Crap Friday

No, this isn’t a condemnation of religion. I mean no offense to Judas, Pontius Pilate, Jesus, or even Mel Gibson. It’s just that the night celebrated as Good Friday turned out to be horrible. I presume it’s just Spring Break and not the beginning of the end, but it seems like every decent tipper in this town was shipped out and was replaced with a cheap facsimile.

The difference between a good happy hour and a great one is when people come in and where they sit. Since Mary-Kate comes on at seven-thirty and takes the tables, if I have customers seated at tables, the only place where new customers can sit is the bar. Although there was a moderate crowd for happy hour, everyone seemed to come in when Mary-Kate came on and sat with her. (Yes, I hate them and their ass face. Name the movie.) That left me with the douche bag of the night. I never got his name. He sat at the bar and ordered a snake bite, lager and cider. When he ordered the drink, I could tell it wasn’t his first. I sensed that he was buzzed, but I had no idea. He wasn’t too problematic. He was quite quiet, except that he kept talking to himself. Since I don’t carry a DSM-IV with me to work (my bad) I don’t know how serious an issue it is. I find drunks who talk to other customers more of a problem, but I figure when they talk about the guy who started shooting up the place, they probably won’t describe him as “gregarious,” they’d probably say that he kept mumbling to himself. I kept wanting to say something, then he tipped me thirteen on seven, so I let him ramble on. I, eventually tired of it, and said, “Look, dude, you have to stop talking to yourself. You’re freaking me out.” Then he mumbled something about a taxi and that was my next call. He left without incident.

With exception, every other Friday is Vagtastic Friday. That’s when I’m behind the bar with Kimi and Aoife. For my birthday, Kimi made me a t-shirt that says, “I ♥ Vagtastic Fridays.” I wore it as an undershirt, but when I showed them, they said my regular shirt had to come off. Now if I’m at work and not wearing my flame-retardant, asbestos suit, I feel a bit naked. So wearing this shirt made me feel a little uncomfortable, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then I did. It’s one thing to share a joke amongst a few friends, but once you’re showing off the word, “Vagtastic,” customers, women especially, might think you’re a bit off. I remember eating at a Subway years ago and an employee had a hat which said, “Don’t Suck Corporate Cock.” I don’t know if he saw how his hat and Subway apron clashed a bit. In any case, I really got thrown off when a woman asked me the meaning of “Vagtastic.” i was stumped. I told her that it meant I was surrounded by vag. But then I totally disregarded the “tastic” part of it. No, it’s not because I drive a Miata, it’s because being surrounded by vag implies a state of tasticness. Are we clear? Good, because either am I.

I googled “Spring Break” and learned that it is Sioux for “one dollar tip.” Jesus fucking Christ! It seemed, with rare exception, that no matter how big an order, the tip ended up being a dollar. Whether paying cash or signing a credit card, it was a dollar tip. Now if I sell a five-dollar bottle of beer and get a dollar, I’m grateful, but when I make three vodka red bulls, a gin and tonic and rum and coke, and get a dollar on forty-four, I’m a little disappointed. I had one guy order a Stella, two Amstels and a coke for twenty-three dollars. He handed me nineteen-fifty. I asked if he had a credit card. No, he’d come back with the rest. You know what I learned from this transaction, half-dollar coins are still in circulation. The worst part about it all is that these cheap cunts were our only customers. It was dead and there was nothing I could do but passive-aggresively groan. On a busy night, you can pick and choose who you serve. On a slow night, you’re just grateful to be doing something. And, yes, it was an impossibly slow night.

It felt good to ring the “last call” bell. I normally bellow “last call,” but I didn’t want to frighten the six customers left in the bar. I pray that it’s just a holiday weekend thing and not the great recession rearing it’s ugly head in Santa Monica. Christians call it Good Friday and no offense to them, but to me it was Crap Friday.