My heart sank a few night ago when I saw one of our regulars lumbering into the restaurant an hour and fifteen minutes before we closed. He’s notorious for staying way past his welcome and the very sight of him made me realize that an early night was now out of the question. He plopped his gloobber globber ass onto the bar stool and ordered his first drink of the night. When he came in, the restaurant only had a couple of people in it, so chances were good that sidework could begin and we could waltz out of there within minutes after closing time. With this guy at the bar, it was unheard of. He runs his mouth to anyone who will listen and our manager/owner encourages it by actually asking him open-ended questions like “What’s new?” and “How are you?” This is not the kind of person you ask any question to unless the answer is yes or no. Thankfully, I don’t have to deal with him since he only sits at the bar, but I still feel the consequences since he won’t close his check until long after closing time. I don’t comprehend a few things in this situation. It truly baffles me that he has no issue nursing his drink for an hour after we close as we servers stand around with our arms crossed with nothing to do. What confuses me even more is why the manager/owner allows him to continue ordering drinks thirty of forty minutes after we close. “Well, we have to take care of our regulars,” he tells me. I get that, Mr. Owner, but I don’t own this restaurant, you do. You are the one who has chosen to be at the restaurant six days a week from 10:30 AM until midnight. You have no life. Well, except for your wife and kids who I guess don’t even know you. I, however, do have a life and it does not revolve around your restaurant. I work there part-time and can’t wait to get the fuck out. If you want to take care of your regulars, do it, but I don’t see why I have to stay at work for an hour after my last table has left and my sidework is done just so you can “take care” of this piece of shit.
Piece of Shit continued rambling on about nothing important. The bartender begrudgingly listened to him because he was simply trapped behind the bar. Piece of Shit takes that as interest when we all know it’s obligation. He then began talking about his trip to London that I don’t think anyone asked about. He was one step away from pulling out a projector and giving us a freaking slide show. All I could think of was I wish that Big Ben was there and ring out that it was time for him to go the fuck home. I have never been to London, so I can’t judge what he was saying, so I put it to you, readers. Piece of Shit said that London is the coldest place he has ever been. He said that the damp air seeps into your bones and the chill is impossible to get rid of. In fact, he told us that this is where the phrase “bone cold” came from. Really? Londoners, is this true? Do tell. He also said that every house in London is always cold, because none of then have good heating systems. I guess he went to every fucking house and checked this factoid out himself. He went on to say that the only place that is ever warm are the pubs and that is why people are always there. Really? I had no idea that when I go to London, I will be perpetually cold unless I am sitting in a pub. “Oh yes, I could not shake the chill. It was in my bones.” I looked at his 350 pound frame and wondered when was the last time his bones felt anything at all other than excruciating exhaustion.
At 11:56 PM, almost an hour after we had closed, he finally paid his check. At last, we could run our paperwork and I could get out of there. He left a $12 tip, so after we pooled and divided it up, four dollars of that was all mine. The bartender was stuck, but I wasn’t. Piece of Shit said goodbye to me as I left and I mumbled out a fond fuckwad farewell to his fat ass. Who knows how much longer he stayed. Last week he stayed until 12:45 AM, almost two hours after we closed. Manager/owner really needs to grow a pair and tell him he doesn’t have to go home, but he can’t stay there. Do people have no concept of anyone but themselves? I really don’t get it. And I really hate this guy.
So tell, me Brits: are you cold?