I am finally realizing that I’m not allowed to leave my job any earlier than closing time unless I’m working the day shift.  It doesn’t matter if I’m scheduled out an hour before close, or even 3-4 hours before close, something happens and I’m stuck.

Last Monday, I was asked to work on my day off because it was St. Patricks Day.  I was only asked to work from 4-11.  I got to work, and found that the closer had called out.  As the most senior cocktail on the shift that night, and the shift leader, it was thrown to me to stay until closing.

Last Tuesday, I was scheduled out at 10 pm.  This time, nobody called out, we were just too busy for them to allow me to leave at a reasonable time, and I was still there at closing time finishing up sidework.

Last Wednesday (4 days ago).  I have begged and begged to no longer be scheduled in the bowling alley until close on Wednesdays, because it’s our free employee day and our employees tend to trash the place.  Not only that, but there’s a ton of them that tend to not tip, or tip shitty.  I was not only there till close as scheduled, but I was there for an hour after close, cleaning up after my co-workers.

Tonight (Saturday):  I was scheduled to work from 5-12.  I get there about 4:30, only to find out that I was technically supposed to be into work at 4 to teach a computer training class.  Said class wasn’t put on my schedule, and I didn’t even remember that we had a trainee this week, so I didn’t get bitched at too much about it.  My section is full when I finally do come on the clock, so there’s not much for me to do for the first little bit.  About 20 after, my first table goes down.  It’s a table of 6, a redneck couple and their 4 kids.  They left me 3 bucks on a 63 dollar bill, which set the tone for the night.  Bad, shitty money all night.

By 10:30, I’ve had it and I’m ready to go.  I’m tired, I’m cranky, and I’m not making shit for tips no matter how nice I am to these people.  Ghetto trash and Redneck trash always tend to blame the server when the kitchen is running long, just like the table that wasn’t even mine that got smart with me:  “Do you have a military discount?”

“No sir, I’m sorry we don’t.”  “How bout a ‘I had to wait 50 fuckin minutes for my food’ discount?”

“I can’t answer that sir, as I told you when your order was put in that the kitchen was running about that long.  Let me just get a manager.”  That’s the last I said to that table, though I felt kind of sorry for the server when he got back from his break, because they stiffed him after getting half off their bill.

About 11:15, I finally get cut off the floor.  I had one table that I’d picked up in someone elses section, and one that had sat down in mine.  The only thing I’d rung in for the table in my section was a cup of soup.  I ask the closer if she’d like to transfer the soup, because I have to be back to work at 11am tomorrow (Sunday) and work a double, and I want to get started on my sidework because I want to leave.

“I don’t want them”

“Come on, please?  I have a lot to do before I can leave, and I don’t want to be here all night.”

“Naw, I ain’ takin them.”  You fucking bitch.  You stupid fucking bitch.  Next thing I know, the original two people that were sitting there added 7 more.  They made sure to tell me up front that “Day be wit us, but we ain’ on da same check.  You betta not put no graturty on da bill neithah.”  Yes, they were ghetto trash.  Ghetto trash to the extreme, but that’s not why I didn’t want to take them.  I wanted to fucking leave.  I’ll take anyone, even if I don’t like them.

These mother fuckers end up staying till 10 minutes before we close, and they ran me like a dog for the entire time they sat.  I heard the command “Brang me su’mo’ rainch, main,” at least 20 times between the 9 of them.  “Why da food takin so long?” 4 minutes after I rang it in, and “Dis ain’ gon’ be enough lemon fah my drank, you gon’ need ta brang su’mo’” with every refill of their water.

The first woman pays out about 12:30.  She asks me, “Is I gotta leave yo’ tip on da table?”

“You can, or you can just give it to me now, whatever you’d like to do.”  I assume she’s going to leave me at least something.

Once they all pay out, it was 4 separate checks, I realize that not a single one of them left a fucking dime, and now I’m even more pissed off.  I haven’t had a chance to get to the back to start sorting/polishing/rolling my silverware, I can’t stock my section because it’s full of living, breathing garbage, and I can’t get to do my sidework because they won’t leave me the fuck alone.  The total bill was 98 bucks.  If there had been a grat, it would have been 17 and some change.

RagingPartner was sitting at the table in front of the two they were using.  I made sure to say loud enough that they could hear, “Why the hell should I be surprised that this ghetto trash didn’t leave a goddamn dime for a tip.”  If they did hear me, they didn’t say anything to me or a manager.  I’m not sure they would have understood it if they had heard it with how stoned they all were.  I swear, even when I used to smoke a quarter of weed a day, I never smelled that strong.  I don’t miss being stoned all the time either, no weed since August of 06, no coke or alcohol since May of 06.

RagingPartner decided to take a stand, however, and I didn’t find out about it until after we left at 1:30.  He said quite deliberately and loudly to them, “Who the Hell taught you how to tip?”  Grandpa, the old guy of the party apparently heard him and was staring at him quite meanly.  I don’t care, I hate them all and I want them to be turned on a spit, roasting over a fire so that some cannibals can eat them.

I just hope that Ms. L, the bitch that refused to take the table from me so I could leave, never has the nerve to ask me for a favor, especially if it involves picking up a table.   I really love Ms. L to death, but that shit pissed me off, knowing that I had a limited sleep time before work tomorrow.  I’m finally calmed down, but I’m not going to be able to sleep for a bit yet, so I’m going to be working a double shift tomorrow on 4-5 hours of sleep.  Happy fucking Happy, Joy fucking Joy.

And tomorrow (well today now) is fucking Easter Sunday, which means a bunch of brats coming in with their parents, high on sugar from candy out of dollar store easter baskets.  The parents who take the time to make their kids baskets for them won’t bring them to my job, oh no, they’ll stay home or visit family.  We’ll get the dregs of society.

Maybe I’ll be able to not kick a kid tomorrow…

Ribeye

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Just leave it alone and it won’t bother you.