In The Weeds: Bitches, Hoes and Cheapskate Muthas
I always do my writing on Mondays so that I’m fresh with story ideas from my Saturday and Sunday shifts. But I need not worry because no amount of alcohol, sleep, or therapy will likely fade the mental scars I received from this weekend behind the bar.
Management must have forgotten to pay the Orkin man because the bar rats were out in full force. They just came out of the woodwork. Everywhere I looked, tired blond extensions hung over cleavage as long as my arse crack, and I knew before I even greeted the Botox-laden faces that they would have to know the drink specials.
“Do you have any drink specials today?”
“Yes, it’s Sunday, so we have $3.50 Bloody Marys.”
“Okay, we’ll split one of those. And we’re going to split a salad with honey mustard and ranch on the side…for both halfs. Just pretend we’re one person…haha.”
I’m fine with that, ladies. But would you kindly split one bar stool? Because you’re kinda taking up real estate that I need to make money from people who actually order a whole drink. It should be no problem since you are both about 40 years old but only weigh 94 pounds each. Seriously.
The day before, my boss came up to me in a huff. He said that a lady (and I use that term loosely) who was sitting on “the rail” was upset that nobody had offered her a drink. The rail is just a long shelf that runs along a half wall about three feet behind the main bar. “She says she’s waited five minutes, you never came out to take her order.” There were no empty seats at the horseshoe-shaped bar, and a wall of people were in front of me sitting on tall stools. Yes, I should have looked between the Chiefs jerseys and bottles of Miller Lite to take better notice of those thirsty souls behind them, but sweet baby Jesus, who walks into a busy bar and sits three feet away from it waiting for magic to happen? Get up and ask for a drink. I’ll be happy to get it for you. And, oh yeah, she wanted a diet Dr. Pepper. We don’t have that.
Another woman who was clearly going for The-Most-Hell-Bent-on-Making-Me-Crazy-Award motioned me over so that she could place a food order. This was on Saturday when I was the only bartender and my total sales for the day were $1,000. Broken down, that’s $200 for every hour I worked. The average drink costs $4. That’s about 50 drinks per hour… or a little less than one per minute. Of course, that’s not counting the drinks that all nine servers are ringing in for every guest in the restaurant. In short, I was a little busy. But this peach must have been legally blind and deaf because she thought she was the only customer I had.
“I’m ready to order. Mmmkay….I’ll have the chicken pasta…. Wait, no. I had chicken last night. Maybe I want a steak? But I don’t want something too heavy because we might be eating later. Honey, are we eating with them at 7 or 8? Should I just get an appetizer and then we can eat later? Or maybe I’ll just get a sandwich and then later have a salad.”
“I’ll give you a couple of minutes and come right back.”
“No, no. I’m ready. Babe, what are you getting? If you get the pasta, then I’ll just get salad and we can share. You don’t want the pasta? Well, why not? What are you getting? I don’t want something too big….maybe just some spinach dip…but I don’t know. I always get too full on that.”
If I had a gun, I don’t know if I would have put it in her mouth or my own. But I’m sure that gun laws are designed for just this type of occasion. Thank you, democrats. You saved a life on Saturday.
A haggard looking woman with bleached hair, two-inch roots, and lots of boobage came in alone on Sunday right before the Chiefs’ slaughter was over and the drunk game crowd began to filter in. In no time, she had found a trio of rowdy trucker-looking guys willing to buy her drinks. They continued to get sloppy(er) as I counted down the minutes to 4:00 when I was off. At the end of my shift, I closed out everybody’s checks, including Ms. Hag’s, and was ready to walk out the door. But right before I made my escape, she stumbled out of her stool, shakily stood up and demanded I give her back her credit card.
“I gave it back to you. It was in the book. You signed the check, took your card and gave me the book back.” I overestimated a drunk person’s ability to follow compound sentences.
“What? Give me back my credit card.”
Trucker guy came to my defense and said, “You have your card. I saw her give it back to you.”
“Check your pockets,” I said.
She stumbled about, kissed the trucker, and continued to demand her card. I got my purse and was ready to walk.
Trucker guy then said, “You put it in your bra. Left side.”
Down went the flimsy v-neck and bra and out came the boob. The whole boob.
“Wheeerrrrre? It’s not heeeeerrrrrrre.”
I tried to avert my eyes to the other side of the bar but wasn’t fast enough. I stared into the sun while driving home trying to burn the memory from my retinas.
The ladies sure put on a show of class this weekend but I can’t finish without the honorable mention of a man who worked his way into the title of this post. Enter the Cheapskate Mutha. Sunday brunch is $16. Cheapskate sat down and asked if he could just eat the salad portion of the brunch and pay $7, the kids price. I gave the standard line of, “I don’t think so but let me ask my manager.” This usually allows you to say no without taking the blame. I did jokingly mention his request to my manager…who said okay! WTF? Anyway, Cheapskate proceeded to sit at the bar for four hours and eat about 13 plates of food. I think he tried every single item on the 47-item brunch. He was drinking iced-tea, which I refilled approximately 26 times. He left a $1 tip. But hey, his total bill was only $8.50. So that’s almost 15%. Speaking of bitches and hoes, according to Suze Orman, that’s 5% higher than the tips you should be leaving when dining during a recession.