“Stoli Screwdriver. Light ice.”
This line is barked across the bar at me from a middle aged man who shares the whole
restaurant with one quiet couple and an old man eating alone.
In my mind my response was, I’m doing great, thank you so much for asking, but that is
not how you earn tips. A much more civil, “Absolutely,” is all I’m able to respond with.
These are the days that make working in a restaurant impossibly difficult. Almost no
customers-and the only ones that do come in are assholes. They must communicate with
each other to bombard restaurants on days where the nice people stay inside.
A Screwdriver. That’s a curious drink for someone to have on a Tuesday at 3:30 in the
afternoon. That, combined with his prickly demeanor and aggressive sucking down of the
cocktail (which was 3/4s gone at this point) forced me to consider his situation. Maybe he
had just been fired. Maybe he was just having a rough day. Maybe if he had been more
polite I would be more concerned.
I know this is a terrible way to think-but when I’m four hours into a shift and don’t even
need all ten fingers to count the amount of money I’ve made-I find it hard to feel
sympathy, empathy, or any other emotion other than the yearning to be far away from
