I’ve never in the nearly two years that I’ve worked for “the Restaurant that Cannot be Named” had a more horrible night than I had this past Sunday.  I was stiffed, I was maimed, I was harassed, I was yelled at, I was stiffed, I was stiffed, I was stiffed.  I was so pissed off at one point that I was ready to walk out the door and not look back but I stayed…

The first of the night went great.  I had awesome tables, was making great tips, made a couple of new friends who came back to see me tonight.  It was after 8 o’clock that I started having problems.

First problem table came in the form of three really ghetto black guys that reeked of weed.  From the time I went to the table, they had attitude problems with me.  I didn’t even have a chance to introduce myself or anything before the first one, LemonJelo with the nappy braids sticking out of his head like the snakes of Medusa, looks at me and says, “You da waidah?  Brang three Hen and Coke ovah,” and tries to wave me away.  “No problem, sir, I just need to see three ID’s.”  You’d have thought I just blew up their cars for the looks they gave me.

“Why you gotta see dem fo?” OranJello asked.  “Because I have to see an ID from anyone who is drinking alcohol or I’m not allowed to serve them.”  One by one, the three pulled out their state issued ID cards out.  Only one of them turned out to be 21.  “I’m sorry guys, I can’t serve the two of you,” I said, handing them back their cards, “Can I bring you a coke or something?”

“You can brang dey Hennessey like I ask.”  LemonJello said, starting to get pissed off.  “I can’t serve them any alcohol because they’re not 21 and I don’t want to get fired.”

“Jus brang da damn dranks, dude, we ain’ gon’ tell nobody!”  The third guy, Cheeto said.  “Sir, I’m not going to serve you, there’s no point in continuing to ask.  I’ll gladly bring you something non-alcoholic, but nothing from the bar.”

“Man, fuck you, we ain’ gotta take dis bullshit, we drank heah all da time!  Dis jus cuz we black.”

“Sir, this has nothing to do with your being black, this has to do with me wanting to keep my job and not serve someone who’s underage.  If you continue to talk to me like that, you’ll be escorted out of here.  Now, do you want something to drink or not?”  They got up and left.

The next two tables weren’t hateful or anything, they were just cheap bastards.  I had to clean up three spills from one womans little groin spawn who couldn’t have been more than 2 years old and who shouldn’t have been sitting without a booster seat to begin with.  Her mother decided to let her drink from a regular cup, claiming “My baby don’t need no kiddie cup, she a big girl now.” I tried to prove otherwise by bringing a kids cup anyway, only to have her set it aside and let the brat try to drink out of her cup.  Three times she spilled it, and her lazy mother refused to even try to clean it up.  She just waved me over.  They left me nothing.

The next table of the night had to be the worst one of all, and while they were there a couple of regulars that I love came in.  They were black, and yes, the race matters and you’ll see why after I tell you about this table.

It started out a woman and her two kids.  I’ll name then LaSqueeshia (mother), ShaMarion (son), and Qualatisha (daughter).  The son and daughter were real names, I didn’t find out the mothers real name.  Anyway, they sat down at one of my tables and started waving me over while I was taking an order from another group.  I tried to ignore them so I could answer questions for my table, and LaSqueeshia started yelling quite loudly “Can we get a servah ovah heah?  We been waitin fa 10 minutes already.”  They hadn’t even been sitting for 2 minutes, much less 10.  I finished my order and put it in, then grabbed some bev-naps and went to my new table.

“Sorry for the wait, everyone, how are you tonight?”  I asked as cheerfully as I possibly could.

“We done ate dinnah, we jus came ta have some dessert.” LaSqueeshia said.  “What all ya’ll got?”  I picked up the menu and opened it to the dessert page, and pointed out a couple of the good ones.  “Do dat cake get some ice cream?” she asked, pointing at a chocolatey delight.  “No ma’am, but you can get some ice cream with it for 75 cents extra and believe me, it goes great with that cake.”

“Why we gotta pay exkra if it tase good wit it?”  one of the kids asked.  “Because the ice cream doesn’t come with it, so you have to pay for it if you want it.”

They ended up ordering a big dessert that they could share, two waters and a sprite.  They stayed for an hour, with momma on the phone most of the time.  More of the family showed up, including two ugly women with the wrong weave in.  After about 45 minutes of my checking on them and them not answering me, I went and printed their check out and drop it off.   Since they hadn’t asked for it, I stopped by the table behind theirs to see if everything was okay, it was a party of 6 from out of town and I was chatting with them, just having a good time with them trying to get a tip.  For the record, this also was a table of black people.  As we were talking, one of the bitches from the dessert table turns around and looks at me, and yells “We ready ta go, CHECK PLEASE!”  I looked up and held up my hand in an ‘I’ll be there in just a second’ gesture.  I stayed with the table for a couple of minutes longer and told them I’d be right back.

I walked the few steps to LaSqueeshia’s table.  “Hey there, ladies, how was everything tonight?”  None of them bothered to answer me.  “Are we all done with this?” I asked, pointing to the dessert.  The woman who’d yelled at me waved it away and kept yapping on the phone.  I took the plate and told them I’d be back to take care of the check whenever they were ready, and went back to what I was doing.  My regulars were sitting across from them and the 6 top was still sitting on the table behind theirs.   I went by to chat with my regulars, who’ve been my regulars for close to a year now, and was talking to them for a few minutes.

While I’m talking to them, I suddenly hear the same hateful voice that yelled for the check, “We ready ta pay, why you ain’ comin ovah heah!”  I told my guests that I’d be back in a second and went back to my bitches.  “All ready to go, ladies?”

“You bettah brang us back every penny of da change,” she replied.  “No problem at all, ma’am, just give me a moment to cash this out.”  I walked away.  The check was 11 and some change.  I wasn’t hateful toward these women at all, I answered their questions happily and they were just hateful the whole time.  So in the end, I made sure they got exact change.  6 of it was in dollar bills, the rest in quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies.  “Ladies, be careful with the book theres a bit of coin change loose inside.” I said with a minor smile on my face, and walked off to my regulars again.

I sat talking to them for a little while.  Their names are Deborah and Leonard, they’re an awesome middle aged couple with two kids, one in high school and one about to start college.  They have a bit of ghetto to them but they tip, they’re nice, and I have had fun with them since the first time they came in.  Being that I’d only had problems with black tables that night, I asked them honestly, “Am I doing something different with my black guests and not realizing it?  Why is it these people are treating me so bad tonight?”  I honestly don’t believe that I treat black guests any different than white, mexican or any other race of guests, and neither did Deborah and Leonard.

Deborah replied, “I didn’t notice anything different from how you served your other tables, why do you ask?”  I told her about the other tables, and how I’d been stiffed 6 times already through the night and it was all from black guests.  She was shocked, and I asked again, “I just really need to know if I’m doing something to deserve it or make them think I don’t want to be serving them!”  They assured me that there was nothing wrong with my service, but I still wasn’t reassured.

The guests that I had to serve Sunday night were most assuredly reenforcing the stereotype of blacks in restaurants and it really pissed me off that I was the one having to deal with it!  I don’t consider myself a racist by any means, but after Sunday night I was seriously close to losing both my temper and my beliefs.  Sunday night is the reason that servers in the majority don’t want to serve black guests.  I haven’t let it change me though; I still welcome any and all guests in the hopes of getting a tip from them and that will never change, but after getting stiffed so many times in one night from one racial group only, and being told by guests of that same group that I did nothing wrong in my service, I at one point threw down my swipe card, yelled that I was going on break and I didn’t care who watched my section and I stormed out the back door to smoke and calm down.

Oh, and the party of 6 from out of town that I had so much fun with left me nearly 40 bucks on a 130 dollar bill,  didn’t know anything about any of the other guests that had stiffed me during the night, were black and awesome.  I treated them the exact same as the other 6 tables.  Was it just something different about the people in general?

Maybe I just need a vacation…by the way, if you consider me a racist because of this post, I hate it.  I am only telling about my night, and hopefully showing you that although some black guests do perpetuate the stereotype, they’re still not all bad no matter how many bad seeds you have to deal with in one night.  I still made a hundred bucks Sunday night, despite my stress.  I can however see why most servers feel the way they do about black guests because it’s painfully obvious that even if you do nothing wrong, the majority of them still don’t tip.

Ribeye

This post has been too long in coming, and for that I apologize.  Working two jobs is Hell on my schedule.

This past weekend, we got busy.  Not just busy, we got our asses stomped into the ground.  It started when I went in on Friday.  I’d just gotten off work from Job #2, at 3:30 pm, and walked into Job #1, the Restaurant at 4.  I enter, wondering just when I started being unhappy when coming to work

When I come on, I’m told that the closers are not going to be in until 6:30 or later, leaving me with two very new ladies and one semi-new lady that tends to freak a bit when she gets busy.  I choose to treat the closing server’s sections as “pick up” sections, meaning any of us that had time would continue to pick up the tables that sat in those sections.

All looked to be pretty simple at first,  we started out dead.  A couple of tables go down in the other sections, so myself and Ms. M the newest both step up to the plate and pick them up.  Another goes down in one of the open sections, and Ms. M greets them.  I notice that Ms. M has 3 tables, one of them very ghetto, and she’s started to get a bit flustered.  Let me tell you something about Ms. M.  I LOVE Ms. M.  She’s not one of the younger crowd that’s been getting hired lately, and she’s not a brainless drunk like most of those that have been hired lately.  She’s coming from a bar up north where she was a bartender and didn’t have to deal with a computer system like we have, or an extensive menu like we have.  I can understand why she gets frustrated, it’s a lot to take in when you haven’t done it in a while.

Ms. M has also been quite disappointed lately with the money we’re making.  I can’t blame her there either because I was making double what I am now last summer.   Ms. M started freaking out a bit at 3 tables because she’s not used to it, and another went down.  I didn’t know she was getting in the weeds so when I noticed it, I immediately jumped in and started picking up the tables on her side of the game room.  Somehow, I ended up with 8 tables by the time the closers finally show up.

Ms. A and Mr. S show up, and I’m slammed and behind.  The kitchen has crashed and food is taking forever.  I’m guessing they weren’t expecting to get busy.  I wasn’t either based on the past few weeks.  They walk up about the time I’m asking people to get ice cream for milkshakes from the kitchen.  Ms. A has an overnight party she’s trying to get out of working.  “Ms. A, can you run to the kitchen real quick and grab enough ice cream for two shakes, this ticket is already running 10 minutes.”

“Well….I’ll do it if you’ll do something for me…”  I assume she means closing for her, which I can’t do as I have to be up at 7am the next day to make sure I’m awake to get to work by 9.  Now you see why I’m so tired all the damn time.  I reply, “I can’t tonight, Ms. A, I’m sorry.  Can you get the ice cream or not?”  She doesn’t answer, but walks away to talk to another server leaving me fuming and ready to snap her little head off.  This is the girl who says “I’m so much older than 18 mentally and emotionally, I’ve been through so much more than anyone else my age.”  What the fuck ever, honey, every 18 year old says that, no matter what they have to go through.  We all grew up too fast, so stop whining and do your job.

Ten minutes later, I’m still wondering why nobody has gotten me any ice cream.  I’m now asking managers to go, and none of them have time to do it because they are dealing with the fuckups of all our new serving staff they shouldn’t have hired.  Keep the vets on the weekends, put the newbies on the day shifts.  During all of this, it’s now 5 minutes till 7 and I’m still waiting on appetizers that I put in at 6 and earlier.  I didn’t even realize things had been in the kitchen for so long because I didn’t have a chance to look at a clock other than for the milkshakes.

Finally, after 10 more minutes, I manage to convince Ms. A to get the fucking ice cream, after yelling at her that I was serious about needing it and she was standing around doing nothing.  That’s not really too new for her, she’s one of a new breed of server that embarrasses me to no end, the lazy bugs.   The two shakes that I literally waited for 30 minutes to get because I couldn’t get to the kitchen myself for ice cream have now been bought for the table, as well as the two appetizers that took nearly 40 minutes.  Now that I’m more caught up, I run to the kitchen to yell about the food I’m missing for the other 6 tables that are waiting.

Then I see something I always dread:  The General Manager has taken a position on the Expo Line.  General Managers are not supposed to work in the kitchen, they are purely in the restaurant for show.  They are supposed to stay away from us peons, and from his little Demi-Managers that work the floor, safe in the office doing administrative things.  When they get in the kitchen, the General Manager will always get a type of power trip when it comes to the expo line because they always think they know how things are supposed to be.

This GM is no different.  I’d been wondering why a couple of my tables got chicken sandwiches instead of wings, and a table got a gardenburger instead of a cheeseburger.  I’d been wondering why instead of cheese sticks a table got potato wedges.  They don’t look anything alike, especially not on the KDS expo screen we use.

None of that really matters though, because the GM can do no wrong when he/she is working the expo window.  They never send out the wrong food because they are “incapable” of making a mistake.  This one is worse than normal, because he doesn’t just fuck up a couple of times in the shift, he stays on the line and fucks us out of our money all fucking night long!  Not only that, but if you try to ask him the ETA on a table’s food, you get your head chewed off and spit into the ground.

THIS one had the nerve to tell us that he read the tickets correctly, and that we were just ringing in the wrong orders.  We were the ones fucking up apparently, not them.  We were the ones who were ringing up potato wedges instead of cheese sticks, despite the ticket clearly showing the correct order and the inept food runners (all except for one) not caring and still running the food like little Latin drones.

Needless to say, Friday night was Hell.  It was pure Ghetto and Redneck Hell, and I made about 70 bucks on over a thousand of sales because of it.  These weren’t understanding people, they were trash.  I’ll get more into the guest interaction from the weekend on the next post, but there was lots of screaming, lots of cussing, and lots of me calling people “Dick Cheese Eating, Cooze Slobbering, Inbred, Cock Stained Bastards”.  That, among others including the words Dick Cheese and Cock Stain, were regular phrases coming from the mouth of the Ribeye this weekend, along with threats of walking out and quitting to find better work.

I’m not going to quit in the forseeable future, I know that change will again come, that money will get better, and that half or more of these new hire morons we’ve got will be gone.  I’ve just got to be patient.  I’ve been there too long now and done too much to just throw it away.  I’m at least going to wait until I have my dental work done before I do anything, because I think I may try to go into management.

Here are some of the things to look forward to this week, as I’m using this week to talk about the Hell of this weekend.  Some highlights of the upcoming posts:

• “Why da fuck do deez wangs gots bones?  I axked fa da drums, day ain’ got da bones!”
• The Vanishing Money
• More Dick Cheese
• Camel Toes that just shouldn’t have been
• Many dirty little girls that couldn’t have been legal with many ghetto guys that were far too legal
• The Ranch Drinker (did I finally serve Springs1?)
• Finally, Me snatching the drink from the hands of a girl with no ID that looked like she was 12 and thought she was smart.

I’m looking forward to it.  I’m also planning on getting a long awaited Round Table up this week, probably Thursday on that one.  I’m actually off work on Thursday and I can’t wait for it!

See ya soon!

Ribeye

The past few days at work, I’ve had a lot of trashy rednecks in town.  I don’t know where they’re all coming from, and I don’t really care as long as they leave as soon as fucking possible.  I can only handle so much of these fuckers counting out exact change, to the fucking penny and refusing to leave a tip.

Last night was the best.

I had a table of 7 rednecks, 4 adults and 3 inbred kids.  I started off like normal, “Hey everyone, how are you today.”

“Ya’ll got some drank specials?”  asks the first guy.

“Well, we have our happy hour right now, you get a dollar off drafts and half off on well drinks.”

“What’s a well drank?  That mean a jack and coke?” he asks, pulling out his can of skoal and making me want to puke as he puts it in his cheek.

“No, sir, we mean things like rum and coke and bourbon and coke, amaretto sours, house margaritas.”

“So I can get a captain and coke if I want and it’ll be half off.”

“No, sir, captain is a more expensive liquor, it’s going to be regular price.”

“What about Busch? How much is a can of Busch?”

“Sir, we don’t have cans, and we don’t offer Busch here.  Would you like to hear our draft list?”

“Naw, just brang me a budweiser in a bottle.  That’s gon’ be 2 fah 1 righ’?”

“No sir, bottle beer is not on happy hour specials.”

“Well what the fuck is on this Happy Hour since ya’ll don’t give no two fa one beer?”  He picks up the bev-nap off the table and spits in it and I throw up a little in my mouth.   I explain the specials to him again, and he gets a bud draft.

“What about for you, ma’am?”

“Don’t talk to her, shes gon’ get waddah. Make it extra special and brang her some lemon too.”  Rednecks always want to order for their wives, but don’t want to let them get anything real to drink.  The kids end up getting water too, and all the guys get budweiser drafts.

“If the draft is a dollar off, that means it’s gon’ be a dolla righ’?”  one of the hicks asks as I walk off.  This one smells like a garage, and has a mullet.  Another thing that just makes me want to hurl.

“No, sir, it’ll be 3.50.”

“What?” he hollers. “That’s too damn much for a beer!”  well this ain’t the bar on the side of the road either, dumbass.  Go back to Mississippi if you want cheap shit.

I still end up getting the beers.  They order the wives a cheap cheeseburger each, but with no fries, thinking it’ll make the meal cheaper.  Sorry, not McDonalds.

One of the guys orders a Philly.  I very clearly ask him, “Would you like peppers, onions and mushrooms on your sandwich?”

“Just a can of mayo, nothin else.”

“Mayo it is then, sir.”  I walk off and put the orders in.  They try swiping a bank card on a coin machine, knowing they have to have a game card I laughed.  Then they asked me if the games were a quarter.  Nope, sorry, go to a regular arcade.

They bitched about the price of things the entire time they were there.  I wasn’t there to deliver the food, so I don’t know that the first guy is pissed off about something.   When I do get over to check on them, he still doesn’t tell me anything’s wrong with his philly, seems to be eating it no problem.  I don’t see that the mayo isn’t on the table and he doesn’t mention it.

When I bring the checks, I start to walk off when one of the she-hicks yells at me, “Hey, waiter, where you goin?”

“Can I help you , ma’am?”

“Why is my brother having to pay for that sammich when it ain’t right?”

“What do you mean?”

“It posed ta have the veggies on it, and mayo!”

“No, ma’am, he only wanted mayo.”

“Is you callin my sister a liah, boy?” up walks dippin Philly man.

“No, sir, I’m merely telling her what you ordered.  I asked specifically if you wanted anything else on your sandwich and you told me, and I quote, ‘Just mayo’. If you had a problem, why didn’t you tell me beforehand, I would have gladly fixed it for you.”  I wasn’t rude about it, just firm.

I ended up having to get the philly taken off.

I see them counting out change.  10 dollars worth of quarters, nickels and pennies.  No dimes, that would have been too much.  There’s no tip, either.

I hooked the women up with cokes, feeling bad for them.  I made their whiskey and cokes when their beers were done, and I made them heavy like they asked.

I’m the one who yelled halfway across the game room : “Well thank ya’ll so very fucking much for your generosity!” when they stiffed me.

The night didn’t get much better either.  This inbred trash was in all night long, trying to order cans of beer, bitching about prices, and leaving no money.  I was ready to stab a few of them before they left.

Had one argue with me, telling me it wasn’t illegal to smoke inside a public place and he wasn’t putting the cigarette out.  I told him either it was going out or he was, and he tried to tell me it was his “American Right” to smoke indoors.  I’m all for the rights argument, I wish we could still smoke inside.  Too bad.  He flipped ashes on my floor and that was it.  I snatched the cigarette from him, sprayed it with the soda gun, and tossed it in the trash.  He left yelling how he was going to have my job.

Take it buddy.

This weeks been bad enough money wise, but Fanfare is coming up.  More hicks.  And I’m in bowling tonight, the ghetto capitol of the restaurant.

Somebody shoot me.

More later,

Ribeye

Yes, I know it’s been a long time since I’ve posted, and I know it’s been a couple of weeks since we had a new Round Table.  I’m going to get a new Round Table up on Monday.  I’m also going to make some changes to the RagingServer store, and the theme.  The site’s moving to a new server, same domain.

I’ve been a little tired the past couple of weeks.  It’s that time of year again, when the high school brats start to graduate, families come in town, and all come to make my life a living hell.  It doesn’t help that I’ve started my new job as of this week (2nd job, still serving) at a local golf facility and that’s making me a little irritable when I get to work at the restaurant.

I know you’ve all wanted to hear about Mothers Day, and I’m not going to let you down.  I wanted to strangle small children.  I don’t know what it is about Mother’s Day that makes people think they get everything free, but it happens year in and year out.

This year, my first table of the day was one of those discount junkies. It was a table of 6, 4 little screaming brats, the Mother, and the Baby Daddy.  Momma doesn’t want to wait for me to go to the table and proceeds to get up and waddle to the bar to get a drink.  I manage to overhear a few snippets of the conversation she had there while I waited for it..I mean her, to return to the table.  Included but not limited to the following:  “Hennessey..”  “dat’s too damn much”  “fuck dis shit”.  Fun times already.

When she finally waddles back to the table, a few things jump out at my attention that I hadn’t noticed before.  This bitch had some fake nails, and they were fucking huge.  We’re talking 2 and a half inches at least.  They were painted black with gold glitter, and they curved in like the talons of a demon.  More shocking than the nails were the fact that they were only on one hand.  How the fuck do these ghetto assed women eat or do anything with those gigantic nails on their hands?  I’ve seen servers try to wear them and work, and they were the laziest of the bunch!    These nails in the picture are about a quarter of the size but you get the idea.  Anyway, I walk up to the table and have to wait for a minute before I can talk because the fucking crotch stain kids wouldn’t shut up.  “Momma I gon’ get some wangs.”  “Day gon’ brang some roll, Momma?”  Finally, I’d had enough and I more or less shouted at them, “Hello everyone, how are you?”  They shut up right quick when I raised my voice.  Momma Jaquandria puts one of those talons in my face in a ‘hold on’ gesture.  “Let me axe you a querstion.”  I hear ghetto speak every day, but the words ‘axe’ and ‘querstion’ in one sentence was almost too much for me and I nearly burst out laughing at her.

Instead, I felt the need to subtly correct her.  “Yes, ma’am, ask away.  I’ll be glad to answer your question.” If she got the hint then she didn’t let me know.  “Why is ya’ll Hennesey be chahge so much?”   It took me a second to translate, and I’m getting pretty fluent at translating ghetto.  “Excuse me?  I didn’t quite catch that, ma’am.”

“I axed you why ya’ll Hennessey be chahge so much, dat too much money to pay fa some Henny.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, I didn’t make the prices I just follow them.”

“But dis be Muttah’s Day, we pose ta get ouah drank fa fray.  Dat what da commercial say.”  There was no commercial.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but you must be thinking of another restaurant.  We haven’t run any Mother’s Day commercials, especially ones that say we give away free drinks.  That’s illegal here.”

“Well I wan’ my drank fray, you need ta get yo managah fa dat false advadisin.”  I can see how this is going to end.  Thankfully, I was backed up on the no free drinks.

The entire table ordered wings, with the two adults getting double orders.

The food comes.  “Why deez wangs ain’ crispy?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Deez wangs ain’ done, day ain’ crispy at all.”  She shoved a half eaten, fully done wing in my face.

“Ma’am, the wings are fully done, but if you’d like me to have them fried a bit longer I’ll gladly have it done for you.  It’s going to be another 15 minutes or so though, the kitchen is really slammed right now.”

“Dat mean it be fray right?”  I took back all 8 orders of wings, sat them in the window for about 10 minutes and brought them back out.  “Now deez is some wangs!  You gon’ haff ta brang out mo’ ranch fa deez.”  I really wanted to stay and see how she ate the wings with those nails, but I was in a hurry.  I’m going to assume she just sucked the meat off of them.  Grand total of 2 oz. ranch sides:  26.  Total ranch eaten:  All of it.

Toward the end of the meal, they’d finally pissed me off beyond return.  “Ma’am, I’d appreciate if you could keep your children from throwing their bones onto the floor.  That’s what the big bowl in the middle of the table is for.”  She responded by throwing a bone onto the floor in front of my face, then asking for the manager.

They ended up paying for the entire meal, and stiffing me on a 90 dollar check.  I wasn’t surprised as they were nothing but ghetto trash.

The rest of the day was much like that table, and by the end of the day I just wanted to down a bottle of aspirin and sleep for a month.

Do us all a favor, and eat with your families at HOME on Mother’s Day, not out in public.  You know who I’m talking to.

Ribeye

It’s been slow at work. It’s been slow at work all week long. I’m tired of going to work to make no money. I know the economy is slow, but come the fuck on. Not only is it slow, but the only trash that is coming out to eat is trash that doesn’t want to leave me a tip.

Tonight, in the bowling alley, it was a swirl of ghetto redneckyness. I had a couple of really nice lanes, ones that tipped me around 35%. Those two lanes didn’t make up for the other 7 I served that didn’t leave me jack shit!

First we have Deflanaqueesha and her kids. “Hey you!” I hear while I’m at another lane. “Is you our waitah?” I still don’t know who is yelling at me so I choose to ignore it and keep taking my order. Then I feel the tapping on my back. Within seconds, the tapping becomes a light beating and I finally turn around. “What the Hell is your problem?” I yell before actually seeing that there’s a little boy standing behind me.

“My mommah wanna know if you is our waitah. She say if you is ta come ovah here.” The little brat ran down to the next set of lanes and proceeded to yell to his mother, “Dat man yell at me mommah.” This little fucker couldn’t have been more than 6-7 years old. Knowing what I was about to get myself into, I chose to continue taking my time.

When I finally did get to their lane, Deflanaqueesha didn’t give me a chance to talk. “Who da Hell do you think you is yellin at my baby like that? How the fuck dare you?”

“First of all, ma’am, your child came to me while I was with another guest. Your child didn’t let me finish doing what I was doing before he started yelling at me. YOUR CHILD chose to start beating me in the back rather than wait for me to finish doing what I was doing, so yes ma’am, I yelled at your child. I apologize, I lost my temper, but I’m not going to have some little kid beating me in the back when I’m busy doing my job!”

“How is you gon’ talk to me like that? I am the customah, you need to treat me with respect.”

“Well how about this, ma’am. I won’t disrespect you, and you keep your kids at your lane with you and supervised, like they’re supposed to be. What can I get for you to drink.” She muttered under her breath about me for a bit but I had to keep her from going off on me somehow. She ended up getting half her food comped for being “cold” with steam coming off of it, and left me a dollar on a 30 dollar check. Fucking dirty assed snatch licking whore.

Then we come to the rednecks in the pool room. I hate rednecks. I hate them with a passion. I walk into the pool room which my co-workers had been neglecting for the most part, and I see a group in the corner. They have drinks and food, so I don’t think anything about checking on them. They weren’t my guests. I walk past them and go on to the people I was already serving.

Once again, I hear yelling. “Hey boy.” I ignore it, not sure if they’re yelling at me or not. I hear another yell, this one more centralized and much closer to me. “Hey waiter!” Fuck you, bastard, I don’t respond to the names ‘boy’ or ‘waiter’. I turn around, and I see a tall, maybe 6′6 or so, and stocky white guy wearing a red and white striped polo. He’s got an empty beer bottle in his hand. “I need anotha beer, boy.”

“I’ll make sure to tell your server you need another one then.”

“We done paid her, why don’t you go get me one. Brang us some shots uh Jager too.”

I can see just how drunk these mother fuckers are already, so I just kind of smile and nod and walk away. Less than a minute after I get back into the bowling alley, Big Red comes around the corner yelling, “Wheres da Jager at?”

I think maybe his girlfriend was embarrassed at how he was acting out in public, because when I finally rang in an appetizer sampler for them, 15 dollar check, she tips 5 bucks and writes “Sorry bout everythin” on the bottom of her credit card slip. I personally think that Big Red was a bit abusive with how she was cowering every time he came close to her.

Apparently he and his friends got a little pissed off at how much their pool tab came up to because they were pissed as hell when it came time to pay for it. The door “bouncers” and manager made sure they were escorted out afterwards.

This is the kind of shit that happens on a slow night. This, and the 38 bucks I made before tip out on an almost 600 dollar night of sales.

And people wonder why I hate working in the bowling/billiard area where I’m forced to serve nothing but trash. I don’t know why I keep getting screwed over there, but it’s really starting to piss me off. The game room is where I’m strongest, and where I make actual money despite having to serve trash within the great people.

If you’re going to act like you’ve caught the dumbass, if you’ve caught the dumbass, or if you’re just plain stupid, don’t bother coming out in public. Your actions cause people to plot your deaths….vividly.

Ribeye

As an add on to the original post, I’d like everyone to take the time to visit the RagingPartner’s site, FrontDeskBlog.  It chronicles the life of a Front Desk Manager for a hotel.  Funny stuff there.