My friend Luke and I have known each other for over thirty years and I've shared a few stories of our misadventures together. It would seem that when you place the two of us on the same patch of earth, some seriously strange shit happens. More brothers than friends, Luke and I have also been roommates at various times throughout our lives and I have to say, there's never been a dull moment.
Before we go any further, let me describe Luke to you. I don't think that I've ever described Luke before, not on these pages, anyway. Please realize that I am going to poke a little bit at him in my description, mostly because I'm an ass, but it's basically accurate. Luke is a stunted, little, rotund man... I kid. Luke isn't very tall. He probably claims to be 5'8', but I think he's more like 5'6" and he's been going bald since before the day I met him. Hell, he's been going bald since before he went into the womb. Luke wears glasses and is definitely one of the most Jewish looking people that I've ever seen, so just picture a short, tubby,balding Jewish guy with glasses and you've pretty much got Luke.
Okay, now that we've got that bullshit out of the way, I need you to bear with me for just another moment, because I need to build this next bit o' bullshit up a bit, so I'm going to go off on a bit of a tangent.
I once worked as a DJ at a posh nightclub in Miami Beach, FL, back in the mid 80's. Now, before you can say to yourself, "Holy fuck! How fucking cool was that?" let me clarify things a little bit for you.
It wasn't exactly posh and it wasn't exactly a club, either. It wasn't exactly Miami Beach and if I'm going to be honest, I wasn't exactly a DJ, although I did a pretty shitty job of pretending to be one. Let's break this down point by point, shall we?
Point #1 It wasn't exactly posh and it wasn't exactly a club, either. It certainly wasn't posh until the lights were off and as for being a club? Well, it was, but it wasn't. It was a shitty little dive bar, or "club", if you will, that was tucked away in the basement of the Marco Polo Hotel, a hotel that was fairly well regarded and did serve an international clientele. The "club" in the basement was still a fucking dive, but in its own way, it was totally fucking awesome. I realize that this was actually kind of, sort of two points, but don't you try to play your math fuckery games with me.
Point #2 - It wasn't exactly Miami Beach. Well, it wasn't. Not even close. It wasn't even within jerking off distance, but it was fucking close enough, okay? The Marco Polo is actually located in Sunny Isles, FL, which is the northern tip of Miami-Dade County, so it's in the same county, which makes it fucking close enough, okay?
Point #3 - I wasn't exactly a DJ. Well, I was, but I wasn't. I mean, it was my job title and all and I did play music, but to say that I failed in fulfilling any part of my responsibilities would be putting it mildly; I was the worst DJ ever, but I can make a mean motherfucking mix tape and that's basically what I did all night long, make mix tapes. How I got this job is a story in itself, but that's a story for another day. I could go into all of the reasons why I sucked as a DJ, but let's just say that I didn't give a fuck and I played whatever I wanted to, was an absolute wanker and constantly fucked things up. Pretty much the same shit I always do. Trust me when I say that I excelled at that job.
Anyway, even the worst DJ ever has to have DJ equipment and I bought myself all kinds of stuff, mostly tacky shit like disco balls, rope lights, strobe lights, revolving police lights, etc. My bedroom looked like the set of a bad 70's porn film. The Feng Shui was fucking great though, let me tell you, even if I have no clue what the fuck Feng Shui is.
Blah, blah, blah... This sure is taking a long fucking time to tell a relatively short story.
Anywho, around this time, I was having some medical issues that were causing me to have a lot of horrible migraines. The headaches were non-stop and would last for weeks on end. It turned out that the strobe lights and all of the other flickering lights would serve as triggers for the migraines and sadly, my light show had to go. Bummer.
Luke and I were roommates at the time and I mentioned to him that I was looking to sell my lighting equipment and he told me that he was interested in purchasing them. We negotiated a price and they were his. The lights disappeared into Luke's bedroom.
Months went by...
I'd met this girl Kim and it was our first date. We'd gone out to dinner and then headed back to my place for a little Betamax and chill. Luke had a date as well and he was supposed to be gone all night, so Kim and I had the apartment to ourselves. Betamax and chill, yeah baby! Just as things were about to get hot and heavy, fucking Luke comes busting through the door along with his date, Irma. Irma. Seriously. Who the fuck names their child Irma? What the fuck is wrong with people? Anyway, those two shitheads come busting through the fucking door like fucking gangbusters, drunk giggling and totally cock blocking me, Fuckers.
Luke stopped long enough to chat for a moment and introduced the girls. I was screaming, "Get the fuck out!" the entire time. I didn't really scream it out loud, but I did think it right to his face. I was giving Luke some serious stink eye coupled with the universal look for you need to get the fuck out of here before I set your ass on fire. Luke didn't get my subtle hints and both he and Irma continued their cock blocking. Luke walked into the kitchen to get a drink and I followed, coming up behind him and whispering into his ear, "If you don't get the fuck out of here, I'm going to set you on fire." In my defense, I did say it as nicely as I could. Luke, being the perceptive little cock blocking motherfucker that he is, managed to absorb that subtle hint and he and Irma made themselves scarce, disappearing into Luke's bedroom, giggling like drunken idiots, which they were.
Luke's bedroom went dark.
Back to business...
I turned out the lights in the living room and then Kim and I got back to some Betamax and chill. I was in the middle of, "Praise Jesus, I'm about to get some!" when the room lit up in shades of red as the laser light show in Luke's room started up. The blue rope lights were next and then the blue strobe.
Wtf? I felt like I was about to have sex in the middle of an airport runway. Kim and I looked at each other, perplexed.
"Does he have an airport in there, or something?" Kim asked me.
And that was when we heard Luke's voice, just as loud as could be.
"Better watch out, this plane's coming in for a landing!"
"Can he fly that plane and land it?" Kim asked me.
"Surely you can't be serious," I said.
"I am serious... and don't call me Shirley." she answered.
I fucking lost it. Just the thought of that tubby, little bald fucker sailing through the air, hoping for a one point landing sent me off into maniacal madness and laughter. I started giggling and then I was laughing so hard that I fell out of where I was and off the couch. Thankfully, both the floor and my face broke my fall.
The next thing we heard was a loud thump, followed by another loud thump, which was in turn followed by a scream and then another scream, both so loud and shrill that I couldn't determine if they came from a man or a woman.
Irma came running out of Luke's bedroom.
"Luke's been hurt," she said.
I lost it all over again. How the fuck do you hurt yourself while fucking?
Kim and I jumped up, fixed our clothing and ran into Luke's room, where we found him splayed out on the floor and he wasn't moving. I knelt down to help Luke while Irma explained what had happened. Evidently, Luke had made his landing approach, bounced off his water bed runway, sailed through the air and managed to hit the floor in a perfect belly flop of a heap. I started laughing again.
Kim, Irma and I managed to lift Luke off of the floor. We dropped him. Twice. I shit you not. Luke screamed out in pain both times and all that I could do was giggle uncontrollably. I suppose that I should have felt bad, but I didn't. Fuck that, it was funny.
The three of us were able to drag Luke's ass onto the couch (sorry about that wet spot, bro) and he just laid there whimpering. Whimpering and cock blocking me. Look, I know he was in tons of pain and all, but I just wanted to get laid and here was my supposed best friend, keeping it from happening. What kind of fucking friend does that?
Luke wanted to go to the hospital. I wanted to get laid. The selfish little prick wanted me to take him. We were at a bit of an impasse.
"I'm not carrying your ass down three flights of stairs," I told Luke. "Besides, I'd have to drive your car. There's no way you're riding bitch on my bike."
Irma shot me a look that made me feel as if I were the most horrible and selfish person on the face of the planet. It made me feel good. It made me feel proud.
"I'll take him to the hospital," Irma said.
Good luck with that.
"No one is driving my car anywhere," Luke told her.
I knew that line was coming and Luke had just painted himself into a corner and I still wasn't getting laid. Who was the selfish motherfucker now?
In the end, we called 911. Just fucking great. More red lights, more people invading my apartment and more of me not getting laid.
Fucking roommates...
The paramedics checked Luke over, strapped him to a gurney and carried him out of the apartment. No matter how hard I wished for it to happen, they didn't drop him on the way down the stairs. Doesn't anyone care about my happiness?
I'm going to get all technical and shit, so bear with me for just a moment please...
You can skip reading this part, if you really want to.
Flunitrazepam, also known as Rohypnol, among other names, is an intermediate acting benzodiazepine used as an hypnotic, sedative, anticonvulsant, anxiolytic, and skeletal muscle relaxant drug. In general, the prescription of flunitrazepam as a hypnotic is intended to be for short-term treatment of chronic or severe insomniacs not responsive to other hypnotics. Flunitrazepam has been referred to as a date rape drug even though its incidence is very rare in cases that have been reported.
Flunitrazepam is known to induce anterograde amnesia in sufficient doses; individuals are unable to remember certain events that they experienced while under the influence of the drug. This effect could be particularly dangerous if flunitrazepam is used to aid in the commission of sexual assault; victims may be unable to clearly recall the assault, the assailant, or the events surrounding the assault.
And you can start reading again here, if you went ahead and skipped out on all of that bullshit.
In case you haven't figured it out by now, Flunitrazepam, or Rohypnol, more commonly known as Roofies, are best remembered as a date rape drug. In modern parlance, getting "Roofied" is the term used to denote a drugged drink and a possible sexual assault. This wasn't always so.
As Don McLean sang in American Pie,
"A long, long time ago..."
It was probably around 1985, or so; some years on the timeline are a bit hazier than others. What I really mean to say is that some years are just a fucking blur, fueled by copious amounts of drugs, alcohol, easy money, even easier women and decidedly fast times. All of South Florida was a real life set for Miami Vice back then and the lines between art and reality would often blend together.
While the Earth might revolve around the sun, South Florida in the 80's revolved around two things, money and drugs. Money and drugs are the lifeblood of Florida, they always have been and they always will be; it's just a simple truth. Florida is a smuggler's paradise like no other, a nexus point where cash, cocaine and marijuana fuel a high flying lifestyle.
In those days, I used to get my weed from Val and her husband, Mike. Val was definitely the alpha dog of the pair, while Mike always seemed to be little more than an extra in the background, drunkenly puttering around and occasionally engaging in conversation. I had been scoring weed from them for years and what had originally started as a strictly business relationship had, over time, evolved into a genuine friendship. Occasionally, that friendship would provide access to some special treats. Hey, when I'm a good boy, sometimes people throw me a bone.
One particular day, I was getting low on weed and I gave Val a call. She told me to come on over and I did. I showed up at her house, she rolled a few joints, we got high and we hung out for a bit. There seemed to be an undercurrent of sexual tension between the two of us, there always was, but neither one of us ever acted upon the impulse. Shame. I'd have plowed that field like Mr. Green Jeans on a lawn tractor.
Val mentioned that she and Mike were going out that night with some friends and she asked if I wanted to tag along. I didn't have any plans for the evening, so I accepted her invitation. That was when she told me that she also had a single female friend named Jackie, who was also tagging along and she wanted the two of us to meet, because Val thought that we might like each other. I gave Val a look that could have melted steel and she just smirked. Fuck. The last thing that I wanted was to be fixed up on a blind couples date.
Val also mentioned that she had some special party favors for that evening, something called "Roofinal" that Val described as a South American Quaalude and how many did I want?
Quaaludes? Val certainly had my attention. Quaaludes were a fun drug that made the rounds during the 70's and early 80's. Quaaludes, also known as Ludes, Disco Biscuits, etc., had been illegal for years and I hadn't seen one in a very long time.
Yeah, I was definitely interested.
Never one for half measures, I told Val that I wanted two of the little white pills and she handed them over to me. Val baited her next trap with the offer of free food. That's some seriously unfair fuckery, right there. You can get me to agree to just about anything if you feed me. Need a date for a wedding, bar mitzvah, or funeral? Is there free food? I got your back. Toss in some free booze and I'll even pretend I love you. Oh yes, me love you long time, baby. Val asked me if I wanted to stay for dinner and I told her that I would, but that I wanted to go home to shower and change first, since I had been tricked into meeting someone.
Val smirked again and then she mentioned that Jackie would also be having dinner with us and then she confessed that it would really only be the four of us going out that night.
I'd just been completely bamboozled. Again. Fuck.
Bitch was still smirking. She was really fucking proud of herself and her Jedi mind tricks.
I headed home and I thought of not coming back, but I really didn't want to risk losing my best weed connection over something so silly. That would have been really fucked up.
When I got back to Mike and Val's, Jackie had already shown up and Val introduced us. Jackie was tall, thin and very cute with a pair of boobs that were outfuckingstanding. That old AT&T commercial jingle played in my head...
I wanted to reach out and touch someone, alright.
Val disappeared into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on dinner, while Mike broke out the booze and started mixing drinks. I rolled a few joints and we passed those around. I'd say that we were all fairly comfortable by the time that we sat down to eat.
When dinner was finished, we took our drinks into the living room and we smoked a little more pot. Okay, a lot more pot. Val suggested that we should take the Roofies and we did. I tossed mine down with a rum and coke. It was going to be a great fucking night...
It was the early morning sunshine that woke me up. It was streaming in through the window and it was bitch slapping me across my face. I cracked open one bleary eye, winced and wondered just where the fuck I was and if anyone had caught the license number of the truck that had hit me. I tried to think. It fucking hurt. A lot. Slowly, very slowly, I began to piece together the events of the night before. Dinner, drinks, pot, Roofies and ??? I had no fucking clue. I slowly scanned my surroundings and realized that I was still at Mike and Val's house and still in the same position that I last remembered. I must have passed out, but at least I knew where I was. I felt relieved.
I closed my eyes again. I was tired, so tired.
I smelled coffee and something else. Bacon. It smelled like heaven. I slowly realized that Mike and Val were both awake. Val noticed that I was stirring and she asked me if I wanted some coffee. I declined the coffee and I apologized to both of them for passing out on the couch the night before.
"What the fuck are you talking about"? Val asked me.
I was confused. Well, even more confused than I normally was. What the fuck was Val talking about? I had passed out on the couch and had woken up in the exact same spot, hadn't I?
Hadn't I?
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I shot back.
"We went out last night. Don't you remember?" Val asked.
"Remember what?" I asked. "You're full of shit, Val. Quit fucking with me."
"Quit fucking with me," Val said.
Was there a fucking echo?
"Bullshit," I said, "The fuck we did."
"The fuck we didn't. You might want to take a look at your hands," Val told me.
And so I did...
What the fuck? My hands were covered in stamps from different nightclubs, while several bands from others adorned my wrists.
What the fuck?
"Okay," I said. "Would someone care to fill me in on just what the fuck happened last night?"
Val explained that we had left the house and headed for South Beach, where we started drinking at The Clevelander and then made the rounds of the local bars like horny tomcats on the prowl. We finished up at the Button South in nearby Hallandale, where we were thrown out at closing time, which was five a.m., or was it seven. Who the fuck remembers?
Certainly, I didn't remember a fucking thing.
There was more, a lot more. Fuck. There's always more, isn't there? Evidently, Jackie and I had been very friendly throughout the night, becoming even friendlier as the evening wore on, until we became about as friendly as two people can possibly get, right there in the fucking club.
Sex? I didn't remember any sex. And it was in the fucking club? Get the fuck out! Where the fuck was I? Sex? Like with another person kind of sex? I had all of this sex, in a club, with a real live person and I couldn't remember a fucking thing. Now that, was super fucked up. Was it good? Was I good? Did I give her the best 90 seconds, or less, of her life?
Apparently I must have, because Val had the impression that Jackie had the impression that the two of us were now a couple.
What? A couple? A couple of what? Ohhhhh... Oh, shit.
How the fuck did I get here? My head swam.
I was so fucked. What the fuck did I do and how the fuck did I get a girlfriend out of it?
"I'm going home," I announced. "I'm going home and I'm never leaving again. I think I'm going to crawl under a rock and stay there until I die."
Val smirked and said, "I can't wait to see you try and talk your way out of this one." And then she giggled.
Bitch.
I vaguely remember the drive home and when I finally fumbled my way into my apartment, I dragged myself into the bathroom and pretty much fell into the shower. I turned on the hot water and I emptied the tank, staying under the water until it was so cold that my teeth were chattering and my balls were blue, their natural color. The ringing of the phone pulled me out of the shower and I wrapped a towel around myself as I went to answer it. I face planted getting out of the tub, taking the shower curtain and the curtain rod down with me. It's okay, my face cushioned my fall.
I made it to the phone just as it stopped ringing.
Son of a bitch.
The answering machine picked up the call. It was Jackie. Apparently I had given her my number. Even worse, I had made plans with her for that night. What the fuck had I been thinking? I was so incredibly fucked. I picked up the phone and I tried to talk my way out of it, but everything that I said sailed right over Jackie's head. Yeah, I was fucked alright.
Jackie and I went out that night and it was like we came from two different planets. I talked about how wonderful it was to be single and I swear that crazy bitch didn't hear a word I said. She kept talking about our future. What future? Us? She was out of her fucking mind. We had a date and a sport fuck that I couldn't even remember and I wasn't even sure if I liked her or not and here she was, planning our wedding and picking out the names for our kids and shit.
After dinner, Jackie asked if I wanted to go back to my place. Okay. Who am I to say no? Why would I want to? As all men know, crazy bitch sex means crazy great sex, but it comes with a steep price; you have to pay for the crazy. It's okay, though, you can pay on the installment plan, they call it a relationship.
And I was curious to see what I had missed. Well, I hadn't missed it, I just couldn't fucking remember it.
Judging by the great sex to completely fucking bonkers scale, Jackie was a twelve out of ten. Shit, I still have scars on my back from that girl.
She left a note on my pillow before leaving in the morning. I found the notepad that she wrote it on. She had doodled all over it, variations of my name, such as Mrs. Steve M., or Mrs. Jackie M.
What the fuck? She was even crazier than I had previously thought, but the sex was incredible. I knew that I had to get rid of her and I had to do it soon, but damn, that woman could do things that, just fucking wow. I tried and I tried to get rid of her; I even broke up with her three fucking times and she just kept coming back and I kept having sex with her. She was into the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing and I felt trapped. Jackie started talking about marriage and she was serious, so I did the only thing that I could do and I tried my best to make her hate me.
Shit, I just had to be myself.
It worked. Our relationship unraveled in less than a month and she gave me the whole, "It's not you, it's me" talk.
Now that night, I remember. It was the best fucking night ever...
So many of my stories start like that. Let's change it up a little, shall we?
A long fucking time ago...
There, that looks a lot better.
Let's continue.
A long fucking time ago, I worked at an upscale Italian trattoria named Bruzzi, located in oh, so fucking chic Aventura, Florida. The food really wasn't all that spectacular, but the place was new, trendy, and cool. Okay, it really wasn't new. Previously, it had been owned by Patrick Swayze, but it hadn't been an overpriced pizza joint then. It had been a 50's themed diner kind of place that made the staff sing and dance and shit on command. Yeah, fuck that. It failed miserably. However, Bruzzi was still trendy and cool, although I don't know what was all that fucking cool about it. The restaurant was an interesting place to work and by interesting, I mean it was a fucking nightmare. The clientele was a jetsetting crowd that felt as entitled as they were rich. These folks thought their shit not only didn't stink, but tasted delicious too. Outrageous requests, extremely detailed special orders, to the point of constructing their own meals from various items on the menu and generally just being the neediest motherfuckers and the biggest pains in the ass on the face of the fucking planet. However, the money was incredible and shit tastes great, for the right price. Money makes up for a lot. Oh yeah, it certainly does.
Sometimes we served the famous and infamous, too. There was the time that I waited on Perry Farrell of Jane's Addiction. It was during his Porno for Pyros days and Perry was a totally cool cat, if a bit eccentric. Dude paid using a Porno for Pyros gold card. Awesome shit. Perry grew up in nearby North Miami Beach and he went to high school with a lot of my friends. Have you ever noticed how it is that when someone becomes famous, everyone that they went to high school with is their best friend? Not with Perry. No one admitted to being his friend, but the guy was a legend at North Miami Beach Senior High School and most notably remembered for running and screaming naked through the halls.
So many crazy things happened in that place and my co-workers were all so delightfully demented. There are many tales to tell of my time there and a few of those stories will make an appearance here, whenever those stories are ready to be told.
One night, when the restaurant was slammed, which was every night, I was seated a party of four that consisted of two older Jewish couples who were obviously transplanted New Yorkers. As I greeted them and took their drink order, I silently prayed for them not to order hot tea and I repeated this mantra over and over in my head.
"Please don't order hot tea. Please don't order hot tea," I thought and I thought and then I thought some more. The two old ladies ordered hot tea. Of course they fucking did. I don't know why I bother pleading and whimpering to the invisible sky people, because that shit never works. It's either that, or the invisible sky people like to fuck with me. More likely, I'm just fucking insane. Take your pick, one choice is as good as another.
I got their drinks and delivered them to the table, dropped them off and politely asked if everyone was ready to order. They informed me that they needed some extra time and I took off to go do some waiter shit, like fuck off, smoke a cigarette, take a bake break, or whatever else I could sneak away and do, in order to avoid actually having to work. Look, we had food runners, service assistants, bussers and all sorts of other support staff and I had to tip out every single one of those bitches. Fuck that. Let them do all of the hard work. I just needed to look pretty, take orders and sling that shit.
As I was making my way back through the dining room, one of the old ladies flagged me down by snapping her fingers at me. I winced. There's some shit that you just don't do and snapping your fingers at your waiter is one of them; it's incredibly rude. Normally, I'd look a snapper directly in the eye, smile and walk the other way, because fuck you. But for some reason (it must have been a bake break) I maintained my calm, professional demeanor and I made my way over to the table, thinking that they were ready to order.
Before I go any further, I really, really, really need to describe this woman to you, it's essential to the story. Picture an old Jewish woman, around nine thousand or so years old, as wrinkled and shriveled as a prune, with the bluest grey hair that you can possibly imagine and a voice that I don't even know how to begin to describe with the written word, but I can do a perfect imitation of her voice. You really need to hear the voice, it's a key ingredient. Maybe I'll do an audio version of this story on YouTube. I've often heard that I have the perfect voice for radio. As an aside, I've also been told that I have the perfect face for radio, too. I'm not sure how to take that. What do you think? Want to hear a story? Anyway, back to her voice. Imagine all of the wonderful attributes that I just mentioned and combine them with a voice that was as dry as cracked parchment and pure gravel. We're talking fifteen packs of smokes a day, chased with whiskey kind of gravel. And of all of this pleasantness was accompanied by a raspy, wheezing noise that she used to punctuate her words.
As I approached the table, she grabbed my arm, which is the ultimate no-no, looked up at me and she said, "Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)."
To my credit, I didn't grab her by the back of the neck and bash her fucking prune face into the table. Don't ever fucking touch me. I'll shank a bitch.
Instead, I apologized and removed the offending kettle of hot water from the table, returned it to the kitchen and I made her a completely fresh set up. I brought the hopefully hotter water back to the table, apologized once more and set the kettle down in front of her. She placed her hands around the kettle, which was a thick, glazed stoneware.
The old woman grunted, looked up at me and said, "Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)."
I tried to explain to her that she wouldn't be able to feel the heat through the thick stoneware, but she would have none of it, demanding that I bring her hotter water. I once again removed the kettle from the table, went into the kitchen, emptied it and refilled it with scalding hot water from the espresso maker. I returned to the table, apologized again and put the kettle back on the table.
Her shriveled and bony hands shot out, encircling the kettle and then she made that angry grunting noise again.
"Oh, shit," I thought, "Here it comes."
"Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)," she spoke with what sounded like her dying breath. I wished I was that lucky.
Oh, for fuck's sake. This was starting to take up entirely too much of my time and I had other tables that needed attending to. This shit was really starting to get on my last fucking nerve. I was now officially in the weeds, which is restaurant speak for being completely fucked and so far behind that they need to send a search party out to find your sad, sorry ass. From all appearances, I was about to become Dr. Fucking Livingston, or so I presumed.
I snatched the fucking kettle off the table and I dashed into the kitchen, except this time, I exchanged it for a teacup and I filled that fucker up with boiling water, threw it into the microwave and I watched that shit boil like a motherfucker. When I was certain that the old bitch would burn the living fuck out of herself, I ran the hot water back to the table. The water in the cup was still bubbling, as I placed the cup on the table in front of her. I didn't apologize. Fuck that shit.
The old crone shot me the evil eye as her hands grabbed the tea cup.
I smirked. There was no fucking way. And then my arrogant, self-satisfied smile slithered away.
"Waaayytah... (wheeze) My hawt tea (wheeze) isn't very hawt (wheeze)."
Get the fuck out. Are you serious? Are you fucking with me? There was no fucking way, No fucking way. That fucking water was hot enough to fucking maim. Bullshit.
I completely fucking lost it.
I bent down next to her and I spoke into her ear, "Ma'am, it's because you're dead. You're dead and your brain just hasn't caught up to your body yet. Now shut up and drink your tea."
It's always so easy to pinpoint that moment where you know that you just fucked everything up. I only wish that I had hindsight for foresight. Fuck.
Everyone always freaks the fuck out when I tell them that part. Y'all know perfectly well that's exactly what I said, because by that point, I just didn't have any fucks left to give. My field of fucks was barren, but still, everyone is always like, "Holy shit! What did she do/say?"
I'll tell you exactly what the evil old crone said and did...
She didn't say anything. because she shut the fuck up and she drank her fucking tea.That's exactly what she did and that was the end of that. No complaints, nothing. I swear, if shit didn't fuck up all of the time, I'd think I led a charmed life.
Generally, I'm very professional and quite unflappable, but occasionally people can take things just a little too far and the customer isn't always right, either. While you're busy monopolizing my time for your petty concerns, perhaps you could explain to my other tables why you feel that you're more important than they are. I grew up around people like this woman, people who believe that the entire world revolves around them. Well, guess what, people? The fucking world doesn't revolve around you, not where I'm concerned. The only way to handle people like that is to beat them at their own game and stand up to them and put them in their place; bullies always fold and ridiculousness deserves ridicule.
Get over yourselves, you're not that fucking special...
For more tales of restaurant mayhem, give this one a try:
When I was a child, there weren't as many restaurants around as there are today. Casual dining was unheard of; going out to dinner was always a special occasion and you were always treated sumthin' fancy. You'd get all gussied up in your Sunday best and hit the town. The choices were pretty limited when it came to dinner and it usually came down to the steak house, the Italian restaurant or the Chinese place. The US in the 1970's was pretty lame when it came to food. It was a lot like television before cable came along.
These days we have every type of theme restaurant that you can imagine and it seems as if every ethnicity is represented. Casual dining and chain restaurants dot every strip mall and fast food franchises churn out their swill on virtually every corner. Competition for your dollar is fierce and many corporate restaurants will go to absurd extremes in the name of guest service while other, smaller mom and pop places can be known for having a fuck you attitude. Good service runs somewhere in between the two.
I have worked in the restaurant industry for entirely too many years. Long years, brutal years, and yes, painful years of suffering, hustling and kissing ass for cash. I have worked high end and low brow, mom and pop, corporate and fine dining. I have mixed cocktails and concoctions for the fancy pants crowd and tossed beers down the bar in smoke filled dives. I've loved it and I've hated it. There have been moments where... Well, best not to say anything that might or might not one day be used as evidence against me. I have always been happy to escape the clutches of the business and yet, I keep getting sucked back in, like an aging lot lizard that can't live without the glory hole and the limelight. It's a crazy, fast-paced and stressful business that takes a special kind of special to not only endure it, but to thrive. Seriously, you just can't even begin to imagine the shit and shenanigans that go on behind the scenes in an industry where most of the employees are just a quick diagnosis away from being institutionalized.
I'm not kidding.
I've seen it all in this business, or at least I think I have, but it seems as if every time that I say that, I then see something even more fucked up than the last most fucked up thing that I saw and you know what? That's really fucked up. I say the same thing about the Internet all of the time and yet I still get surprised. Horribly surprised. The things I've seen that can never be unseen. I live my life a haunted man.
Hold on, I need a tissue. And meds. Oh yes, meds. Yes, lots and lots of meds.
And then some more.
Let me tell you a little story...
Many, many years ago, I worked at a small fondue restaurant in Florida that is a locally owned franchise of a small national chain and it is known as the ultimate romantic restaurant. There is just something about this place that gets a woman primed. It is intimate, romantic, discreet and expensive. If you can't get laid after a dinner at this place, there is something seriously wrong with you, like you have visible signs of leprosy something wrong with you, or maybe you're a Little Richard (for my foreign readers, Richard is a euphemism for dick which is a euphemism for penis, but let's just say cock, because Tourette's) with a tiny, two inch penis, or perhaps you're a chicken fucker or something else that is way the fuck out there in left field, because we both know you're a freak. What I'm trying to say is that it's just about impossible not to get laid after a romantic dinner like that and you would have to go to extraordinary lengths to screw it up. And yet screw it up they did; I saw so many guys go down in flames. No chutes. No survivors.
Sealing the deal; it's not for everyone.
Flinging fondue was a great job, the restaurant was conveniently close to my apartment, the owners were awesome, it was staffed by lunatics, the clientele was super cool and somewhat strange, but most importantly, the money was great, as in cocaine and strippers great. That's not what I really spent my money on, it's just a comparison. I'm way too cheap to spend money on strippers. If I wanted to pay a woman money to pay attention to me, I'd get married.
I really loved working there and to this day, it remains one of my favorite jobs.
One of the few drawbacks about working there (other than the fact that my apartment had the aroma of a fondue restaurant, which is to say that it smelled like burnt peanut oil) was that every time that I met a girl and she found out where I worked, she always wanted to go there for dinner on our first date, so I ended up eating a lot of fondue, but at least it ensured a sure thing and nothing beats a sure thing except for maybe two sure things, but since I know I'll never get two sure things, I'll settle for one. I can't tell you how many times I have had the exact same date; dinner at the fondue restaurant with the same first date conversations, flirting and copious amounts of wine, followed by a short trip to my "special spot", the stone jetty at Haulover Beach and a romantic walk in the moonlight where I'd pull one of my signature moves and then finish it up with a quick drive back to my apartment to seal the deal. It was nice and it was a little something special for both of us; a nice romantic evening for her and another hash mark in the win column for me. Too much of the same thing though, even a good thing and I hate to say it, even too much of a sure thing can start to get a little boring, which it did and after a while it became my own personal Groundhog Day.
Click on the link above to watch the full movie on YouTube.
Fondue is a very time consuming meal where you actually have to cook your own food and pay for the privilege of doing so.
To be honest, the only thing that you actually end up cooking yourself are the entrees.
I can make an amazing cheddar cheese fondue. If you'd like me to post the recipe, leave a comment below.
The cheese fondue is actually made tableside by your Waiter/Waitress.
Most of our customers would order the standard three course Combination Dinner for two which consisted of a cheese fondue appetizer, salads, and an entree platter that was a mixed bag of meats and seafood (chicken, steak, salmon and shrimp). Chocolate fondue for dessert was an a la carte item that was a must have and everyone ordered the chocolate fondue.
An intimate setting, lots of wine and some sweet, warm chocolate will get her motor running, even if you can't.
Romantic, isn't it? Meet my next ex.
The length of time spent on dinner in the restaurant would usually range from two to three hours, limiting the amount of tables that you could work in an evening and having an impact upon the tips you could earn and while the food was fairly expensive, we also pushed wine and that's where the real money was. Selling wine would pump up your check average and more importantly, your tips. If you could sell two or three bottles of wine to the majority of your tables, you were sure to go home with pockets full of cash (actually, you would make it to the bar with pockets full of cash, how much you'd still have left when you got home would be a different story and staying drunk can get pretty expensive). The only other way to make money there was by relying on your personality and by engaging with your customers, meaning that you had to be personable and, well, a little weird. You were a part of the experience, part of the entertainment, like your own little one man Off-Broadway Show. Oh, yeah. Sure. Let me fucking sing and dance for you. A little shuffle and fucking jive. Yeah, I can just picture myself getting all jiggy with it. I'll get started on choreographing a routine right now.
I got moves, mothafuckaz! I got mad fuckin' skillz.
And personable? Me? Whatthefuckever. Hell, I took a personality test once and the results came back negative. I think That I'm more of a curmudgeon than a personable person and I'm also pretty much convinced that I'm just a fucking asshole more than anything else. Have I ever mentioned that I also have the honor and the privilege of being the most well adjusted person that I know? And I could never be considered weird, right?
Shut the fuck up, it was just a rhetorical question.
So, while I might not have much in the way of a personality, I've certainly got bullshit in abundance. Bucket loads of bullshit, that is. Yes, yes indeed. Shit Slingin' Steve, that's me. It has a certain je ne sais quoi to it, don't you think?
One late afternoon, it was my turn to come in early to help open the restaurant up and get it ready for dinner service (we only served dinner). Coming in early was good, because it meant that you would be the first person to start making money and it also meant that theoretically you would be the first person out the door and headed home. I say theoretically because the reality of the situation was such that you could theoreticallybe the last person out the door and headed home as well. It would all depend upon when your last table chose to leave and if they decided to camp out, well, you were screwed. That's just the hazards of the business, life isn't fair and all of that shit, but if I'm making money, I'll stay until the end of time.
As an aside and in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that the term "headed home" was really just a euphemism for going out and drinking all night.
As I was clocking in and getting ready to start setting up the restaurant, there were a rapid series of loud knocks at the front door, which was quickly answered by the owner, Dan (not his real name). He spoke to someone at the door for a few minutes and then he walked over to me and asked me if I felt like taking an early table, further explaining that they only wanted to order the chocolate fondue. Dan said that that the decision was completely up to me, he didn't care and that I didn't have to take care of them if I didn't want to. It didn't take me very long to set up the restaurant and I could certainly wait on a dessert table while taking care of everything else. Besides, it was extra money in my pocket with very little effort on my part and it was good customer service. I told Dan that it wouldn't be a problem. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
Dan walked back to the front door and returned with a party of five in tow. Strutting like preening peacocks through the empty restaurant were three generations of the same family; an older couple, a younger couple and their cute little three year old son who was literally bouncing down the aisle howling chants of, "Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!" over and over again and he definitely wasn't using his inside voice. His father began chanting along with him.
Seriously?
A three year old doing that is obnoxious enough, but a thirty-something year old grown man jumping up and down and screaming, "Chocolate!" at the top of his lungs belongs in the theater of the absurd.
Don't get me wrong, I've always done silly, stupid, funny and cheesy stuff with my kids, but this...
This...
Twenty years later and I still don't have words.
My waiter early warning system began to twitch. Bad. Really bad. Like when your balls really itch something fierce and you're with a bunch of people and you just can't scratch your fucking nuts and that makes the itch even worse type bad. Glory be.
It was pretty obvious that they were going to be a bit difficult.
I began to question the life choices that led me to this moment as my ever present and delightful smile began to crack and crumble.
It was also pretty obvious that they were rich. You could just smell the money on them, they absolutely, positively reeked of it. I hoped that because we were going out of our way to accommodate them that I had a pretty good chance of getting a nice fat tip. So far it looked like mostly shaft.
I'm not exactly sure whom they were showing off for in an empty restaurant, but after the spectacle of their grand entrance, Dave tried to seat them in one of the booths on the main aisle but they would have none of it, complaining that the table might be good enough for the common riffraff, but it certainly wouldn't do for them. Y'know, because they were exalted royalty and shit. After flitting from seat to seat like Goldie Locks looking for the perfect chair that felt just right for her big, fat ass and after a few extra minutes spent fondling different tables, they finally found one that was deemed worthy of their greatness and just as they started to settle themselves in they realized that the little one was missing.
The mother freaked out.
"Where's my baby?" she shrieked. "Has anyone seen my baby?"
Well... maybe the dingo ate your baby...
Burp...
Great. Nothing like having to wait on arrogant, rich, entitled assholes who can't be bothered to take care of their children. This was going to be fun. Lots of fun. Lots of fucking fun. Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. Fuck me.
We split up into search parties and everyone fanned out through the restaurant searching for the kid. After a few minutes, his mother found him hiding underneath one of the tables in the back and she actually bribed him to come back with her. This just kept getting better and better.
The elder gentleman, obviously the patriarch of the family, barked at me and ordered me to bring a booster seat for his grandson. I think he said something along the lines of, "Hey you, we need a booster seat over here."
Yeah. Sure. Fuck you, buddy.
I went to go fetch the booster seat like a good little bitch and then returned to the table, handing it to the child's father. Nobody bothered to thank me. Pretty fucking rude, if you ask me. Assholes.
I started to introduce myself, but the older guy quickly interrupted me. Dick move, buddy.
The older guy then proceeded to explain to me that they were on their way to the airport to drop off their son, daughter-in-law and grandson and that they were in a rush. He told me that he and his wife were regulars and that I must be new because I didn't recognize them (I had been there a year and I had never seen them before and Dan hadn't recognized them either). He and his wife had told the younger couple about how wonderful the fondue was and had promised to take them to dinner but had then never bothered, but figured they were at least entitled to have some chocolate fondue on their way out of town. Oh, and they were in a hurry, so could I, you know, hurry things along?
Okay, you're in a hurry, I get that, so shut the fuck up and order and stop wasting everyone's time by running your fucking mouth.
While he's droning on to me and I'm mentally picturing myself choking the living shit out of him, I look at the table and notice that his darling little grandson has dumped the contents of the salt and pepper shakers onto the table and he now has two little piles sitting directly in front of him. The little bastard looked at me, smiled smugly and shoved the piles of salt and pepper all over the table. That little shit. No one corrected him or said a word.
That's total bullshit.
I bit my tongue. What the fuck did I get myself into this time?
I assured them that I can get them out of the restaurant quickly and believe me, all I want to do is get them the fuck out of the restaurant. I ask them if I can get them started with something to drink and they all ask for water with lemon and they want one for the kid, too, because of course, five glasses of free. Free work that I won't get tipped on. Plus the old guy, who also asked for coffee, because of course he needs a drink for both hands and because of course I haven't had a chance to make any coffee yet and when I informed His Majesty that I would be making a fresh pot and that it would take a few minutes he mentioned something about my being incompetent under his breath.
Fuck that motherfucker. I wanted to punch that arrogant sonofabitch in his arrogant pompous fucking pie hole but I kept my cool, did an about face and went off to get their drinks. I wanted to poison them and I would have, but that's a lot of bodies to hide and I drove a motorcycle. The logistics weren't looking good.
Oh, and we didn't have any fucking kids cups, either, but that was just too bad now, wasn't it? We just weren't that kind of restaurant. Contrary to popular belief, children and large pots of boiling liquids aren't always a very good mix.
I returned to the table with their drinks, passed them out, took their order and turned it into the kitchen. By this time the coffee was ready and I poured a cup and brought it out to the table where I noticed that the little bastard had gotten his filthy little hands on the sugar caddie and had torn open all of the sugar and Sweet & Low packets, dumped them out and scattered them all over the table. It was like he was playing in a sandbox of sugar. That shit was everywhere. Again, no one corrected him or said a word.
That's some great fucking parenting skills right there, folks.
I was perilously close to the edge. No amount of money could make up for this shit.
The old guy asked me if I had any straws for the baby to play with.
Oh shit... Oh no, you din't...
All rational thought went out the window. I fucking lost it. I snapped. Before I even realized what I was saying, I had blurted out, "What's the matter? You can't afford any toys?"
I thought this guy's fucking head was going to explode; like he was going to have an aneurysm or something, His face turned beet red, veins popped out all over his forehead, his mouth fell open and then he freaked the fuck out. I mean he really freaked the fuck out.
"You sonofabitch," he spat at me, "You motherfucker. I demand to speak to the owner. I demand to speak to the owner right fucking now!"
"Yes, sir. I'll be more than happy to get him for you," I said with an evil smirk. Dude should have been thankful that I hadn't stabbed him through the eye with one of the fondue forks. Not only am I Italian, but I know people that know people who know other people that have some friends who might or might not know someone who may or may not be in the mob. but his cousin has a neighbor who knows someone that says he probably might be but he's not certain.
I went to Dan's office in the back and I explained the situation to him. I think he may have been a little pissed off at me and I wasn't completely sure if he had believed my side of the story, but he had to at least half believe me because he already knew they were assholes. I started to worry about losing my job. I liked my job. I liked my job a lot. Not only did I like my job, but I made an obscene amount of money at my job and I really wanted to continue making that money which enabled me to not only ay for my basic necessities, but enabled me to live a fairly lavish lifestyle of expensive booze and cheap women. I decided that I did not want to lose my job.
Dan stormed out of the office and into the dining room. As he approached the family I could see that he was starting to get angry as he took in the full extent of the mess that covered the table. Better yet, the people had now switched tables, because the little bastard had managed to spill his glass of water, leaving a nasty, sticky paste of a mess, so they had changed tables and given the nasty little shit another sugar caddie full of "toys" to play with and which said little shit was currently in the process of tearing open and dumping upon the table.
Dan was so angry I thought his hair plugs were going to pop out. I swear I saw them bulging and ready to fly off like mini mortars on the Fourth of July. I'd never seen him this angry.
I felt a tingle in my mangina. I wish I'd had some popcorn.
The rude, pompous and arrogant old fucker started to yell at my boss, but Dan cut him right off.
"Shut up and get out," Dan said.
The old guy looked confused and then angry. His face wasn't red anymore, it was positively purple. He started to open his mouth to say something, but Dan cut him off before he could utter a word.
"Get out," Dan repeated. "Get out now. Take your things and take your brat and get the hell out of my restaurant. Now!"
I swooned. Dave was my hero. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to make his babies.
All of them started to shout at once but Dan would have none of it.
"Get out. Get out now, or I'll call the police and have you arrested." Dan was pissed. Go Dan! You sexy motherfucker.
"You'll be hearing from my lawyer!" screamed the cranky old fuck.
The old man threatened to sue Dan and Dan laughed in his face. The old man threatened to ruin him, the restaurant and little ol' me.
I did a double take.
Who? Me? Huh? What the hell did I do?
They mumbled and muttered and acted indignant and violated all the way to the door, but they got out. We never heard from their lawyer and we never heard from them again, either. Dan's business didn't get ruined either. As for me, I'd been ruined long before and frankly, I had no fucks left to give.
Bye, bye motherfuckers.
After they left, Dan and I looked at each other and we just shook our heads and laughed. He helped me clean up the mess that they had left and we were able to get the restaurant open on time.
The point that I'm trying to make here is that if someone bends over backwards to accommodate your ass, be gracious, thankful, well-mannered and appreciative instead of being rude, demanding, ill-bred and a complete douchebag. Make sure your children behave. If not, karma is going to turn around and bite you right in the dick and I'll be the one laughing about it.
If you liked this story, please give this one a chance:
One last thing, please leave a comment on the post, here on the blog, Stroke me ego or I swear I will find where you live, get naked and stand outside of your house.
Btw, what happens when you inject human DNA into a goat?
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