The first customer to show up-- whether it’s Bobby the Budweiser drinking stroke-victim at 10:30, or the early bird of the smiling, slumming, chatter-face office lunch people at 11:28-- they all get a scowl.
Well, I try not to scowl at Bobby too much. Bobby and I have history. Bobby's sweet. I’ve called 911 for Bobby before. I’ve thought him to be dead 4 feet away from me. Gone ahead and made the mental adjustments you have to make to be able to deal with a dead human that close to you. Close or far. The same basic adjustments need to be made. The mental stuff sure starts up faster when they’re 4 feet away from you, drueling death onto the coveted 6-top in the window, Table #1.
But just about anyone else gets a scowl and sometimes a (sometimes audible) groan.
Fuck you for coming in here. Fuck you for needing so many god damn things for one god damn lunch. Fuck you for tipping 15% on a $12 tab you ran me all around the goddamn restaurant for. Fuck you for how my life sucks.
Staring down wastes of space lushes, who spend their time staring out of a dark bar into the light, with rotting teeth, in a wheelchair, practically wishing they were dead. Sorry, charlies, if I could, I’d throw you under a train to get my mom back, who wanted to live more than you could ever want to die. The terrible thing is you have plenty of great reasons to be miserable. But how can so many death wishes not be able to be traded for a little more time here for the living?
Most of those people are most likely dead now, too.
I know Bobby is.
He died while I was still working there, but not WHILE I was working there, not AT the bar.