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Now technically, I suppose this is not really a sighting, as I didn't see the person doing all of this. I did see the aftermath of what they did however, so it counts.
And now, to set the scene, a word about the city where I live. It is weird. To give a few examples, it is a city where throughout the summer last year, witches danced around a magnolia tree near the city hall and cast spells on it, and slept beneath it every night in order to protect it from a developer who wanted to build a condo tower on the site. It is a city where, if you encounter your burly Mexican coworker eating breakfast in drag next to a table full of county sheriff's deputies, next to a table where a gangbanger and his baby mama are eating pancakes, you just nod a polite hello and go sit down. It is not unusual to see people reading tarot cards at Waffle House. It is a city where, if your cellphone rings and the person on the other end asks what you're up to at the moment, you can truthfully reply, "Oh, nothing much. I'm just having my goddess oracle read at Denny's."
And it is at Denny's where we set our tale. There's one on the west side of town that I love and go to frequently. I've had quite a few "you know you live in (city) if" moments there. I feel like it's "my" place. I actually feel a little protective of it.
I went there this morning, and the first signal that something was wrong was that someone had puked on the sidewalk near the front door, but not before blurting a good bit on the door itself. Perhaps this was SC-ish of me, but I went in anyway and found the place a shambles. There was a single harried waitress checking out a group of cops. She gave me a menu and told me to seat myself, and she'd be over as soon as she could.
About half the booths in the section where I sat down were cluttered with dishes, glasses, and wadded napkins. Before I settled in, after having touched the front door, of course I went to go wash my hands.
There was a big, burly guy sitting behind me, who I learned was the waitress' father, because she kept handing off little chores to him that she didn't have time to do herself. That, and she kept talking to him about the chaos she'd been through that night as she cleaned up nearby tables and in between taking care of me. As it turned out, one of the cooks hadn't shown up at all and the manager on duty walked out at 4. At that time, the restaurant was immaculate, and within a few minutes of the manager walking out, the place had a rush. This included a few tables of drunken idiots, and one of those idiots thought that rather than heading to the bathroom to puke up whatever he'd just eaten, it would be a better idea to go outside, turn toward the door and heave just a bit, then turn aside to the sidewalk and heave like he really meant it. Then he wandered off.
This meant that the lone waitress had a busy smoking section to deal with, plus booths in the non-smoking section, plus people like me and all the ones who came in after me, who were not deterred by the vomit at the front door.
She handled it like a champ though, I'll say. She got me what I wanted (and it was all perfect) and had a little conversation with me when I asked what all had happened. I found out she'd collected almost $150 in the hour and a half she'd been stuck by herself, which is quite a bit. She was pleasant and professional all the while, although she did admit that she wasn't paid nearly enough to go clean up someone's barf, and she was leaving it there for the manager, due in soon, to see so he or she would know what she'd gone through.
I even volunteered to clean the door myself, because after having worked in Motel Hell, and having to do degrading things and clean up disgusting things on a near-daily basis, there is nothing that can come out of a human body that will faze me anymore. (She declined the offer.)
But anyway, to end this long story, when all was said and done, I gave her a 50% tip. She'd earned it, and it I figured it was the least I could do to help out someone who puts up with the scum of the earth at "my place." I gotta do what I can to help out there, because if things ever changed there, where else would I go at 4 in the morning only to find a large table crowded with drag queens twisting balloon animals?
And now, to set the scene, a word about the city where I live. It is weird. To give a few examples, it is a city where throughout the summer last year, witches danced around a magnolia tree near the city hall and cast spells on it, and slept beneath it every night in order to protect it from a developer who wanted to build a condo tower on the site. It is a city where, if you encounter your burly Mexican coworker eating breakfast in drag next to a table full of county sheriff's deputies, next to a table where a gangbanger and his baby mama are eating pancakes, you just nod a polite hello and go sit down. It is not unusual to see people reading tarot cards at Waffle House. It is a city where, if your cellphone rings and the person on the other end asks what you're up to at the moment, you can truthfully reply, "Oh, nothing much. I'm just having my goddess oracle read at Denny's."
And it is at Denny's where we set our tale. There's one on the west side of town that I love and go to frequently. I've had quite a few "you know you live in (city) if" moments there. I feel like it's "my" place. I actually feel a little protective of it.
I went there this morning, and the first signal that something was wrong was that someone had puked on the sidewalk near the front door, but not before blurting a good bit on the door itself. Perhaps this was SC-ish of me, but I went in anyway and found the place a shambles. There was a single harried waitress checking out a group of cops. She gave me a menu and told me to seat myself, and she'd be over as soon as she could.
About half the booths in the section where I sat down were cluttered with dishes, glasses, and wadded napkins. Before I settled in, after having touched the front door, of course I went to go wash my hands.
There was a big, burly guy sitting behind me, who I learned was the waitress' father, because she kept handing off little chores to him that she didn't have time to do herself. That, and she kept talking to him about the chaos she'd been through that night as she cleaned up nearby tables and in between taking care of me. As it turned out, one of the cooks hadn't shown up at all and the manager on duty walked out at 4. At that time, the restaurant was immaculate, and within a few minutes of the manager walking out, the place had a rush. This included a few tables of drunken idiots, and one of those idiots thought that rather than heading to the bathroom to puke up whatever he'd just eaten, it would be a better idea to go outside, turn toward the door and heave just a bit, then turn aside to the sidewalk and heave like he really meant it. Then he wandered off.
This meant that the lone waitress had a busy smoking section to deal with, plus booths in the non-smoking section, plus people like me and all the ones who came in after me, who were not deterred by the vomit at the front door.
She handled it like a champ though, I'll say. She got me what I wanted (and it was all perfect) and had a little conversation with me when I asked what all had happened. I found out she'd collected almost $150 in the hour and a half she'd been stuck by herself, which is quite a bit. She was pleasant and professional all the while, although she did admit that she wasn't paid nearly enough to go clean up someone's barf, and she was leaving it there for the manager, due in soon, to see so he or she would know what she'd gone through.
I even volunteered to clean the door myself, because after having worked in Motel Hell, and having to do degrading things and clean up disgusting things on a near-daily basis, there is nothing that can come out of a human body that will faze me anymore. (She declined the offer.)
But anyway, to end this long story, when all was said and done, I gave her a 50% tip. She'd earned it, and it I figured it was the least I could do to help out someone who puts up with the scum of the earth at "my place." I gotta do what I can to help out there, because if things ever changed there, where else would I go at 4 in the morning only to find a large table crowded with drag queens twisting balloon animals?
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