Summary

The web content describes a vivid account of a hot summer night at the Sahara Restaurant and Bar, detailing the challenges and experiences of the staff and patrons within a sweltering urban environment.

Abstract

The narrative unfolds in a concrete urban landscape, where the Sahara Restaurant and Bar operates amidst scorching temperatures. The author paints a picture of the establishment's multi-level layout, with a focus on the grueling conditions faced by the staff during a particularly hot Christmas season in the early 2000s. The story captures the essence of the staff's exhaustive efforts to manage a boisterous crowd, the technical difficulties with a malfunctioning fridge, and the relentless heat that permeates the building. As the night progresses, the narrative escalates with the chaos of closing time, the struggle to evacuate the last patrons, and the eventual relief of ending the shift. The author concludes with a reflective tone, contrasting the harsh reality of working in such conditions with the tranquility of finally retiring to bed.

Opinions

The author conveys a sense of irony and resignation regarding the absence of snow during Christmas time in the Southern Hemisphere, juxtaposing it with the oppressive heat.
There is a palpable frustration with the working conditions, highlighted by the broken fridge and the overwhelming heat.
The patrons are depicted as both a source of livelihood and a burden, contributing to the chaotic and exhausting atmosphere.
The staff's end-of-shift routine is portrayed as a small victory, with a sense of camaraderie and relief once the premises are finally closed and locked.
The author seems to find a moment of peace and personal solace only when alone, listening to music, and finally going to bed.
The mention of an unexpected snowfall in the Downunderworld suggests a touch of humor and perhaps a wishful thinking for respite from the relentless heat.

Deluded Custodians have strong leg muscles.

My Hill of Concrete.

The Sahara Restaurant.

Snow on the Sahara.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

It’s Christmas time, early 2000’s, but there’s no snow around here, not in the downunderworld. It’s hot, hot, hot.

Let it burn, let it burn, let it burn.

My hill of concrete, with a single perilous staircase running up the Northside. Like Frodo and Samwise on the way to Shelob.

33˚C, 35˚C, 38˚C. That’s 91, 95 and 100 if you live in Fahrenheitland. My hill of concrete, surrounded by mountains of brick, soaking up the heat like water into a sponge.

The smell of piss and vomit, vapourised at street level, is carried on the heat wave.

Up the stairs, up the stairs.

Into the foothills. Level One. The Restaurant.

The Friday crowd, intoxicated by the heat before the first warm beer has hit their lips, lurches forward. And me, like Golem, beckons them into the cave. A long narrow cave with only three windows at the east end and a furnace for a kitchen at the west.

The fridge is on the blink.

Up the stairs, up the stairs.

Into the highlands. Level Two. The bar. No furnace here but the sun has been beating down on the tar roof all day. Each sweatful body a localised thermonuclear device radiating infrareds in the atmosphere.

Up the stairs, down the stairs, up the stairs, down the stairs.

I’m a goat, a mountain goat.

Breaking glass.

Laughter screams.

Wishing time would pass.

Sleepy dreams.

Midnight.

Up the stairs, up the stairs.

Level Two. The bar. Closing up, everyone out. Another drink? Downstairs into the restaurant, closing at 1.

Those drunk corporate fuckers.

“Not that door, that door.”

Everyone wants to climb the peak like it’s Mount Everest. Where’s the barman?

“Who unlocked that fucking door? Clean up this bomb site and let’s get out of here.”

Lock the door. Remind yourself to take that key off him.

1am, we’re closed. WE ARE CLOSED. No, you can’t get another drink.

1:30am, last punters out the door.

Pools of sweat, on the floor.

2am. The staff are done, down the stairs, let them out, lock the door.

Climb to the foothills, it’s time for a beer, which are cooler now, like a mountain stream.

Lights out, everything off, and one more beer for the climb to the highlands. Put on a record. Bob Dylan. The Gates of Eden.

Awake? Asleep? 3am and one last climb, the stair to heaven.

To the peak, level 3, my home and bed, perched atop this hill of concrete.

My Hill.

This is the latest installment in Ann James’s November “My Hill” series. You can see the previous installment from Ann here.

as queen of the northern hemisphere, and empress of ‘my hill’ . . .

i feel i’ve been relegated to simply being courier for queen raine whilst me queenly doodies are shelved.

medium.com

Update from the Downunderworld, Tasmanian Sector.

Have the gods been eavesdropping? It’s meant to be almost summer but I awoke this morning to this.