Last weekend I waited on a couple who clearly spent their upbringing either robbing elderly women or playing in pig slop. The most polite thing they did was to burp into their napkins instead of the other's face. I hated them the minute I smelled their stench, and the subsequent two hours did nothing to find them in my favor.
Every question I posed, out of sheer necessity for taking their order, was an inconvenience.
"Would you like black beans or pinto beans?"
(They exchanged a look as if I'd asked something inappropriate, and she replied,)
"UHHHHHHM...I DON'T KNOW!"
"Well, as much as I'd love to make this important decision for you...black beans or pinto beans?"
"UHMMMMMM (God why is this weird man asking me questions and writing down my answers) BLACK BEANS???"
"Fascinating. Your order will be right out."
"OHH, WAITER? WE GONNA NEED A CAB WHEN WE DONE!"
"I'm sure you will."
Fast forward to check time, and the total was $113.64. The aspiring rapist (ie the male) of the two handed me $120 and told me to keep the change.
In true Bitter Waiter fashion, I separated the remaining six dollars and pennies into a makeshift fan and threw it on the table.
"Here's your change. The cab company said your cab will be outside in five minutes."
"WE GONNA WAIT HERE TIL HE COME. YOU TELL US WHEN HE HERE."
"I don't hang around outside hailing cabs," I replied. "You'll need to be outside yourself. You've tabbed out. The restaurant is on a wait. Bye bye."
And the two of them went outside to wait for their cab.
And they waited.
And they waited.
And they waited.
Approximately 30 minutes later, I suppose it dawned on them that I never called their cab. They left, presumably to steal someone else's car in an attempt to get home and watch themselves on "COPS."
I've never been a big fan of the word "cute." It's the lazy way of describing something mediocre in lieu of more appropriate verbage.
My cute threshold went into overdrive the other night as I waited on four conservative cutesy girls with their cutesy purses in their cutesy Fall shirts drinking their cutesy fru-fru drinks and talking about cutesy boys who would never return their cutesy phone calls.
To make matters worse, these girls were from Minnesota, St. Louis, or some other unbearable Midwestern locale with thick accents.
I greeted their table. They were in the midst of laughing about someone fumbling a word, or dropping a napkin, or something equally unfunny.
"How are you girls today?"
"OH..MY GOD...HAHAHAHAHA!!! MACY, DID YOU REALLY JUST DROP THAT NAPKIN? HAHAHAHA, OH MY GOD I'M BAWLING CRYING FROM LAUGHING!!! HAHAHAHA!"
"Anything to drink?"
"OH MY GOD...HE HAS BEEN STANDING THERE FOR, LIKE, 10 MINUTES AND WE'VE JUST BEEN LAUGHING!!! HAHAHAHA! OH MY GOD MACY...HAHAHA!"
"HIIIII!!! Sorry, she dropped her...napkin (breathing), ohmyguh, it was so funny...okay, like, I don't usually do tequila...can you, like, make a drink that's not too strong?"
"How about a Shirley Temple?"
"What's that? Is that like a strawberry margarita?"
The ladies agreed, through the intermittent repeating of inside jokes and checking of text messages, that they each wanted a Shirley Temple strawberry margarita.
Sensing my disdain, the ringleader (the insincerely precocious one I've been quoting thus far) tried to buddy up to me.
"So how's your night going? MAKING LOTSA TIPS??"
"It's a little slow tonight, but it's still early and..."
"OH...MY GOD!!" she squealed. "LOOK at that girl's boots! Those are SO...CUTE! EXCUSE ME, HEY, WHERE DID YOU GET THOSE BOOTS? THOSE BOOTS ARE SO CUTE! Aren't those boots cute?? CUTE!!!!"
The girls finally ordered after a series of stupid questions, each query more insipid and idiotic than the last.
(For example: "Can you all make cheese enchiladas, but substitute lettuce for cheese?")
The ringleader continued in vain to butter me up. Her condescending tone, mixed with her nasal and over-the-top theatrics, had me experiencing what could only be akin to a 'Nam flashback. Everything she said, every reaction she had, every opinion that entered her mind was expressed with utmost urgency and volume:
"OH...MY GOD. I JUST GOT A TEXT FROM MY MOM!"
"OH...MY GOD. MY STRAW JUST FELL ON THE FLOOR!!!!!"
"OH...MY GOD. MATH!!"
Finally their salads arrived. Ringleader ate the entire thing and then beckoned for me like a coked-out Chi Omega recruiting new sorority sisters.
"HI!! I don't mean to Complainy McComplainerson, but this salad dressing was GRODY!!!!"
"What exactly was the problem?"
"It was just...funky!"
"You should have told me when I stopped by midway through your meals to check on everything."
"Oh! No! I'm not 'complaining...' I just wanted you to know so you could tell the chef."
My mind immediately flashed to the scenario of me rushing to tell our "chef" Ignacio that my customer thought the salad dressing was "grody." Ignacio, with his blood-stained apron and mouth half-full of teeth, would no doubt give me a look that, loosely translated, would read "Go fuck yourself."
"I'll tell him right away. Dessert?"
"Oh no, just some more water please! We've still got a lot of girl talk! We might be here for awhile! Giggle giggle!"
I dropped the check.
Complainy McComplainerson summoned me once more.
"Hiiiiiii!! Sorry. I totally don't want to be "THAT GIRL," but when I told you the salad dressing was nasty, I assumed you'd, like.... You know what I'm saying?" Like...I don't know. I..."
Instead of assisting her in her search for syllables, I stood there as she tried in vain to articulately convey her request.
"Like...I wouldn't order it again..."
Leave it to Macy to translate.
"She doesn't want to pay for the salad. It made her sick."
"I wish I could help," I replied. "But she ate the salad. The entire salad. I mean, that was one happy plate."
Dejected, the girls joined in a collective, "Ohhhhhhh."
The girls extracted their vengeance by waiting an additional 30 minutes to pay the check. I did everything short of stripping the varnish off the table to drop the hint.
And only after they'd left did I truly feel their revenge. I had the most unrelenting, merciless headache I'd ever known, exacerbated each time I recalled the sounds of their voices or, worse yet, the mere mention of that awful four-letter "C" word.