Resisting Mr Kane

Elly “What’s he saying?” Megan whispers as our five-foot Greek boss berates us in half English, half Greek. “Is he going to fire us, or what?” I listen intently. I’m not fluent but I know enough to hold a decent conversation. “θα σου χέσω το γάιδαρο!” “The literal translation is ‘I will s**t your donkey,’” I explain through gritted teeth. “Greek people say it when they’re pissed.” That’s the thing about Greek and English: never use a translator app on an angry Greek person. Their classic one-liners are ripe for confusion. “You two are big headache.” He spits on me a little when he’s talking, and I take it. Dimitris has connections. I don’t mean mafia; I mean he owns all the businesses on the island paying backpackers cash in hand. We can’t piss him off. Megan and I are spending the summer on a working holiday in idyllic Mykonos, aka the number one party island in the Greek islands. We were convinced that we’d make hundreds in tips. The reality is that everyone wants a piece of paradise, and the island is saturated with swarms of hardened backpackers from Australia and New Zealand, and those guys know how to hustle. Never try to compete with an Aussie backpacker. Most of them have been globetrotting since they were in the womb. They have acquaintances in every coffee shop, hostel and bar on the island, allowing them to nab the lucrative gigs, leaving us sunburnt British backpackers with scraps. The only option we had was working for Dimitris, earning a measly two euros commission per boat ticket sold. Today we haven’t drummed up enough to buy a bag of potatoes. “So, you wanna clean the s**t pipes of the yachts instead?” he yells, gesticulating wildly. I assume his question is rhetorical. “You break my heart. Watch!” Dimitris snatches the placard from me. My role is to hold the placard and lure tourists onto the mediocre, overpriced boat trip. I’ve mastered the holding part but flunk at anything beyond that. He aggressively launches himself on the many groups of people strolling the boardwalk of the Mediterranean Sea. Then he spots them. The perfect prey. They are in their fifties, maybe sixties, the innocent-looking couple dragging wheeled luggage walking straight into his trap. They don’t stand a chance. He waves the placard at them like a weapon. Then comes the hard sell. Caves? No problem. Nudist beaches? No problem. Lost cities found under the sea? No problem. It’s a cross between a wildlife extravaganza and a luxury cruise line. They are swept along the gangway, protesting in vain, with Dimitris stalking after them. He flings their luggage onto the boat, sealing their fate. “They actually looked like they were on their way to the airport.” I grimace as the man looks back at us. “I can’t do that. No chance.” “I guess that’s our sales careers over.” We don't know what the plan is for the next few decades. I’ve just finished a Law and Criminology degree at Swansea University in Wales and Megan is a Stylist in a salon. If I've done enough to earn first-class honours, I'll apply for a trainee contract at one of London's elite law firms. Results are out in twelve days. Eek. For now, we are taking it one boat sale at a time. “This job tonight, it’s not solely commission-based, right?” I eye Megan suspiciously. She’s apparently landed us the backpackers’ dream job from a guy she met on the beach. “An upmarket cocktail bar, you say?” “Uh-huh.” She smiles unconvincingly. “Very exclusive.” “I’ve never made cocktails before.” “Don’t worry, you’ll pick it up. You just need to learn on the job and smile at the customers.” “If someone else tells me to f*****g smile, I’m going to smack them.” I wave a brochure feebly at a family who ignores me. “What should I wear? I’ve nothing suitable for working at a high-end cocktail bar.” Megan steps in the path of a couple, forcing them to break their hand-holding. Tutting, they flow around her. “Don’t worry, we get uniforms. Oh my God!” She punches me. “That couple is coming over.” We shift into position, holding up a display of brochures. “It’s your turn,” she points out. “Fine,” I mutter, launching into a lacklustre sales pitch to the couple. I’m a few unsold boat tickets away from getting us fired. I couldn’t sell whiskey to an alcoholic. *** Megan is eating her words five hours later. “Bounce?” I stare at the neon sign above the bar. “Are you sure this is the place?” In front, two guys lie on the pavement. One is heaving beside a discarded kebab and his friend is attempting to light the wrong end of a cigarette. It’s only 7:30, for Christ’s sake. “It’s probably much better on the inside.” Megan laughs but looks less sure of herself. I observe the outside clientele engaged in drunken mating rituals and can guarantee that’s it not. There’s not a local in sight. I’ve passed loads of elegant up-market bars on the island, and this is most certainly not one of them. “Nice t**s, love!” the guy smoking shouts at Megan, and she shows him the middle finger. “No way. I’d prefer to spend my night sitting in a public toilet.” I turn on my heel, but she catches my arm. “Ah, come on! The guy said we’d be raking in the cash,” she coaxes me. “We can work one night and if we don’t like it, we never come back.” “That’s what they all say.” I groan. “Dimitris practically sold it to us that we would be millionaires.” She uses the pouty expression she knows works on me. “Let’s just see what it’s like on the inside.” Begrudgingly, I trail after her as she approaches the bouncer. “Yiasoo.” She beams, and he doesn’t return the smile. “I was told to ask for Jonas.” Grunting, he nods toward the door. “Inside. Left hand corner.” We squeeze into the neon-lit bar, where dozens of inebriated teenage lads compete for the prize of biggest wanker on the island. “Not a chance,” I hiss, but she can’t hear me over the banging house music. We weave through the drunken crowd to the other side of the bar. A Greek guy wearing a white top with a deep V exposing most of his chest beckons us over. He must be Jonas. “Are you the girls Nikos sent?”