Who could possibly imagine that the Local Hero's piggish behavior could ever come back to haunt him? After countless months of walking past the sign asking him to please wait to be seated, of leaving terrible tips, of forcing employees to look at his dopey face, an opportunity for revenge was revealed--and the server was quick to take it. Is the Local Hero completely oblivious to the bad feelings he brings with his every visit? Is he unaware of the enemies he has created, waiting in the shadows for the opportunity to strike? Apparently so.
The Local Hero, being a Local Hero, is not accustomed to waiting. He and his dining partner habitually help themselves to a place at the bar, no matter who may be politely waiting in line to be seated before them. The only time they are ever in a position in which they’ll have to wait is if the bar is either full or dirty. On this particular occasion, a swell of unexpected business had filled every table in my dining room--the six unoccupied seats were covered with dirty dishes. The server, the unhappy soul saddled with every possible duty that can exist on a restaurant’s floor, was planning on clearing the mess at the bar as soon as he had dealt with every other possible thing that had to be dealt with.
On the way to the bar, the Local Hero and company walked past the counter, fully expecting their places at the bar--those directly in front of the sushi chef--to be set and waiting to be blessed by their locally heroic bottoms. “There’s a wait,” the server said. “You’ll have to sign in on the sheet.”
The Local Hero stopped, taking a full four seconds to process this information. He peered at the server over his granny glasses as if to say don’t you know who I am but the server had already walked away to attend to the countless duties that awaited (but not without looking at the clock to ensure that a minimum of thirty minutes would pass before the Local Hero could even hope to get a seat at the bar). Somehow, the server’s absolute lowest priority had gotten even lower.
The Local Hero and the large-nosed woman waited on the couch outside the dining room with a dejected air about them. They did not talk to each other. Perhaps they were silently mouthing prayers from their creepy cultish religion in order to pass the time, having long ago in their relationship exhausted all possibilities for interesting conversation (I imagine that this exhaustion occurred during their first date, somewhere in the neighborhood of the nineteen-minute mark--and that’s considering the bovine rate with which the Local Hero’s words are issued from his dopey mouth).
The server, in his countless trips from the dining room to the kitchen to unload armload after armload of dirty dishes, was met each time by the silent stares of the Local Hero and his companion. He could feel their impatient eyes upon him, yet he refused to acknowledge their presence with even a cursory glance.
This game was played countless times over the next thirty minutes. The server, like a hero of myth, gained power every time the Local Hero and his companion cast imploring looks. The Local Hero was losing by degrees, a tiny rent had appeared in the paper bag of his ego. Maybe I’m just another person, he may have thought, no better or worse than anybody else. Look at me, waiting for a seat in a restaurant like a commoner. If thoughts of this nature did indeed fire in his sputtering brain, I’d like to congratulate him for being at least somewhat on track. I’d like, however, to point out one flaw in his thinking--the Local Hero is far worse than other people
The wait for his sushi and the company of his beloved chef became more than The Local Hero could bear. He was forced to seize what little bit of power he could. The Local Hero arose from the couch, marched past the counter and to the still-cluttered bar, and said the following to the chef (who neither acknowledged him nor met his eye):
“We waited for a half hour. We were going to eat here, but . . . “
And with that he shuffled out of the restaurant. I shudder to think how long it may have taken the Local Hero to craft such a parting shot--I dare say it must have taken the bulk of his time spent on the couch. On behalf of myself and the workers inside me, I would like to say that we will consider ourselves zinged. We dropped the ball, and because of it we have missed out on the pleasure of the Local Hero’s company and the insulting tips--amounts better suited to, say, a cup of coffee--he continues to drop into the tip jar. (And, yes, again we bear witness to another fool deluded enough to think that his absence is a form of punishment.)
Let me close with this. If you are a creep who leaves bad tips and never returns to a certain restaurant, so be it. You are a creep, and I guess in your reptile brain you’re winning in you’re own creepy little way. If, however, you are a creep who continually returns to the same restaurant and leaves shitty tip after shitty tip, it is going to come back and bite you on the ass. Think of it this way, repeat offenders; you are not only tipping for the service you have just received--you are also tipping for the service you will receive on your next visit. Ever wonder why a server seems to go out of the way to treat you like garbage yet gets along swimmingly with everyone else in the room? It might be time to do a little old-fashioned soul-searching.
Yet another master-post. I wait with bated breath for the next.
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