REALLY? Is the world your own little holodeck? Did your meds wear off because you are wearing on me. A withered Ruth Buzzie sits down at the bar with a half drunk Rainier. Her face filtered through straw colored hair, the bags under her eyes packed for a long flight to nowhere.
There is nothing right about this woman, but I pass the chance at judgment and give my customer, service. I spread my lips cheek to cheek and ask what I can do for her. Her neck cocks back and forth like some bird in a mating ritual. I muster my best zookeepoer as I enter the cage.
“Can I get something for you?” I say.
She begins the head bob mumbling incoherently. After the third time I get, “A small Caesar salad.”
Professional that I am I place the order for this unfortunately Middle-Earth inclined individual. At this point a bearded and pony-tailed, middle-aged gentlemen sidles up next to this washed up Endora and orders a glass of wine. It’s mine choice, he says. As any good salesman I go with the $13 Pinot.
The Caesar brought, pepper wrought she begins the neck jerk again, this time with an open mouth. Dear God, please tell me she is not going spew the contents of her stomach on the bar? Please. Please? The last thing I need is Dinty Moore in the ice well. It’s only 8:30n fer chissake!
At this point the man with pulled back hair does the same with his bar stool, “Is anyone seating over there?” he points to the other end of the bar.
“Not at all,” I say, as I move both wine and water away from our dilapidated scarecrow. He then grabs my arm. Making sure that the breasts, I mean the girl next to him got a drink on his tab. This would be fine except our elderly Fraggle is acting up. As her silverware hits the plate I can see she is done with her salad.
I lean in and politely ask, “Can I get you a box for the rest?”
“I SAID I WANTED A SMALL SALAD!” She says as she shoves the plate my way with a flip of the hands. I remove the plate, place it in the bus tub and breathe deep. A half Caesar comes to $3.01. I lay the tab on her and immediately she shouts, “I DIDN’T ORDER THIS!”
I am not kidding. As soon as I removed the salad and replaced it with a 3 dollar (that’s $3!) tab she refused. I gave her a chance, but when I saw her put on her jacket (turquoise and purple, the color of crazy people everywhere) and walk out the door of her own discord, I was relieved. I lucked out.
When crazy hits the pan it usually hisses, spits and burns, scarring you. Fortunately tonight, the flash jumped out of the pan before it scarred the cook.
