Scoot Your Ass Outta Here

Scoot on out...

Scoot on out…

Some days I have no idea what I am going to write about and then my topic literally rolls into my section and plops down right in front of me.

I am at the club and we have just “opened the room” meaning that customers can now be seated for the show. Typically, we open the showroom about forty-five minutes before show time in order to give customers plenty of time to order their drinks and settle in and me plenty of time to eat my falafel so I can have pristine breath before greeting them. There is a woman sitting in the lobby who has been there for at least twenty minutes, but is not ready to go to her table yet. She is a semi-regular we see every now and then. She is a rather large woman who is mobile thanks only to her electric scooter.

“We can seat you now, ma’am,” says the hostess.

“I’m not ready,” she barks back.

The show is to to begin at 9:30 so at 9:25 she is now ready to be ushered to her seat. I am the only server for this show since the audience is small enough for me to handle it all on my own. My coworker is finishing up her side work so she can leave early but she is still in the room only minutes away from leaving for the night. The lady on wheels flags her down.

“I’m dying of thirst,” she says.

I hate when people say that they are dying of something. We are all dying of something, be it old age, natural causes or otherwise, but no one who is sitting in restaurant is dying of thirst.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” she says and she points her stubby little fingers at a glass of beer on a nearby table. The beer is a Stella Artois but it has been poured into an Amstel Light glass. Unsure if she wants a Stella or a Amstel, Nadine asks her which she would like.

“I want what he’s having!”

Fine, a Stella it is. Ten minutes after the show has started, the woman flags me down and I approach her table.

“I’m starving to death,” she says.

There is no way in hell this woman is anywhere close to starving to death. There are probably enough crumbs from previous meals embedded in her sweatshirt to feed a family of four for several days.

“Yes, ma’am, what would you like?”

She shrugs her shoulders which is probably a monumental effort for her and raises her arms up in the air, palms upward as if I have just asked her to tell me the square root of 666 (it’s 25.8069758011 which is also the number of bags she has hanging off her, shopping bags, back packs, fanny packs…). I hand her the menu that is sitting in front of her and let her know I will be back in a  couple of minutes to see what she’d like.

She eventually decides on an antipasto plate and a bowl of spinach and artichoke dip, which is about 75% mayo so a most excellent choice for anyone who is looking to become even less mobile and more dependent on four heavily taxed wheels to get you around. When it comes time to give her the check, the total is almost $80. (Remember, there is a cover charge on there as well.) She pulls a credit card out of one of her many bags and I go to swipe it.


I go to give her the news and she is decidedly non-plussed about it.

“Oh, shoot, someone stole my identity so I can’t remember which card is good and which card is bad.”

I wonder who it was that stole her identity and then wonder how long it took them to give it back to her once they realized who they had become.

“Try this one. Wait is that the same card?”

“Yes, ma’am, both of those cards have the same number on them.”

“Then try this one.”

Again, I go swipe the card. Declined.

“Sorry, this one didn’t go through either,” I say, thinking that this bitch is trying to scam us.

“How about this one,” she says and hands me yet another credit card. It too is declined.

Three strikes your out, lady. “I’m sorry, this one was also declined.”

“Oh dear, what am I going to do? I’m so embarrassed.”

So apparently, having three different credit cards declined is embarrassing but having hair where a nest of squirrels would feel quite comfortable is not. I send my manager over to talk to her because I am officially done with her. He agrees that she can come in the next day to pay her check and she offers to leave her license as collateral.

“That’s okay,” he says. “We know you come in here often enough.”

“But you don’t know where I live,” she counters.

“I assume it’s underneath some bridge where you make people answer riddles before they cross,” I say under my breath.
Her check is voided and she promises she will be back the next day at 5:00 to pay her check. We watch her roll out without a thank you or any kind of effort given to leave a tip because most trolls carry no cash. That was three days ago. We have yet to see her again so I am still waiting for my tip. She better hope that she doesn’t try to come back in to see another show unless we can get payment for that check and show us a a stack of cash in her grubby little grease-covered palms. Her credit is no good with Visa, Master Card, Discover or The Bitchy Waiter.


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