Queen B-itches

Among the many stereotypes I've encountered in my years of servitude is that gays are a gregarious group of good tippers.

Not always.

Last night I waited on a stoically unpleasant couple who were more divorce court than dinner date.  Once they were sat in my section, it took me a mere 20 seconds to greet them.  20 seconds.  Hell, maybe even 30.  But you catch my drift.

"Hello, how are you two doing this evening?"

"We've been ready to order for awhile," sedately stated the more docile of the two, as if channeling his inner Faye Dunaway-before-the-storm.  

I whipped it out (my pen and paper) to show that I was ready, when the other member of this couple whined:

"But Jeff, ugh, I don't know what I waaaaant!"

Speak to me in any tone, be it Bronx, Persian or Bobcat Goldthwait.  But do not ever, ever whine to me.  

"Bill.  We have 45 minutes.  Make up your mind," said Jeffy.

Bill looked up at me, like I gave a shit, and whined, "Ugh.  We have a birthday party to go to."

(The thought of these two entering a birthday party made me chuckle.  I could just see these two standing in the doorway, quietly casing the joint and surveying the party goers before announcing, "Hello fellow fem bots.  We have come to kill the festivities with our complete lack of warmth and inability to find anything humorous.  Here, Bill will whine for you.")

Whiney asked me, "Can the food be quick?"

"The food has trouble taking instructions in terms of speed," I replied.  "I can ask the cook to rush your order."

This was a request that would appease both diner and waiter.

Whiney continued, unmoved by my sardonic display of humor, "I want that thing.  Ugh.  You know, it's big, filled with meat, has sour cream on top."

My go-to response would have been, "he's sitting right across from you," but I instead pointed out that he was thinking of a burrito.  

"Is it good?"

"Which one?"

"What do you mean?"

"We have about 10 different burritos."

"Ugh."

Jeffy shot him a look that would have made Satan weep.  He then directed his subdued hostility towards me.

"While he's deciding, I'd like a strong margarita if that won't take you too long."

I told him I couldn't give him an exact time commitment, but that a one-minute turnaround would be the expectation if that would please her majesty.

Whiney whined, "Ugh.  What about me?  I want a drink, too!"

"Then order one," Jeffy said through pursed lips.  

"What should I get?"

"Whatever you want to drink..."

I had to hand it to Jeff.  While I immediately disliked him, I found all of his responses to be quite amusing.  

"Ugh.  Can I do a strawberry margarita?"

"Yes," I replied through pursed lips, paying homage to Jeff.

"And I guess I'll do a chicken burrito.  Ugh."

I didn't even bother asking which kind of beans he wanted on the side, knowing that it would trigger an entirely new set of unwanted neuroses.  

Before I could run away, Jeffy said:

"And remember.  We're in a hurry."

I gave him the same look I gave my mom in 8th grade when she nagged me to wear my headgear at night, a look that garnered a raise of his left eyebrow.  

Their food and drinks arrived in record time.  I performed my automatic quality check minutes later and asked:

"How is everything?"

"Satisfactory," Jeff replied.  Bill was busy picking his teeth with his fingers.

"Ugh.  There's a grain of rice stuck in my teeth."

I wasted no time dropping off their bill.  Jeffy looked at it as if I had unleashed an anaconda on the table.  

"We're not ready to pay."

"Oh, I just assumed I'd leave the check because you two are in a hurry."

Jeff just looked away.  Bill was literally using dental floss to fish out his lost rice.

Finally, when the pay stand-off was over, and Jeff clearly emerged as the victor, he placed two twenty dollar bills on top of the $34.56 check.

"We'll need change," he said.

Anticipating this scenario, and having already seen the $40 before approaching the table, I went to the trouble of having exact change in my pocket.  Without moving, I handed him his change and, through pursed lips, said "Thanks."

(Crickets)

And then the expected 10 percent tip.

Jeff and Bill walked out about five feet apart, Jeff's arms folded and Bill's right hand still picking food out of his teeth.  Having witnessed such partnered bliss in person, I can only hope that the state of California eventually does allow gay marriage so that these two can legally consummate their unbridled, infectious bliss. 

Ugh. 

Comments

[Liir]

"I whipped it out (my pen and paper)" made me lose it. I love how you write.

[raymond mccallister]

for sure i would put visine in their drinks next time....then one can hold the other's hair while each of them shit their brains out.