the bitter waiter

The hippy, his wife, and the waiter

I could smell my new hippy customers last week before laying eyes on them. 

As I rounded the corner I saw the male hippy sticking his tongue down the female hippy's throat (though I wasn't able to immediately distinguish them).  They reeked of body odor and sun-soaked sweat, and I surmised they'd either been picking beets on the land of their commune or doing each other in a landfill.

Either way, that stench had no business being in public.

"Hey friend!" the husband greeted me in a voice like Santa Claus (the real one, not the mall one).

"Yeah, hi friend!" the wife greeted me with do-me eyes and salsa on her mouth.

"Hiiiiiii," I said in my best I'm-not-judging-you voice.  "Anything to drink?"

"So many options on the menu, friend," the husband responded.  "What would you choose here?"

A quick death and then haunting the fuck out of this place.

"Seems like you two have been outside," I replied with a smile.  I had no intention of parlaying that statement into a drink recommendation, but when I could see that my subtle hint fell on deaf ears, I persevered.

"...So I'd go with something refreshing, like sangria."

"Yeah, friend," the husband replied.  "We'll do a pitcher of that.  And bring a glass for yourself."

With that request came the whiff of a heretofore undetected scent, the unmistakeable stench of marijuana.  These two smelled like a Berkeley V.W. van circa 1976.  I got a contact high within seconds.

"Oh, no thanks," I replied.  "I don't drink on the clock."

"Ah ha," the husband said.  And then he winked at me.  And when I looked at the wife to gauge her reaction, she winked at me as well.  I ran away as a little part of me committed suicide inside.

I returned with the sangria and two glasses.  As I set down the first glass, the husband grabbed my hand.

I reflexively jerked away as if a feral cat had just scratched me.

"Whoa, friend," the man said with earnest sensitivity.  "You have a very chaotic energy.  You need to push pause, unwind."

"Yeah, friend, relax," the wife chimed in.  I didn't want to look closely, but I was 99% sure she was giving her hubby a handy under the table.

"I appreciate the low key vibe at this table," I said, "but I'm trying to work so I don't usually have a lot of time to stop and smell the roses while cleaning up guacamole.  And sweat stains."

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" The hippies laughed in unison.  "Smell the roses, HAHAHAHAHA!"

"So, yeah, may I take your order?" I asked.

"No, friend," the husband replied.  "We're just here to get buzzed and enjoy the fine, fine company."

"Oh neat," I responded in monotone.  "Just flag me down if you need anything."

"...Anything?" the wife responded.

"Nope," I replied.  I walked back to the bar and all but drowned myself in the barrel of sangria.

Minutes later, a co-worker with a shit-eating grin informed me that the hippies were asking for me. 

"You rang?" I said as I returned.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" The hippies laughed in unison.  "'You rang,' HAHAHAHAHA!"

I stared at them as if identifying letters in a vision test. 

"So, friend," the husband replied.  "We're debating something..."

Oh God please protect my purity. 

"On whether or not to order an appetizer?" I replied.

"No, friend," the wife replied.  "We're torn between ordering another pitcher of sangria here or going back to our place in Topanga Canyon and having a real party..."

Cut to me again with the vision test look.

"...And we were wondering if you'd want to join us at our place when your shift is over," the husband added.

"So," I said.  "You two will either stick around here, or leave now if I want to meet up when I'm off the clock?"

"Yeah, friend," they said. 

"Oh that's easy," I replied.  "I'd love to meet up with you guys.  I'll bring the bill, and you two write down your address/phone number."

"What's your number?" the husband asked.

"Oh my cell phone broke.  In the shower.  Yesterday morning.  Because I was trying to listen to music.  I haven't had it replaced yet," I lied, unable to combat my tedious habit of adding too much information when I'm clearly fibbing.

"That's ok, friend," the husband said.  "We can just call the restaurant to check on you, HAHAHAHAHAHA."

Minutes later, after some heavy-handed, insincere signs of interest on my part, the couple made haste and hurried home to no doubt inform the rest of their husbands and wives that company was coming. 

I hurried through my side work and kept checking behind me on my walk to my car, just in case they were lying in wait.

I returned home, locked the door and barricaded myself from the outside world. 

Minutes later, the hostess called to inform me that the hippy couple was hoping I was on my way.

Oh, I was on my way, all right.  On my way to drinking away the dreadful memory of my stinky admirers. 

 

 

 

I heard that

Two tedious teenage girls sat in my section to commiserate on a recent break-up.  From what I overheard, the highlight of the conversation went as follows:

JENNY: It just sucks, you know?  I thought he really liked me.
AMANDA: I know, that does suck.
JENNY: I can't help but wonder if he only dated me because everyone thinks I'm pretty.
AMANDA: Oh Jenny.  First of all, not everyone thinks you're pretty...

Double dipping

I was having a pleasant enough evening waiting on four friendly dude-bros until one of them announced that his new girlfriend would be joining them.

Being both slightly drunk and apprehensive about mixing up our newly formed chemistry, I caught myself objecting mid-sentence, regained composure, and carried on. 

Eventually the little bitch arrived, and I knew from moment one that we'd be in for a contentious time.  But I wasn't the only one.  The other three dude-bros displayed a palpable shift in energy, too.

Annie was textbook pretty in the most annoying way possible.  She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and weird Madonna arms that were glazed in cheap vanilla-scented moisturizer. 

After introducing herself and taking everyone's "Nice to meet you" as a far more flattering statement than she should have, she grabbed a tortilla chip. 

She dipped it in the communal salsa. 

She licked the salsa off the chip. 

She dipped the same chip back into the salsa and repeated.

The others tried to politely look away.  I, on the other hand, stared at her with my mouth agape as if I were at the zoo watching monkeys fling their feces at one another.

She caught my stare, which she misinterpreted as a stare of awe and bewilderment.

"Oh!" she began with a faux giggle.  "It's fewer calories if I just eat the salsa, not the chip."

So grab a spoon and a separate bowl, Sheena of the Jungle.

One of the dude-bros ordered guacamole for the table.  Annie took half the guacamole and portioned it onto a separate plate for herself.

"Is that ok???" she asked with doe eyes.

No one spoke except her boyfriend, who uttered a surprised "sure."

"I want a drink," Annie informed me.  "Something low-calorie."

I mentioned our variety of calorie-lacking, chemically laden beverages, none of which seemed good enough for her.

"How about a margarita with lime juice, tequila, and soda?" she asked.

"We can do that," I cautioned, "But it's not a margarita."

"Yeah.  It is."  She replied.

"No.  It's not."  I countered.  "I could also stomp on a bunch of grapes and add sugar to the mix and call that wine, but just because I give it that name doesn't make it so."

"Uhm I don't want wine," she said.  " I want a margarita."

"Nevermind.  Ok," I replied.

I returned with her concoction.  She immediately expressed her displeasure, informing me that the soda should have given the "margarita" its much-needed sweetness.

"Nope," I replied.  "Soda doesn't make it sweet.  It makes it carbonated.  Tonic might make it sweet, but that would be disgusting."

"Yes, let's try tonic," she said.  "Because you or the bartender must have made it wrong."

Yeah, me or the bartender, interchangeable in our positions, both of us just making drinks on a whim whenever needed, both of us throwing caution to the wind and hoping we've made the libations correctly without instruction or reason.  Go fuck yourself with your Gollum arms, Annie.

I returned with a "margarita" made out of lime juice, tonic and tequila.

She sent it back.

I returned with a "margarita" made out of Sprite, lime juice and tequila. 

She sent it back.

I returned with a "margarita" made out of sugar packets, lime juice and tequila. 

She sent it back.

FINALLY she gave up and ordered a beer.

By this point in the evening all good will and conviviality had died.  The dude-bros no longer joked with one another.  Even the boyfriend seemed tense.  But Annie kept on jabbering about her diet, her acting, her work outs, her magical life, and just how much of a pleasure it was being her.

Minutes later, after taking a gin break, I returned to discover that Annie had left.  Her absence went unmentioned for a good five minutes.  I assumed she was just in the bathroom throwing up her salsa, but apparently she left.

The boyfriend received a text from Annie, something to the effect of "You all weren't paying enough attention to me, so I left."

I wanted to bring the fellas a round of shots to celebrate, but I thought that would have been a tad presumptuous.  So I brought myself a round of shots and celebrated in style.

Bitter Waiter Begins (episode one)

Let's harken back to my earlier, more timid less bitchy days as a waiter.  In the coming weeks, we'll examine the specific incidents that put me in my current embittered state.   

Rewind to several years ago.  I was working behind "the bar" at California Pizza Kitchen, which entailed refilling chocolate milk in kid's cups and pouring a glass or two of Kentucky-made sweet red wine.

I wore a degrading outfit that included suspenders, a neon yellow tie, and a name tag that announced my name and my hometown.  And given that most of my co-workers' home towns were usually "Indonesia," "Mazatlan" or "Sacramento," the "Oklahoma City" on mine really stood out. 

Two WASPy Brentwood ladies sat at "the bar" one day, fresh from the tennis court.

"Hello ladies," I said. 

They both looked at me like I'd just asked to pinch their nipples.  Having grown up with perhaps too much positive support, I wasn't used to people showing me disdain.  Thus I was immediately nervous.

"Hi," Jeannie replied in a curt tone.  Her friend Susie glared at her as if this "Hi" were an unnecessary chink in the armor of their estrogen security system.

"May I bring you two anything to drink?"

"Nope," Susie replied and continued her conversation with Jeannie.

I walked away, refilled a drink order, and daydreamed of pouring a glass of wine for myself. 

"If only it were possible to drink on the clock," I thought. 

Minutes later, Susie summoned me.

"We don't think we want to eat here," she needlessly told me.

"OK...?" I replied.

And they continued to sit there, chatting away, not ordering anything.

A few minutes later I summoned the courage to approach them again.

"Ladies, may I ask why you're not ordering anything?"

Susie and Jeannie shared a condescending smile, a smile that my 2nd grade teacher gave me when I brought my drawings of Jem and the Holograms for show-and-tell.

"Do you know how offensive it is to be called ladies?" Susie inquired.

"Offensive?" I responded.

"Yeah," she said.  "I mean, it's not like there's an equal name for males."

"Well..." I stammered.  "Gentlemen.  Like, ladies and gentlemen."

"I see you're from Oklahoma," Jeannie said.

"I am," I replied, not quite seeing her point.

"Maybe in such a small town it's ok to objectify women," she continued, "but I'm assuming you're new to a big city.  You might want to brush up on how we identify people out here.

Oh I think I can successfully identify you, you didactic troglodyte cunt.

"I actually went to college outside of Oklahoma," I replied while trembling slightly (remember I was but a young, nervous lad).  "At a journalism school.  Where I had to take 21 hours of politically correct, liberal-leaning journalism.  I apologize if I offended you, but..."

"Nope, nothing more for you to say" Susie interrupted.  "We just wanted an apology from you.  Now we can leave.  But we'll be calling your manager later."

They left, and they did call my manager, who laughed off the incident.

I walked to my car later that night, still livid that I wasn't firm enough in my responses, emotionally flogging myself for not thinking of a clever catty comment, vowing that if I ever saw them again I'd put them in their place. 

And thus, a seed of vengeance and vigilante justice was planted.