If the rejection of others brings you pleasure, then I hope you live in Los Angeles. As a server in a high-traffic area, I've been privy to a few different break-ups, firings, roommates-on-the-outs, and other situations in which someone learns he or she isn't up to snuff.
It's often quite sad to behold, even for my dark heart.
However, on occasion it's also quite lovely to behold. In the case of "Handz," a woefully self-assured moron and aspiring singer, I was all but writhing in ecstasy watching him get his.
Earlier, he'd walked in alone through the front door like he was big shit. He ignored the hostess when she said "Hi how are you?" and breezed by to a large booth in my section.
He sat himself and motioned for me to come over like I was a medieval servant waiting in the wings to please my master. Instead, I walked in the opposite direction towards the bathroom, took a leak, checked my pores (washed my hands, yes), and eventually approached Handz's throne.
"Yep?" I announced myself.
"Listen," he told me. "My manager and I have big business so we won't need you to kiss up to us or nothing."
"You definitely won't have to worry about that," I replied. "What do you want to drink?"
"I'll letcha know when I want something," he replied with a dismissive waive, his eyes never veering from his phone. I'm not sure how he fielded so many text messages when his bulky, bargain bin, brand knock-off sunglasses shielded his sight. He wore a sweatsuit, large ball cap, and gold-painted tennis shoes that I promise you were not sold that way. I'm pretty sure he was just a misguided ginger from Georgia trying to emulate a number of outdated stereotypes.
I didn't return to the table until his companion, a hurried but polite woman dressed far sharper, called for me.
"May I please just have a vodka soda?" she said, handing me a credit card. "And whatever he wants. And go ahead and close it out, please."
Ouch, buddy. "Big business" doesn't usually come with one lone round and an immediately closed tab. Oh no, this can't be good!
"Oh! May I please have a vodka soda as well?" he said in a far friendlier, extremely insincere sing-song voice. I rolled my eyes.
I returned with the drinks. The manager was telling Handz that Hollywood is part talent, part luck, and the other part she labeled "people skills," then explained that as networking when he failed to grasp the concept. I wanted to hear this, believe me, but I couldn't justify sticking around. I overheard all the bits I could by pretending to sweep neighboring tables and taking their orders - even though they weren't in my section.
It appears Handz was ruining all of the meetings his manager took great effort to set up. She wished him luck, said she was sorry it took her so long to get back to him regarding drinks, sorry it didn't work out, and she hoped he would remain encouraged because he had a talent and yadda yadda zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
He stormed out. She stayed, sent a quick text message, then left with a smirk on her face.
One minute later, he popped his head back in to see if she was still there. I gave him a condescending frown and a thumbs down. He waived dismissively, then headed into the night, still waiting for the world to deliver all that it owes him.
I'm thrilled, devoted readers, to share this first glimpse of the upcoming "Bitter Waiter" web series! Thank you to everyone who's read this blog, from its incipient stages to its big debut on "20/20" and beyond. And thank you to all the horrible, entitled, heinous people who make a server's job an absolute nightmare - you are wonderful fodder (and will make for great kindle in Hell someday).
I was given a large, ever-growing party of Euro-trash one night this week. They arrived donned in all black, with contradictory outfits that said "Funeral up top, gang bang on the bottom." I couldn't tell exactly what was the cause of this gathering; I despised them for being in my section regardless.
DaVonka was the first to speak, ordering while she Instagram'd a photo of herself that featured both of us as this exchange took place. She looked like a "Lucky Star" era Madonna who'd been starved for months and stashed away from the sun.
"Dat drink I had layst time? I vant dat again," she told me.
"Not sure if you're aware, but I'm actually not the same server for every party that stumbles into this place," I told her. "What would you like to drink?"
"Red or white?"
"Tank you," she said, and then took a phone call. The other 10 members of the party were fine with water, but they were ready to order their food; more free chips and salsa, please!
I returned with a sweet blush that pleased DaVonka's classy tastes.
Soon a band of sable-clad hipsters arrived, each of them also wearing the sexy-mourning motif. The six new additions each ordered a hachtea (a hot tea).
"What does have cheesecake?" one of them asked. I smiled and walked off.
Minutes later, after I downed a G&T in a kid's cup and made right with myself, I returned to find the party gone. They'd stepped outside for a smoke, but the table had already been cleared. They'd told the busy boy they were done.
I found DaVonka and said she needed to pay the bill.
"Buht we didn't hayve any-ting?" she countered.
"The glass of wine and the six teas?"
The total of the bill came to $21.52. DaVonka coughed a phlegm-filled cough and handed me a twenty then took another phone call. After pained effort, I was able to extract an additional three dollars.
And with that, a giant Ford E450 party bus pulled up and whisked away the guests into the night.