It is my understanding that some of you out there may have been offended by yesterday's Blog, let me assure you that I've got the rest of you in my crosshairs of hate.
When you're a waiter, you learn a lot about people.
People come from all walks of life, some are old, some are young, some are content with the complimentary wine and free salad and soup that comes with a five dollar meal, and some people want to replace the salad with a cup of French onion soup and melted cheese, and you just can't do that asshole because you're an ungrateful bastard, and maybe if you seemed like a nice person I woulda let it slide, but here you walk in like you deserve it, like I owe it to you, like it's not bad enough that I'm your indentured servant.
And you know they're not gonna tip you more than two dollars, even though you had to spend twenty minutes convincing the cook to melt cheese on the fuckers soup, and then go through negotiations with the owner for ten minutes to allow it to happen.
.... and some people dance to the beat of their own drummer, this is called Parkinson's. That's right, that jittery old lady boppin around in her chair doesn't have the music in her soul, she's got a debilitating disease, and my god is it funny.
I'm standing at the bus stop this morning trying to hitch a ride to the mall, so I can transfer out two counties and find a connecting line that leads me a block from my house when one of these sweat old things, I'll call her Fidget, does the salsa up next to me,
"Is this the where 27 stops?" she asked me politely, bobbing her head in a circular motion like a dashboard baseball figurine,
"I think so," I said, and already I'm in the same groove as her, not to mock her, but just so I can keep eye contact.
We wait patiently for a few minutes, and I let her hold my coffee for me, hoping that somewhere in her groove she mixes the sugar better than I had, but then something horrible happens.
A group of rowdy teenagers makes their way up to the platform, no doubt on their way to smoke the reefer behind some government building. They always travel in packs, and spread sorrow and grief wherever they roam. I am aware of that mean streak that is so powerful in teenagers, and I know that they have a way of mocking the oddities of others,
"well, they can't mess with my Fidget," I said to myself eyeballing these rowdy teens all holding their band instruments, and giving their retainers reassuring tugs, "I won't let them make Fidget feel inhuman,"
I see that they've noticed that Fidget is in the groove, and we're mere seconds away from the first Rowdy Teen Comment, I had to do something, and I had to do it quick.
"SHE'S POSSESSED," I screamed at the top of my lungs, picking up Fidget and throwing her sideways into oncoming traffic.
Right before that Mac Truck sent her hurtling skywards she gave me this sort of smile, and nodded her head..
"Don't mention it Fidget... Don't you even mention it," I said
When you're a waiter, you learn a lot about people.
People come from all walks of life, some are old, some are young, some are content with the complimentary wine and free salad and soup that comes with a five dollar meal, and some people want to replace the salad with a cup of French onion soup and melted cheese, and you just can't do that asshole because you're an ungrateful bastard, and maybe if you seemed like a nice person I woulda let it slide, but here you walk in like you deserve it, like I owe it to you, like it's not bad enough that I'm your indentured servant.
And you know they're not gonna tip you more than two dollars, even though you had to spend twenty minutes convincing the cook to melt cheese on the fuckers soup, and then go through negotiations with the owner for ten minutes to allow it to happen.
.... and some people dance to the beat of their own drummer, this is called Parkinson's. That's right, that jittery old lady boppin around in her chair doesn't have the music in her soul, she's got a debilitating disease, and my god is it funny.
I'm standing at the bus stop this morning trying to hitch a ride to the mall, so I can transfer out two counties and find a connecting line that leads me a block from my house when one of these sweat old things, I'll call her Fidget, does the salsa up next to me,
"Is this the where 27 stops?" she asked me politely, bobbing her head in a circular motion like a dashboard baseball figurine,
"I think so," I said, and already I'm in the same groove as her, not to mock her, but just so I can keep eye contact.
We wait patiently for a few minutes, and I let her hold my coffee for me, hoping that somewhere in her groove she mixes the sugar better than I had, but then something horrible happens.
A group of rowdy teenagers makes their way up to the platform, no doubt on their way to smoke the reefer behind some government building. They always travel in packs, and spread sorrow and grief wherever they roam. I am aware of that mean streak that is so powerful in teenagers, and I know that they have a way of mocking the oddities of others,
"well, they can't mess with my Fidget," I said to myself eyeballing these rowdy teens all holding their band instruments, and giving their retainers reassuring tugs, "I won't let them make Fidget feel inhuman,"
I see that they've noticed that Fidget is in the groove, and we're mere seconds away from the first Rowdy Teen Comment, I had to do something, and I had to do it quick.
"SHE'S POSSESSED," I screamed at the top of my lungs, picking up Fidget and throwing her sideways into oncoming traffic.
Right before that Mac Truck sent her hurtling skywards she gave me this sort of smile, and nodded her head..
"Don't mention it Fidget... Don't you even mention it," I said
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