the bitter waiter: Restaurant Robin Hood

His name was Henry, and he was a real weirdo; not one of those people who leans a little kooky for the sake of attention, but someone who can't help being a little cuckoo. He was mid-50s, nondescript, and unassumingly plain looking in inexpensive business casual from some brandless bargain mart.

I approached his party of one with my trusty standard greeting. "Hello, how are..."

"DO YOU PROVIDE WATER?" he interrupted in a shout.

"YES I DO," I matched.

"Then that's all I need from you at the moment," he responded with a dismissive wave of the hand, lighting my bitch spark in a nanosecond.

After taking my time with his water, I eventually returned to Henry.

"I'm ready to order," he informed me.

I took out my pen and pad and awaited.

"Hello? Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yup," I replied.

"I couldn't tell because you didn't respond when I said I'm ready to order," he said.

"You didn't ask a question," I responded. "So I took out my pad and pen. Guess what for?"

He chuckled. "I can see you're going to put me through my paces. I like that," he said.

"I'm so glad. What to eat?" I replied.

He ordered a very complicated, extra well-done cheeseburger with pretty much everything substituted, and all of those substitutions on the side. I didn't have the energy to sass back or help simplify his order because I wanted him out of my section.

Not five minutes after I turned in Henry's order, he summoned me.

"Any idea where my food is?" he asked.

"I would assume the kitchen," I responded as I walked off.

Ten minutes later, his burger arrived. He devoured it in a few bites, then immediately got up and headed towards the door. I handed the dirty glass back to the customer who'd just handed it to me and chased after Henry.

"Excuse me?" I called once I caught him in the parking lot. He turned around slowly.

"Oh, I was looking for the restroom," he told me.

"Yeah, it's actually inside the restaurant," I told him.

"Of course!" he said, heading back to his booth.

I told the hostess, manager, and my neighboring server - all of them impressively incompetent - to keep an eye on Henry, as I suspected him of trying to dine and dash. I made a quick trip to the dish pit in back, and when I returned, wouldn't you know Henry had successfully escaped? I confronted each of the three morons and asked if they saw him leave. They gave me varying degrees of shoulder-shrugging and oblivious gestures, like when Mike Brady asked the kids of The Brady Bunch which one of them broke mom's favorite vase and they all denied it.

I sulked back over to Henry's table, glad that my restaurant doesn't make servers pay for walk-outs but sad that I'd let him escape, and sad that he didn't order a cocktail I could finish.

Then I noticed a $10 bill tucked under the salt and pepper shakers. Even though he dined and dashed, Henry left me a 25% tip, which makes him a better diner than most people in my section, even though he's a crook (albeit a noble one).