A Personal Love Letter to All of the First of the Monthers

Dear First of the Monthers,

          Thank you all for coming to eat at Pizza Place.  I was really excited to have some business today after the last week or so was more dead than the rat that has been rotting in our air vents.  It wasn't until I got a good look at everyone sitting in the dining room that I consciously realized, "Fuck me, it's the first of the  month, God damn it!"  You're much like my Aunt Flo, you visit monthly, annoy me for a week, give me cramps, then disappear.  I loved answering your questions about how much every item on the menu costs.  If you could have just bothered yourself by looking at the menu (just like I did when I didn't know the price of some of the items), you would have known the answer.  Why do it yourself when you have a servant, er, server I mean, to do it for you, right?  I wouldn't want you to strain yourself, precious.  You are so great, I didn't mind standing there for 10 minutes answering your questions then waiting on you to decide when you insisted you were ready.

(Me:"I'll give you a few minutes to decide."

Woman:"No,no,no, don't go anywhere.  We're ready. Ummmm, hmmmm.  Well, I'll have, uhhhhhhh. I've got it.  Ohh wait, I didn't even see over here where it says you have sandwiches too. "

Me:"It's not a problem.  I'll give you just a couple of minutes and I'll be right back to get your...."

Woman:"No, I've got it.  I would like a small pizza with pepperoni."

Me:"Great choice, and what can I get for you, sir?"

Man:"Well, I was wanting pizza, but she got a small one and that's not going to be enough for both of us....uhhhhh, so now I don't know."

Woman:"Well, we can just get a bigger one if that's what you want, honey.  I just thought you were going to get spaghetti.  What other sizes do you have?"

Me:"We also have medium, large, extra large, and our 30" party pizza."

Woman:"Well, what do you want to do honey?  Do you want to get a bigger pizza, or we could keep the small one to share and then get a salad or appetizer or both and share those too."

Man:"I don't know.  It's up to you.  Just get whatever you want.")

                     By this time, I'm about to grab a butter knife off of the table and just start sawing at my neck until I hit the carotid.  I look around and see that almost every other table in the restaurant is seated with other first of the monthers that need waited on.  I was extremely relieved, after some humming and hawing of course, when you finally decided to get a bigger pizza, salad, and an app.  At least I could then move on to the next table that was going to be pretty much just like you.

                      While I was standing there waiting on you to decide, I noticed a few things about you.  You're dirty.  The both of you.  Your hands were black and you had dirt and grease spots all over you like you had been working on vehicles all day.  How can that be when you're receiving welfare or social security?  (No, I'm not just assuming.  I overheard some of their conversation, and they were definitely receiving a government check.)  Even your baby was dirty, just not as scroungy as you.  Also, there was a definite stench of piss wafting around your table.  At first I thought it was the baby's diaper, but then I realized that the smell was far too robust than what a baby would produce.  I do believe, sir and madam, that one of you had pissed yourself.  There's no excuse for that, unless you're wasted or just laughed a little too hard.  How about you take the money from the tip you didn't leave, go to the dollar store, and buy some soap.  What really got to me was that you were using the napkin holder on the table as your own personal tissue box.  Thanks for trumpeting your nose at the table in front of the, albeit few, decent people who had unknowingly came out for lunch on the first of the month.  You all really keep it classy.

                        By the way, that was a really funny game you played with me when I brought out your salad and apps, and then again when I brought out your pizza.  I asked if I could get you anything, and then instead of telling me you wanted 6 extra ranches; more crackers; two extra straws(God knows why); a cup of marinara; four more clean plates (6 total), so that you could each have one for each of the items you ordered;  and two more fresh cups of soda, just in case you might need them.  You had me make 12 trips.  Then you had me do a repeat performance for each of your boxes and to-go cups for the extra sodas you never drank.  Even though I asked if you if you were sure you only needed one box and you said, "Uh, yeah,  one container for....my....salad.".  Thanks for saying that last part slow enough for me to understand.  Those are very complicated words.  I'm only a servant, after all.

                       I longed for you after you left.  I know, you were in a hurry to get to Wallow-Mart to buy the ridiculously expensive things you can't afford, and will be returning/pawning in two weeks anyway.  Lucky for me, I had the explosion of crumbs and snot rags on the table and floor and your unmistakable odor wafting in the air long after you had gone.  Just so you know.  I pretty much repeated this entire letter with almost every one of the other 28 tables that I waited on today.  See you all again tomorrow, and the rest of the week, until Friday when you have ran out of money and are counting out change to me to pay your bill.

                                                           Longing for you already,
                                                                                                  BoW

Shitty Day, Shitty Tips, Shitty Customers, Shitty Floor

                                         Today was evidently "Stiff/Annoy Your Server Day", but some one forgot to send me the memo.  Had I know ahead of time that today was going to be an avalanche of shitty tips, needy bitches, and shitty pants, I would have just called off this morning and went back to bed.  I had a table of three business women (of course, it's always women) that sat as far as possible from the kitchen door/service stand as they could get without sitting outside.  Them sitting that far away means that I'm going to have to walk a mile to check on them.  If they need anything, then I have to scale a mountain then walk four miles uphill in the snow both ways.  Of course, seeing as they're they type of people that sit that far away, they're also the type of people who want to send you for one thing at a time when they need 4 or 15 things.  They sat back there for 3 fucking hours.  They might as well have applied for residency.  One of the women decided she was going to be a "big shot" and pay for everyone.  She paid with a card then sat there for another hour.  When they finally left, I went back to get the credit card slip.  No tip on the card or the table.  Big. Fucking. Surprise.  The most difficult usually tip the least.  That was my first table today, so I could see how things were going to go for the rest of the day.  All but three of my tables couldn't be bothered to tip even a goddamned nickel.  This was the shittiest day I've seen in the 3 1/2 years I've been at Pizza Place.  It was pretty dead, but the people that did come in were cheap ass skanks.
                          An old man came in after lunch.  At first I thought he might have been limping, but once he got closer, I realized he was kind of hopping from one foot to the other as he hurriedly came down the sidewalk and in the front door.  When he got inside, I realized he was not only hopping from foot to foot as he walked, but he was also slightly leaned back and clenching his ass.  Of course he made a bee line for the restroom.  I watched on our security cameras as he went the back of the store to the restrooms and knocked on the door.  Some one must have been in there, because he continued to stay there hopping and clenching.  I had a couple of tables that I had to get to, so I went to it.  I had forgotten all about the man, when a horrible stench wafted up to the service stand.  I looked around to see who sharted, but, alas, I was the only one around.  I make it a rule to NEVER seek out the source of a stink, for fear of being the one who has to clean up whatever is producing the offending odor.  I don't do nasty.  I just don't.  I don't get paid enough to clean up body fluids or whatever else disgusting shit finds its way into a restaurant from time to time.  A few minutes later, the other server comes up and asks, "What is that smell?"  I told her I hadn't the slightest.  She decided to be the hero and search it out.  Not 30 seconds later, I hear a scream.  Having a feeling I wouldn't be the first to find the stench, thus not being the one responsible for cleaning it up, I let my curiosity get the best of me and went to see what was so bad that it made a grown woman scream.   It couldn't have been that bad, right?  She had to have been just being a drama queen, right? Nope.  As I turned the corner and started toward the back of the restaurant, the smell was so bad it could gag a maggot. By the time I walked through the door to the bathroom my eyes were watering, stomach was churning, and I felt my esophagus get about 2 inches shorter.  I held back my urge to vomit and looked over at my co-server who was white as a sheet and was pointing to behind the door.  I peek around the door to see what was going on.  Lo and behold, there is diarrhea EVERYWHERE.  It covered the toilet, the floor, and was even splattered up the wall.  Evidently, Mr. Hopandclench hadn't made it to the toilet in time.  Of course, being the excellent employee that I am, I immediately announced that I would not be the one cleaning that up.  Fuck that noise.  "There's no fucking way I'm touching that.  It can sit there for the rest of the god damned day for all I care.  If LardAssManager wants it cleaned up, he can do it his self.  I don't get paid enough for this shit." I proclaimed.  With that, I turned around and went back to leaning against the service station.  LardAssManager wound up convincing a couple of the cooks to cleaning it up.  Good luck if you ate at Pizza Place today, because the hands that made your food are the same hands that, not 3 hours ago, were scrubbing shit off of everything in the restroom.  I wish I had the power of seeing into the future.  Had I been able to this morning, I would have avoided working all day for a measly $12.00, and I wouldn't have been forced to witnessing an old man's "accident" in the men's room.  I need a vacation.