Ranting by Dolomite
Hello kiddies, old Dolomite is back with another fun little story. Last month, we all met Brian, the ex-marine. This month there is no featured guest spot in the story. It is just old Dolomite hanging out and getting liquored up. Well, attempting to get liquored up anyways.
Now last month, I mentioned that I did not have much time, what with an internship and a job to help pay the bills from the internship. Well, money is still tight, but it is good enough that I can enjoy specials beyond quarter drafts. Last week, me and a couple buddies went to import beer night. It was packed. Thank God for pre-gaming. Four quick shots and a beer in the car helps make the crowds more tolerable. The three of us manage to get a table in the back. A few minutes later we have a waitress asking us for drink orders. We stick with Canadian beer, mostly because we are here to get intoxicated, not extend our meager palates.
After an hour, our waitress hands us our tabs and tells us she got a phone call and she is leaving, even though there is an hour of special pricing left. We pay our tabs and give a generous tip to compensate for the sad tale. She tells us that our new waitress should be with us in a few minutes. Ten minutes go by. Ten more. Dan goes to the bar and gets a couple rounds. Those rounds are quickly drained. With fifteen minutes left to the special of the night, our waitress finally makes her way to our table. She hands us our previous bills.
After a terse conversation, she manages to accept the fact that we had paid our tabs and would like beer. Then, with more than ten minutes left and the place emptying out, she tells us its last call. Dan walks away in disgust. My brother orders two beers for himself and two for Dan. More angry than thirsty, I order ten beers, as though I was daring her to say something about it. She shrugs and tells us she would be back in a few minutes.
Dan comes back with a round of blues and disgust for the waitress. Being the nice guy that I am, I mutter that maybe she is just new and doesn't know her way around. That is when my brother tells me to look behind me toward the bar. There, gabbing with a table of wannabe-Eminems is our waitress. Each of the stupid fuckers had their hair faded, white T-shirts, and loose-fitting denims on. Three had visors (the visors were each turned around the head and flipped over). On the table next to her is a tray with twelve bottles of beer. Our beer.
Normally, and soberly, I would simply report her to the management. If this was over chips or fries, I would yell over to her. If I had more money, I would ditch the bitch and hit another bar. However, I had ten dollars left and I had ten beers coming to me. The count was perfect thanks to the special. And quite frankly, the pregame buzz was already just a dehydrated, smoke-filled headache waiting to explode into a righteous fury of cursing and violence. Then the bastards began to drink my beer.
You read that right. The five assholes began to drink the beer on the table and place the empty beer bottles back where they had gotten them. No exchange of money, no movement beyond the immediate area, such as getting more from the bar or anything of that ilk. All they did was smugly drink my beer and flirt with my waste of ovulation that is uniformed as a waitress. Dolomite is angry!
My brother and my friend try to calm me, giving me their beers. But this was beyond beer. This had nothing to do with alcoholism. This was about property. Then, as if it were meant to be, it happened all at once.
First, the barman rang the bell to call the end to the special. Then the waitress, remembering that she was working in a bar, came over and handed me twelve empty or half-empty beer bottles. While I was stunned by her utter lack of professionalism, she went and got me the bill (the quickest thing she did all day). It had all twelve billed to me (two were my brother's) and all were regularly priced, she printed out the order after the special. Something in me snapped.
My brother was the first to notice. I was no longer shaking. I was no longer breathing heavy. And I was actually smiling. My friend Dan inched himself slowly away from the table. He had never seen me like this, but he had heard drunken tales. I turned my head slowly to the waitress and asked to see her manager. On my face was a sweet-natured grin and my voice was soft. The only thing that gave away my anger was the mild twitching by my right cheek and the fact that I was not blinking. The waitress huffed a breath of insolence and stomped off toward the bar. In the meantime, one of the Slim Shady impersonators decided to stand up and go to the bathroom. I politely excused myself and told my brother to explain the situation to the manager if I was not available.
Less than a minute later, I returned. The manager just beat me to the table. The situation was slowly explained, with many points to the four remaining thugs and the stupid girl, who was currently hanging all over another set of guys across the bar. The manager looked at the beer bottles, then at the bill, and finally at the waitress. He refunded our money and gave us a twelve pack to go, courtesy of our waitress and her now smaller pay check. As we exited the bar, the fifth thug stiffly walked out of the bathroom on his tiptoes. He was covered in crap and had toilet paper wrapped all around him. He made his way over to his table and started yelling at his friends. He pointed to me and then toward his pants. He pulled them down slightly and yelled some more at his friends. One of them then reached into the ass of his pants, struggled a little (the fifth's face a full visage of pain), and pulled out a soiled and rolled up visor.
My brother and Dan just stared at me for a moment, and I could only shrug. Then Dan asked my brother why I did that after beating the kid senseless. I replied for my brother: "Because he stole my beer, he was a wannabe thug, he wore his visor backwards and upside down, and he stole my beer!" The night ended with us singing Our Lady Peace songs while drinking the free beer.
Dolomite