Rick was an asshole who'd just bought a big boat, and he went out of his way to make sure everyone around him knew both.
He and his three big-breasted Russian conquests sat drunk and sweaty in my section one recent evening after a day spent boating near the Santa Monica Pier (the Times Square of aquatic tourist spots). Rick himself was a greasy, blubbering, leathered tan old man with some egregiously botched facial injections. He looked like Joan Rivers but with a hairy chest of blond and gray.
I greeted the table, and instead of answering my attempt to take a drink order, Rick pulled out his iPhone (in a jewel-encrusted leopard print case with flowers around a skull so you KNOW he's living in class). He showed me a pic of a truly impressive yacht.
"We've been getting shit-faced on this beautiful boat, cruising around Santa Monica," he slurred. "What did YOU do today, hahaha."
I avoided having to pay three 57-year-old Russian whores to pretend to like me, that's what I did today you asshole.
"Well why don't we continue the party with another round?!" I asked.
"A big pitcher of your strongest margaritas," he said, then burped. "We took Youber [Uber] so we're crawling out of here!"
I ordered a pitcher so expensive it required half a bottle of tequila. It was almost clear in color and smelled like fire. I wanted these people drunk, quickly, as to either leave or get kicked out, quickly.
I returned with the pitcher to find Rick making out with one of the whores, while the other across the booth tried to wake up their friend.
The one Rick was tongue-dozing stopped long enough to flash me a lipstick-bathed smile and attempted to order.
"Vhat vas where will nachos?"
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"Vhat. Vas. Where. Will. Nachos?"
"Is English her second language?" I asked Rick. "Because that means nothing to me."
He gave me a wink, then leaned in for another kiss from her, because that's a logical follow-up to my question. I walked away and ordered them a big plate of nachos.
The pitcher remained untouched when the food arrived. The other two were both passed out, napping on each other, as Rick and VhatVasWhereWill kept touching each other under the touble.
A few minutes later, the third girl awoke to throw up aaaaaaaaall under the booth. All the fuck under it. Everywhere. Rick wisely observed that it might be time to leave. He gave me his credit card for the bill (which was about $55, considering the pitcher I'd ordered). Neither the pitcher nor the nachos were even seen, let alone touched.
In what I imagine was a drunken error, Rick tipped me $55 (probably attempting to leave nothing, but hey - you sign it, you tipped it).
Their Youber shortly arrived. I took the pitcher to the back, poured it into a water pitcher, kept it well hidden, and took a large swig. Because shortly thereafter, I was cleaning up puke.
After that, however, the rest of the evening was smooth sailing.