You know how when you're not feeling well, one of the things a doctor most recommends is going out in public to a loud restaurant and drinking excessively?
Christi, a joyless, sour, attention-starved hypochondriac tried this tactic. Watching her walk meekly to my section, you'd think she'd just been rescued from a well. Her poor puppy of a boyfriend attempted to lift her spirits at every turn, but she set her mind to contaminating those around her with her miserable energy.
I was also not feeling well that day, due solely and exclusively to gin the night before (and on the drive to) work. So I was in less of a mood to deal with people than usual.
After watching her long, slow stroll to the booth, I approached them. I already knew better than to ask how they were doing.
"Hello, anything to drink?" I asked.
"The lights are so briiiiiight...." she whined and screeched in a tone that combined a car horn and a terrified bird. Also, to say our lighting is dim is an understatement. On the contrary, most patrons complain that they can't see.
"Aw, so sorry," I said with the sincerity of a bad actor. "Anything to drink?"
Brad, the boyfriend, sensed my displeasure and tried to reason.
"If there's any way to dim the lights, that would be great," he smiled. "She's not feeling well."
At his kindness, I budged just an inch.
"I'll see what I can do," I said. I didn't know how to ask this next question delicately, so I got to my point: "What's wrong with her?"
The little bitch lit up when I asked this. Rehearsed and eager to discuss the negative, she sparkled as she told me.
"I (fake cough) just feel sick," she said in a vocal fry that elicited no sympathy. "Achey, head-achey, stomach-achey (fake cough)." As if trained in the Joey Tribbiani school of acting, she patted her head and stomach when referring to them.
"Oh you poor thing," I said. "Would you care for any tea or ginger ale?"
"I'll actually do a margarita," she said.
"Good choice!" I replied.
Once the drink arrived, she complained about that. The first one was too strong, the second one was too weak. Then she griped about the restaurant's temperature, the music volume, the amount of ice cubes in her water, the other servers (one of them allegedly glared at her), the amount of butter served with the bread, her entree, his entree, her boyfriend's breathing volume, and lastly, my increasing absence from their presence. Brad remained a trooper the whole time.
With glee, I dropped off the bill after she downed her third medicinal margarita.
"We're not DONE," she said indignantly. "Don't you do anything for birthdays??"
"Oh God," I said. "Today is your birthday?"
"No," she said. "It's his birthday (fake cough)."