After a few days of writing some silly little fictionalized account of Lispy Gay, I am ready to get back to bitching. My soul is craving it. My organs are on the verge of failure due to the lack of complaining for the last few days. Off to the races.
A few days ago at table 32 (It’s always table 32) I had a group of what was supposed to be eight people but it was actually only four. The other people “may or may not show up” they tell me. They think it’s no big deal, but three people had paid in advance and I have no idea if the the four people who are at the table are those people or if I need to charge them the cover charge. I tried to explain, but they didn’t care. Or understand. One guy orders two Johnny Walker Blacks on the rocks. Two of them at once. He was thirsty. His friend did the same. I didn’t realize at this point they they were already shitfaced. The pre-show announcement happens. “Please turn of your cell phones and no flash photography, etc…” Ten minutes into the show, a cell phone rings. Table 32 of course. They guy answers the phone but since he doesn’t want to be rude to his friends or anything, he moved to a different table and had a conversation during the show. Nice, asshat. I went to the table to check on the other three and one guy says to me he wants another drink. “And what’s your name?” he asks me. I quietly tell tell him and try to move on since you know, there is a singer on stage about 10 feet away from us. “Why don chu sit down and haf a drink wiz us,” he says. As tempting as that offer was, I declined. Meanwhile, Mr. Telephone Man has returned to his seat for a hot second and then went to the bathroom, leaving his cell phone on the table. Which started to ring as soon as he left the room. Apparently, none of his friends knew how to silence it, because it rang three or four times. Nice, asshats. I made it back to the table with another drink and again it was suggested that I join them. But this time Drunky stood up and put his arm around me and leaned into my face to talk to me. He smelled like Johnny Walker had taken a bath in moonshine and then threw up. The show is still happening. I leave and then hear the phone again. A fellow server, who just wanted an excuse to give someone some attitude, went to him and told him to leave the room if he was going to be on the phone. He stumbled outside and then stayed there for the rest of the show. He came up to me to apologize for his friend’s behavior (but not his own) and then wanted to settle the tab which was $224. I ran his credit card and told him he could leave it on the bar. After he signed it, he gave the receipt to the server who had reprimanded him and told her, “No tip for you!” and pointed at the glaringly empty line where the tip should go. Great. I should have taken the free drink he was offering me.
After the show was over, he came up to me and said “I wanna tip you though.” I guess I was the good cop and my friend was the bad cop but we pool so it didn’t matter. He whipped out four twenty dollar bills and threw them in my hand giving my co-worker a look that said “this could have been for you, bitch.” She didn’t care though because she knew half of it was for her.
By this time, the audience was milling about and a couple of other people told them how rude they were doing the show. They got all pissed off and made a scene about it and the manager finally asked them to leave the club. They did, but the last thing any of them said was this: “We have been thrown out of much nicer places than this.” Uh, was that supposed to be an insult to us? Because it kinda made us think these folks are pretty pathetic. I reached into my apron and felt the 40% tip. As they walked through the lobby, I said, “Thanks so much. Come back anytime.” And I meant it too. For a 40% tip, I can deal with drunk ass losers who have no manners or tact. Hell, I can deal with that for 25%. Or maybe even 20%. But for 40%? Hell yes. No problem. Y’all come back now, ya hear?