the bitter waiter: The Five People You Meet in Hell, part three

(i.e. "The Five Dumbest People I've Waited on All Month.")

3. Douche bag businessman and his coked-out stripper girlfriend

Rarely do I give off the impression that I enjoy talking to the people I wait on. That's why I always find it amusing when someone insinuates that I'm being a pest by asking such personal, imposing questions as "Are you finally ready to order?" and "Any dessert or coffee?".

Last night I waited on Mr. Asshole, an imitation-brand-suit wearing big wig with all the self-importance of Thurston Howell, III. Sitting centimeters away was his prostitute girlfriend, no doubt coagulating at the thought of doing coke off Mr. Asshole's unmentionable parts in some sleazy hot tub around midnight.

Reluctantly, and after a silent prayer by the host stand, I approached the table. I stood by the table for a good 20 seconds waiting for some sort of acknowledgment. Mr. Asshole was too busy regaling his girlfriend-by-the-hour with stories of mergers, meetings, and other two syllable words that went right over her head.

"Drink?" I said with beautiful disdain.

"We're not ready to order drinks," he barked. "Come back in five."

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Asshole approached me at the server station.

"Two grey goose martinis. Very dry. No olive."

I obligingly rang in the drinks, then checked some text messages, shot the shit with our line cook, went outside to chat with the smokers, greeted a few other tables, called my mom and dad, filled out a schedule request, made a list of places to visit before I turn 30, wiped a stain off my apron, took a piss, then delivered the cocktails after naming all 50 state capitals with a co-worker.

"Ready to order?" I asked as I dropped off the drinks.

"No, we'll let you know if we're hungry," he said as his girlfriend licked the rim of his martini glass.

"Actually, sir, seeing as how this is a restaurant and we're on a wait, you can't sit at the tables just for cocktails. Ready to order?"

"Quesadilla," he said.

"What kind?"

"Small."

"Not what size, what kind?"

"Chicken."

"Grilled or pulled rotisserie?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Grilled or pulled rotisserie?"

"Whichever's better, okay?"

Our rotisserie chicken is frequently manhandled by the unwashed hands of three or four Mexicans who have far more contempt for humanity than I do. Naturally, this is what I selected for the lovebirds.

After a few more rounds of grey goose, girlfriend-by-the-hour was clearing servicing Mr. Asshole underneath the table with her hands. I found every excuse I could to interrupt this exchange, each time earning more and more of Mr. Asshole's ire.

Eventually it was tab time (after three hours of hogging my section). Mr. A handed me a $50 for the $45.24 tab. I interrupted his tongue contest with a most energetic, "Can I keep the change??"

Fortunately for me, I have enough good karma in the bank that the universe loves me in spite of my service industry exploits. While clearing the remaining glasses after the happy couple left, I found that Mr. A left behind his Prada knock-off sunglasses.

I'd like to report that I took the higher road and headed straight to the lost-and-found and turned in the glasses. But I didn't. I gave them to one of the Mexicans as thanks for making the quesadilla that would no doubt interrupt the happy couple's post-dinner hot tub session.