Every small town has its very own local celebrity. Our town has a few that could be considered “legitimate” local celebrities, but has far more self-proclaimed ones. They range from actors that were, “in that one scene in Beerfest? Yeah! I was the blonde-” to hotshot lawyers with their clever little catch-phrases, to news anchors, to owners of car dealerships. The Unfortunate Local Celebrity in question is of the last breed.
It was a Sunday evening and upon scanning the reservations, there was a whopping 25 on the books; 10 of which was a party that requested sitting near the (open) kitchen. All in all, it was going to be a sleeper. Service began, I shook a few cocktails before receiving a massive order containing double shots of top shelf tequila, with a full ounce of lime juice, on the rocks. I know, EW.
I completed the order only to have the server taking care of them, come back and ask for another round. At this point, given the stringent New Mexico laws surrounding serving alcohol, I peered around the corner to take a look at the consumers of this citric nectar. My curious little eyes scanned the restaurant only to find none other than Cock-Knock McGee himself. The Unfortunate Local Celebrity.
Having dined at the restaurant on enough occasions to have every single female waiter (and the majority of the male ones) REFUSE to wait on him, rotations have become necessary. However, as a bartender- I get stuck with him every single time in some capacity or another. It was going to be a long night.
Luckily, my better half and our dear friend graced me with their presence making the time go by a bit faster. Inevitably, my dearests finished dinner and were changing venue. As I wasn’t quite sure when I would be getting out, and when I did, had no interest in a night out- I switched cars with my better half as our dog (who turns into a wood-chipper if left alone) was sleeping in it. I walked them out, crossing the main dining room only to find that the 10 top, was now a 3 top, one of which was the server. As I passed them, I witnessed the Unfortunate Local Celebrity corral the attention of those sitting at the table, and spit as far as he could onto the floor. His eyes met mine as I glared at him in disgust.
“Really guy? Really?” I asked. Of course, there was no answer.
I proceeded to walk toward the front only to find that the manager that night was standing at the host stand. His ears had clearly been molested by an abundance of sordid words as his face cringed in repulsion.
“Did you just see that? He just spat on the wall-” I said.
In response, he sighed and shook his head; about to reveal the putrid rant that had caused the look on his face, he was interrupted. I got to hear it from the letcherous serpent himself. Luckily, it was not directly to us, but with the drop of an eaves. Either way, our eyes widened in shock. I would ordinarily quote this flagrant monologue in great detail, however a few things prevent me from doing so:
1) I fear that my fingers may contract some sort of cyber venarial disease if I attempt to.
2) My fluency in Letcherous Bastard is not proficient.
What can be extracted from the ear-rotting banter, is the (non) convincing speech regarding his…endowement. Also, the announcing of his exclusive social class and his admittance into the “I can do whatever the fuck I want club.” A statement which was usually followed by a massive loogey flung onto the wall. Repulsed by this waste of oxygen’s verbal diarreah, I set my apron down on the ledge and quickly ran out to the car to let the dog out as it was clear, I wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.
I leaned into the car, attaching the retractable leash to the pup only to have him burst out of the car in excitement. I walked back into the restaurant through the back door to get some water for the pootch, only to find three other waiters waiting in the back dining room.
“What are you guys still doing here?” I asked.
“The busser has a final tomorrow, so I told them that I would set the last table,” said one.
“The last table picked up my table’s bill, and I can’t check out until they pay it,” said the other.
“And you?” I asked, looking at the third.
“I’m giving them both a ride home.”
I am always the last person to leave anyway, as I wait for tips from the house (aka other waiters), at the end of the night. In short, I was doomed. There we all were, stuck since 8:30p.m. for one table. It was now 11:30p.m.
Exhausted and annoyed we sat, blankly staring at each other as the dog acted like a mammalian vacuum; eating all the little treasures that had fallen on to the ground throughout the course of the dinner shift.
The manager walked into the back dining room, still shaking his head.
“I can’t take this anymore- they’re all just chatting it up about compact vehicles and his dick-”
“Synonomous?” I rhetorically asked.
“If you guys want to leave, you can. I’ll just leave you all envelopes with cash, and set up the last table.”
Ordinarily, we would’ve all declined. Not tonight. Tonight, we gladly accepted the offer, going our separate ways. The pootch and I walked into the bar around the back side of the restaurant to avoid contact with him. I locked up the coolers, clocked out and began looking for my apron when I realized that I had left it on the ledge up front. God. Damn. IT.
I took a deep breath bracing myself for the aural rape I was about to endure, and began walking toward the front to retrieve my apron; pootch running in front of me. Now, the way this certain seating area is situated is such that it sits about three feet higher than the rest of the restaurant. A sort of platform if you will. So when I began to walk across it, pootch had darted ahead of me and was already at the bottom of the stairs waiting. This caught the Unfortunate Celebrity’s attention.
“Is that a fucking pitbull?!” he blurted.
I froze in place, whipping my right hand holding the handle behind me. I looked at the pootch at the bottom of the stairs, sitting and wagging his tail waiting for me to move. In the corner of my eye, I could see my manager looking at me wondering what was being said. As I turned to face the Unfortunate Local Celebrity, I heard him launch a spit ball, followed by a muffled smack onto the carpet. Disgusted, I zipped around and looked at him in complete shock.
“A pitbull in the restaurant? Seriously? Sir, you’ve clearly had too much to drink.”
He looked at me with an angered look diluted with tequila.
I wasn’t lying, there wasn’t a pitbull in the restaurant…there was a pitbull-sharpei mix in the reastaurant. I looked over to my manager who was trying not to explode into laughter.
“Call this man a cab.”