DWP- certified

The guests keep pouring in and the house, an exquisite Tudor-style semi-detached on McLean’s Avenue, bursts with loud conversations and merry laughter above the undiscernible classical music playing from the stereo in the living room. Friends and relatives not seen for years, friends and relatives not seen in months, as well as friends and relatives who live around the neighborhood, have all come for the Stuart's annual Christmas soiree.

In the kitchen, two women busily work on the President's Choice canapés, one arranging them in baking trays and putting them in the two large ovens, and the other two arranging the cooked ones in large silver trays. I survey the trays and decide which one I should take to the guests assembled in the garden.

A guest saunters inside the kitchen, holding a large bottle of cheap red wine, his big frame almost as wide as the width of the door. In his booming voice he asks for a corkscrew. I fish out mine from the back pocket of my black trousers and ask him to hand me the bottle. Instead he grabs the corkscrew from my hand and attempts to open the bottle. He fiddles with the corkscrew but is unable to figure out how to use it. He turns to the women and asks for the “normal” corkscrew, to which the women reply with a blank look and a slight shake of their heads.

Presently, Mrs. Stuart's head appears at the kitchen doorway. "We need more wine at the back, please." Then seeing the errant guest, she chuckles and grabs him by the arm. "Harry, you aren't supposed to be in there. Leave the women alone!" Harry heads towards Mrs. Stuart still holding the bottle of wine and my corkscrew. I grab my corkscrew from his hand. He looks at me from head to toe, cocks his head and knits his brows.

"Do you know how to open a wine bottle?" he asks.

"Yes," I say.

"In that case, here, open this bloody thing." He unexpectely thrusts the wine bottle at me and I almost drop it.

"Where'd you get your Filipina?" I hear him ask Mrs. Stuart who replied "She's not my Filipina, she's a student from the Hospitality at George Brown."

I am about to open the large bottle of the cheap wine when Mrs. Stuart re-appears and in a panicked smile tells me "Don't open that cheap thing, put it away please!"

I take a bottle Chateauneuf de Pape from a cooler underneath the large work table, peel off the foil seal of the bottle and inserted the corkscrew on the now exposed cork.

My friend and school buddy, June, a young Chinese girl, enters the kitchen, face flushed, her bangs matted with sweat. "More of those thingies with the liver pate, please." She bends down and wipes her face with the hem of her white apron. "I can't believe this, there are probably 200 people in this small house. It's a good thing their garden is covered." She jams more canapes on her tray amidst the protest of the two women. "Well, everyone's asking for food. My feet are so painful I don't want to keep coming back here." She surveys the two bottles of Chateauneuf de Pape that I have already opened. "I'll have to take one of that, too." Without waiting for my assent, she grabs one bottle and scurries out with her tray and the wine bottle.

This went on for three hours when it seems that everyone has settled down and the guests are full from the various canapes and hors d'ouvres June and I have served with the wine. Mrs. Stuart comes by the kitchen with June behind her. She hands $200 to June and $250 for me for our work. $50 an hour, with extra for me for a special skill. Half of her wine stash are still intact. She tells June and me that she had bought one case less this year compared to previous years and there are still a lot leftover.

Harry appears at the kitchen door. "Hey, girls!" his booming voice fills the kitchen. He points at June. "Where's my beer?"

June looks at me then at Mrs. Stuart. She mumbles in a low voice, "I've already given him three beers."

"Three?" I say. "He's stolen a whole bottle of the reds." I turn to Mrs. Stuart. "He can't have anymore. I saw him park his car so he's driving. We can't give him anymore drink."

Confused, Mrs. Stuart turns to Harry. "Harry, dear, would you like some coffee before you have anymore beer?"

"Nah, I'm a-hokay," he staggers towards us. "C'mon, I'll be fine. I can even drive to my house in Newmarket and back." He rests his back on the large fridge and for a moment, I am afraid he is going to crash on the floor.

"Sir," I say. "We cannot serve you anymore alcohol unless you surrender your car keys to Mrs. Stuart."

"C'mon, Harry," Mrs. Stuart says, she offers her hand at him, palm up. "Car keys, please."

"Noooo! I would fucking certainly not give my car keys to anyone. I can drive and I'll be fine."

Harry's booming voice travels to the living room which renders the other guests quiet. I can see all eyes looking towards the kitchen. Mr. Stuart, an equally tall and large man, enters the kitchen. "What's this all about?" His question is more directed towards Harry than anyone else.

Mrs. Stuart tries to explain the situation. Harry steps forward and tries to take a half-empty bottle of ice wine sitting on the counter behind June. She looks terrified. Mr. Stuart pulls Harry back and the whole kitchen seems to shake.

"Sir, if you will not surrender your car keys to your hosts, I'd be obliged to call the police and they will impound your car." I try to say this with a note of authority but I know my voice is also shaking.

"Who are you to order me to give my fucking keys!" Harry says, slurring from too much booze.

I pull out the card from my back pocket and flash it at him like it was a police badge. "Sir, I am Smart-Serve certified and believe me, I won't hesitate to do what I just told you."

Inside I am cowering with fear, staring wide-eyed at this large human being, intoxicated and snarly, especially as he raised his hand as if to strike me. Mrs. Stuart covers her mouth with her hands while Mr. Stuart wedges himself between me and Harry. When Harry's hand go down, it goes inside his pocket and produced a key chain with the car keys in it and hands it to Mr. Stuart.

"I don't like you," he tells me. "Smart-ass smart-serve." As he is led out of the kitchen, he says, "I hate your Filipina."

June and I get ready to leave. I tell Mrs. Stuart not to forget about the newspaper article I had her read before the party started. It is about a drunk driving accident lawsuit, which ended up in court, the judgement against a bar owner and a party host sharing blame for the drunken guest's mishap.