinks. Secondly, you got a much better deal as the bartender started getting drunk.

The bartender would often have a row of pre-poured drinks linked up along the bar; a neat row of Styrofoam cups ready for sale. They were almost always the same, so I ordered my drinks based on what he had set out. If they were Black Russians, I would order a White Russian, and vice versa. I did this so that he would have to pour me a fresh drink. The more drunk he became, the sloppier he was at mixing drinks, so I could often score a double, or even a triple for the cost of a single if I ordered strategically. The proportions were usually off, but I didn't care. I was young and broke, and it the alcohol I was after, not the flavour.

I only worked on the boat for ten days, though it seemed much longer. It was the most interesting, and in some ways the most horrible experience of my life.