Who woulda thunk?
So, years ago, I used to work in this hotel in the middle of nowhere Yukon, miles away from anything, flat dab in the middle of the Alaska Highway. The No-Man's Land of Cruiseship Bus Tours. The town's population was 88 year round, our hotel housed about 80 seasonal staff members, and when the tour buses pulled into town at 6 a.m. each morning, our population tripled.
Our staff and the locals got close. We were stuck together. The nearest next town was four and a half hours over the shittiest, dustiest road you could dream of over the border in the states. You had to go that far to get a newspaper, since our town's only gas station didn't carry them, and neither did any of the 4 bars or 4 hotels that existed for a town with a population of 168 people. We loved each other, but we were all sick to death of each other.
The hotel company recognized that our small town's staff had a morale problem, based on the high number of employee attempted suicides and homicides, and sent an expert consultant from the home base in the U.S.A. out to "deal with us." In the three days she visited, she called each staff member into her temporary office individually, told us to call her by her first name--Anne-- gave us her phone number and cell number in Georgia, in case we "ever just needed to talk to a friend," asked us if we'd seen other staff members smoke drugs--she could "get them help", she "wasn't there to judge." She wondered if any of us were lesbians and if it bothered us that there were so many lesbians on staff. She wanted to know how we "felt" about that--whatever we felt, she wanted us to know it was "o.k." She told us that even though we might not think so, we were a HUGE priority at head office and an important part of the corporate team. She greeted us each by name in the staff cafeteria, loudly complimented the staff cook who had been attempting to hide grated carrots in every dish for 3 months, sat with us all and moved from table to table so everyone could feel a "connection" with her.
Anne declared it should be Christmas. We worked hard for four months a year. We were "like a family," and since we couldn't have Christmas together in December, we should have it together in July, she said. The management seemed super excited about this--they were all "right behind it." Boy, they looked like they were ready to jump up and down when they told us about it, the way they all stood in a line facing us and grinning madly; even Kerry, the mustachioed secret-stoner desk manager, who'd been up playing poker and drinking all night with the rest of us underlings with whom the management was discouraged from spending leisure time.
Many of us were Scrooge-like about the idea. Bah humbug and all that jazz. This idea was stupid. Who wanted to celebrate Christmas in July, when it was 33 degrees outside and we were being eaten alive by mosquitoes and old people from Florida and North Dakota?!
Then they told us there would be a talent competition. Each hotel's department would team up and compete. And there would be a $100 dollar prize for group performance, and another $100 for individual performers. Also, the hotel's general manager decided it would be open bar--on the house!--Christmas and all...
Suddenly the hotel was alive with the holiday spirit! We put up trees and decorated them. We cheerfully told bewildered tourists that in the Yukon we celebrate Christmas in July! They were confused and just wanted their prunes and whole wheat toast and a map before they left, but they seemed happy for us, and thrilled with the strange fine friendly Canadian youth they'd met.
All I knew is that my group, the waiters, were bound to win. We were the most talented and scrappiest lot of misfits in the whole town, and goshdarnit, we were going to win that money and get right fucked up while doing it! I was determined. And so I gathered the gang together.
"What do ya say gang--for old time's sake--have we gotta show, or have we gotta show?!"
"Hell yeah!" cheered the plucky waiters, and we all set to work making props, sewing costumes from the sheets we stole from the laundry department, and practicing our act.
I was ruthless as a director, but I knew these kids had it in 'em. We might have to eat this show, sleep this show and breathe this show for the next three days and nights, but by God, if I had to bleed it out of them, I was going to take this rag-tag team of ribs salesmen and make them STARS!
To be continued...
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8 comments:
Katie, do you realize the years we spent up there were are adult formative years??? It explains a lot, doncha think??? Once in a while I still find myself humming "three hundred one miles from nowhere, three hundred one miles from anything near, three hundred one miles from nowhere and now that you've come we wanna welcome you here..." I reckon I'll be singing it in my head all day now...
oops, anonymous was me, Carol :0)
Hey Carol! How are you? Still in Ireland?
And the idea of those years being our formative ones is VERY, VERY scary, but it does explain a lot =)
OK. I think nearly 3 weeks between parts of a story are ample for suspense.
This is late but I had to respond. Been invited to several of those "Let's pretend we're all good company drones and celibrate something silly to fake comaraderie" parties. My favourite boycott (and I boycotted them all) was Debra's and my "We hate Christmas in December so why would we celebrate it in July?" response party. We sent out fabulous meticulously designed invitations to all the cool people, had plenty of high quality drinks, delicious snacks (stolen from the staff kitchen) and laughed our socks off all evening (getting drunk) with all the fun, cynical types we could relate to including the General Manager we left the other party to join ours.
Oh, another one worth mentioning was in Dawson when the Chef refused to cook ALL food that night in reponse to being told he had to cook a turkey. Apparently miles of food bill tape piled up on the kitchen floor as dining room staff tried in vain to calm hungry and increasingly angry guests and the kitchen staff sat outside smoking. The General Manager advised us we should eat elsewhere as we sat in the bar grumbling about our dinner(or lack of). Don't know what the guests were finally told as no dinner was served that night but that was the last "Christmas in July" for The Westmark Dawson City".
:)
Pam, you posted twice =) You crack me up. You and Debra are such bad-asses. I wish I could have gone to your secret party!!!
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