Non-Fiction Friday: Two Old Farts Part I

When these two old guys walked in every Friday night I couldn't get them seated at the bar fast enough. The sooner I served them their two Gibsons "shaken not stirred" and received their pathetic seventy-seven cent tip, the sooner I didn't have to see them for a whole frickin' week. Of course some poor waitress had to deal with them for the rest of the night, and by "the rest," I mean they sat there forever.

I didn't start off so angry. No, no. I was nice at first. Even like, after the fourth time they left me the same tip they were leaving bartenders a hundred years ago. But when they started acting nicer and nicer as if nothing was wrong with the arm flailing to get my attention, the demands for hoards of onions, or the glove compartment change they considered a tip, it got to me. I was done. They needed to go.

Unfortunately, being a jerk didn't deter them. Neither did ignoring their existence. A few times I practically held people hostage at their bar stools in the hopes that dumb and dumber (a waitress's nickname for them, not mine) would give up on the wait and fall in love with the crap hole across the street. None of it worked. So finally I gave in and just tried to get them off to their table as fast as possible.

One night, I needed to leave the bar for a minute. It had been an hour since dumb and dumber were seated yet as I passed their table I noticed that their drinks were full again. Confused, and afraid I was losing my mind, I approached the waitress. "Did those two order another round?" They had not. Neither the waitress or I could figure out how the near empty glasses had refilled themselves. Lucky for us, we would have the opportunity to solve the mystery next Friday night. And we did.

The following week dumb and dumber sidled up to the bar, hailed me like a taxi for their drinks, grinned at me like Cheshire cats, and tipped me like I was a panhandler. And then they went to their table under the surveillance of the entire staff.

When the gin martinis got low, and the two men thought no one was looking, they each reached into their coat pockets and pulled out silver flasks. Giddy as schoolchildren, they snickered as they refilled their cocktails with warm alcohol.

Before they had a chance to tuck the contraband back into their coats, three of us walked up to their table. The waitress served their check. I cleared their drinks. The busboy grabbed their plates. We made it very clear that it was time to pay and leave. They settled up and left. We thought that was the last time we would ever see them...

To be continued.