LOBSTER NIGHT AT THE KEG

I’m thinking about the worst part of waiting tables. It had to be the night before rent was due, and you were about a hundred bucks short. You were a hundred bucks short because of all those nights after you banked 100 in tips you promptly went out and blew it on drinks. “A round for the house!” you would holler, and two chicks would be rubbing up against your thigh. Suddenly you were a big shot, a big spender, a high roller, and you should have been able to predict that when the bar shut down those girls would carry your drunk ass out to their car and drive you home, and pretty much just dump you out at the curb. When you checked your wallet the next morning it was empty. It was empty and for a moment you wondered if those chicks had rolled you. But then you vaguely remember hollering “A round for the house!” and arm wrestling Ronnie Barrington for 20 bucks. All one had to do was take one look at Ronnie to know THAT is a really stupid thing to do.

And now here you are the night before rent is due. You’re a hundred bucks short, the crowd is thin, its not even Lobster Night, but the four top left you 20, and the six top 30. Its fifteen minutes to close, everyone is doing sidework and the next table to come in will be yours. So there is hope. One good table and you are in. The door opens. It’s a party of five, notoriously big tippers! You are grinning from ear to ear. Grab five menus, head to the door. “Hey ya’ll! Welcome to the Keg!” and you lead them to the best table in the house. Pull the chair out for the ladies, shake hands with the fellas. Open for business like a cheap bordello. And that’s when the head of the table says “Thank you Steve. Is Bob here tonight? If Bob is here, we’d like him to wait on us if that’s OK. Is that OK Steve?” Fucking Bob. Every hair in place, drives a Vette, sells gold on the side, plays scratch golf and ya just want to kill him.