Magical Moments Waiting Tables: ‘Never Trust a Drunk Man Playing Golden Tee’ Edition

Tonight, if you plan on getting shitfaced at your local bar and inappropriately flirting with your waitress to the point of her considering calling the authorities, here’s a little advice for you:

Remember to sign your credit card slip. Remember to add in the tip. Try not to drop a twenty on the ground as you storm out of the bar, stumbling into barstools.

My new buddy John forgot to do this last night. Guess who added in her own tip and pocketed the twenty. Yep, that’s me. The girl wearing “ninja” shoes who is “pretty, but would look better in purple than that gray shirt.”

John, who started playing the Golden Tee at about 4 p.m. yesterday while consuming approximately 10 Stella’s and four Crown on the rocks over the course of the evening, started off pretty harmless. Weird, and a bit of creep, telling me he was going to buy me heels because I kept sneaking up on him in my “ninja” shoes —but nothing too disturbing. Just your average borderline sexual harasser.

Not surprisingly, though, once he added whiskey to the mix, he started upping his creepy factor:

“Alison, try my Stella. It’s kind of warm. Try it,” says John, licking his lips and patting his beer belly.

“What’s your necklace say, Alison? Let me look at it,” John says, lurching headfirst into my breasts as I jump out of the way.

“You’re a ninja, Alison. I gotta, umm, gotta buy some heels for you. Size 7 I bet. Yep. Seven. Ninja,” mumbles John incoherently, leering at my feet like he’s considering chopping them off and putting them in his trunk. (Side note: I wear a size 7 ½ shoe. The fact that he was so close to being right made me even more nervous.)

“Alison, I need your services. Come, come with me, Alison,” says John as he attempts to put his arm around me.

This is the point where I leap out of the way and shake my head at him. Which I hope in his intoxicated state he still deciphered as: Touch me again, and I will knock your fucking face off.

Yep, John got the hint. “Give me my tab,” he says, hiccupping and slamming into a barstool as he walks away.

Gladly.

He basically throws his credit card at me, I run it, then drop it off at the table. I tried to run away, but he starts asking repeatedly what he owes me — $142. 41, to be exact—and he tells me how I’m trying to fuck him over, because that’s my job.

Whatever, John, whatever. Get outta here.

I run away from John because at this point, he’s either going to throw up on me or throw me into the Golden Tee. Not two minutes later, he comes storming out of the backroom and stumbles out the door.

Five minutes later, Alison puts a twenty in her pocket, adds in her tip, and finalizes John’s transaction.