Last night was a doozy. A real, effing doozy. I could begin by telling you that one of my customers got hit by a car, rolled off of it, then hopped up and continued running down the street after a tow truck, but that wouldn’t really be fair.
So let’s start at the beginning, with Creepy Customers 1 and 2.
I was inwardly groaning and outwardly rolling my eyes at Rachel when I realized it was my turn to wait on these two guys that walked in. As I hovered behind them with menus as they danced around the table trying to decide who would sit in the booth seat and who would take the chair, I knew I was going to be in for a treat. After what seemed like three hours, they sat down.
I began my spiel: “Hey guys, how you doing? Want something to drink?”
CC 1, looking at CC 2: “Well, hmm...what do you think? Are you having a beer? If you’re having a beer, I’m having a beer...”
CC 2, looking at me, then frantically back at the menu: “Umm...”
Me, fake smile plastered on my face: “I’ll just give you a minute.” *scurries away*
Back at the table...
CC 1: “What’s your name?” (As a general rule, when a middle-aged man I’m waiting on asks for my name, that means he’s going to say it every time I come to the table, every chance he can get. He’ll say it so many times I will want to punch him in the face at the sound of my own name.)
Me, fake smiles galore: “Alison.”
CC1: “Alison, tell us about your beer specials.”
Uggh. I hate when people make me do my job. I especially hate when they command that I do or tell them something.
I tell them some BS about our Skinny Dip beer special, knowing that unlike most tables, who will shrug and say, ok, I’ll take that, they’re going to ask me specific, annoying questions. Long story short, after a ridiculously long conversation where I have now forgotten everything I was supposed to be getting for my other customers, they take the damn beers.
Back at the table, CC1, who apparently does all the talking for his friend, delights me with a story about how they’re not too hungry, so they want to split the Cobb salad. We don’t have a Cobb salad.
Me: “So, you’d like to split the chicken chopped salad? What kind of dressing would you like?”
CC 1, chuckling: “Oh, Alison, that’s right, the CHOPPED salad. Hmm… Alison, why don’t you tell us about your salad dressings, Alison, AlisonAlisonAlisonAlison?”
Me: QUIT SAYING MY DAMN NAME!
Wait, I just screamed, err, said that in my mind. I told them the dressings.
After another debate, CC 2 decides he wants to try two of the dressings! How magical! I tell them no problem, and ignore them until I deliver their salads. When I bring them their unimpressive salads, they act like I’ve just given them a golden ticket. I’ve never seen two grown men so damn excited over a salad. CC 1 actually said, “Oh, Alison, this is perfect. This is so wonderful of you, Alison. This looks fantastic, Alison.”
Just when I think I’m done with these goofballs, I hear it: my fucking name.
“Excuse me, Alison?” (May I just say CC 1 said this when I was across the patio, talking to another table.)
I nod at him in acknowledgement and attempt to take the rest of my other customer’s order.
Sweet Jesus. I get back over to this table, fighting the urge to scream, “WHAT?!” and smile at CC 1. CC 2 is staring into his salad.
CC 1 stands up—STANDS UP! Where the hell am I?! —-and gets uncomfortably close to my face. “Alison, you’re not going to believe this. You are going to write about this in your journal tonight. In your journal! My friend here … he wants… *chuckles* … he wants to try your ranch AND blue cheese!”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I fight back all normal human reaction to this interaction, and simply say, “Sure, no problem!” and sprint from the table as quickly as possible.
Then, I’m not sure if it was cause they were getting full, or what, but their weirdness calmed down a bit. That was pretty much it for that fun experience.
But then the night got even weirder.
Part 2: Car Crashes, Rumple Minze, and Angry Hippies
So around the time I’m delivering the ranch and blue cheese to CC 2, I get a new table. Three people—two guys and one girl—just having some beers. Seems harmless, although the one white hippie with dreads smells like he just came out of a dumpster. They’re drinking, having a good time, talking to Rachel at length about her tattoos or something, then next thing I know I come back to the table and smelly hippie looks murderous.
“Everything okay, guys?”
Smelly hippie proceeds to tell me that they just found out a friend of theirs died. Automatically, I assume they want their check so they can get the hell out of there, but no, they want to take shots of Rumple Minze in his memory. Because I feel horribly uncomfortable and sorry for them at the same time, I offer to give them the shots on the house.
Smelly hippie argues that he doesn’t want free shots, he just wants me to take one with them. I tell him thanks, but no thanks, partially because the thought of Rumple Minze at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday makes me want to die, partially because the thought of Rumple Minze at any time makes me want to die.
I come back with the shots. “I’m really sorry about your friend. These are on us.”
Smelly’s response: “I cannot believe you’re not going to take a shot with us in honor of our friend. That’s messed up.”
Take your free shot, you fucking smelly ass, is what I’m thinking, but I’m a little afraid that this is one dreadlocked white man who is not a peace-loving individual. Luckily his friends thanked me at that moment so I could run away.
A few minutes later, someone in the bar screams, I hear tires squealing, and see him sprinting out of the bar, dreadlocks flying, beer gut bouncing. Everyone in the bar starts yelling that some dude got hit by a car.
I missed the actual car crash. But it turns out that the woman at my table—yeah, not a dude, people—saw her car getting towed from across the street and started sprinting after the tow truck, getting body slammed by a car in the process.
So what did she do? She jumped up and continued to run after the tow truck. I’ll spare you the rest of the silliness that followed, but let’s just say when my customer returned, minus his friend who had just run into oncoming traffic (the third person just disappeared around this time), he was pretty unhappy about being stuck with the bill. So unhappy, in fact, that it led him to tell me to “be careful walking to my car tonight.”
Of course I immediately determined that I was about to get raped and/or murdered by this dude tonight, so I ran to my manager and told him what happened. Apparently when Mike went outside to talk to him he apologized, said he didn’t mean anything by it, shook his hand and said, “I’m Crash, by the way.”
That was my Tuesday.