Sometime in January of 2009, I arrived for my p.m. shift, noted the trademark emptiness of the restaurant (a hallmark of both the awkward in-between lunch and dinner hours and the muted winter weather), and clocked in.
As I punched in my employee number, I overheard one of the servers from the day shift complaining about a rowdy table that had been there all day. I glanced towards the back of the restaurant and glimpsed a group of people seated at table 57, a large round table that we reserved for parties of 5 or more.
These kinds of tables—come in at 1 or 2pm, stay until 7, on the same tab, forcing the server to transfer it to someone else so they can leave—were not out of the ordinary, so I acknowledged their presence and headed upstairs to change.
An hour passed, and a few tables came in for an early dinner or drinks. It was relatively quiet, except for the occasional voluminous guffaws coming from table 57.
The clock struck 6 p.m., and all hell seemed to slowly break loose. Normally, when you imagine “hell breaking loose,” I understand it conjures up frantic images of immediate chaos. Things breaking, people yelling and screaming, throw in some metaphorical hellhounds bounding all over the place for good measure. But this, this was like a slow crescendo, like someone gradually turning up the volume on the insanity stereo.
Somehow a cast of characters had appeared and begun to play off of each other, creating something out of an evening at a backwoods Olive Garden or Red Lobster.
Here is the word-for-word (with the exception of some changed names) transcription of the impromptu affidavit that I scrawled on the back of some spare paper that evening:
- drunken fondling seems to be occurring near and around table 57. 6 pm.
- mother in read jumpsuit (stripper?) drops off young daughter w/obnoxious group at 52. 615pm.
- Ignorant father attached to his Blackberry arrives with child and wife. 630pm.
- Customer reports man in girls bathroom. (Manager #1) investigates. Four feet in stall. Guy’s getting head. 650pm. (Task is eventually passed to new a trainee.)
- 57 falls silent. Former groper seems to be passed out, after vomiting all over the place. Accompanied by belligerents & head-giving friends. 7pm.
- Cops are called. 702 pm.
- (Manager #1) gets called a sack of shit by one of the belligerents. 712pm.
- 735pm. Aforementioned abandoned girl and obnoxious group start a dance party. Right in front of 51, who promptly request a move when the dance becomes the Macarena.
- NEW INFORMATION. During the scuffle when blowjob boy attempts to re-enter the restaurant, staff notices his fly is conveniently still unzipped. Classy. 742pm.
- Also: passed-out puker at 57/G.I. Joe is NOT a good guy. Even though (Manager #2) thinks he is. 745pm.
- 746pm. Dance troupe/obnoxious table 52 exits building w/the cabbage patch kid/strippers daughter, who left her Happy Meal and toy.
- More new information. G.I. Joe’s weapon of choice was a lemon ice. 807pm.
(a note: “G.I. Joe” is so named because it was revealed during the numerous scuffles that he was just back from serving this great country in the war. He vehemently insisted over and over that he was just “not a good guy” as he tried to take swings at anyone around him.)
By 8:15 p.m., the restaurant was quiet again as one of the bussers scrubbed the booth clean of vomit. The rest of us recounted the story to those who had missed it a few times, then began to merely point to the taped down affidavit on the host stand. An evening in mid-January had never been so exciting so early.
