Slightly Cursed

“Was it worth five dollars?” My husband asked. He was looking expectantly at me, waiting to sign off on our bill for breakfast.

I didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. It’s really busy, but she was quick. Plus, she’s way low on the John Scale.” The John Scale is a financial feedback tool which inversely correlates how much you tip with how annoying your server is.

This system isn’t based on percentages or quality of service. It rose from a singularly hellish experience with a waiter named John, and it’s entirely subjective.

I never actually saw him with his mouth closed, but I’m pretty sure John looked like a 26-year-old version of Martin Short. Skinnier maybe, and not quite as tall.

Seconds after being seated, John was at our table taking our drink orders. “How are you tonight?” He was very friendly. And he was covered in flair.

John hovered, and my husband tensed up. “We’re hungry and thirsty. We’d like some water to get started with. No ice.” John dashed off to get the water.

“Don’t you be mean to him, I don’t want them to do anything to my food,” I told my annoyed husband. “Besides, he looks kind of like Martin Short, twenty years ago. I like Martin Short.”

“Fine. I just wanted to get him away from the table for a second while I look at the me…” John materialized next to me.

“Here you go! All sparkling and clean! The perfect way to quench that thirst. Can I get you anything else?” He’d snuck up from nowhere, scaring the hell out of me, and delivered two ice-packed glasses of water. “Oh, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ll come up from the other direction next time so you can see me…”

My husband said, “But…”

“…and we won’t have any more issues with me scaring you like that. Can I get you something?” He begged.

Some air, maybe?

“Coffee, please.” I needed the caffeine; watching John made me tired.

Making a little tent with his fingers, he managed to purse his lips and give us a toothy smile, all at the same time. Like the Church Lady. Turning toward my husband, John waited expectantly.

“I’d like some more water.” My husband slurped the few ounces of water from the gaps in the ice in less than a second. “But no more ice.” He hadn’t mentioned the ice before; he was afraid it’d encourage John to talk.

Realizing his mistake, John didn’t just wring his hands; he wrung his entire body, contorting like a two-year-old doing the potty dance. He nearly collapsed onto the table between us, an apologetic mass of flailing limbs and twisted torso. Yes, seriously.

“No, really, it’s okay. There’s only like one or two ice cubes in it.” My husband managed to blurt out an entire sentence before John started crying.

John was stricken. “Ok, you don’t like ice, got it! Let me take that away and I’ll get you a glass of water without ice.” He snaked his hand across the table, in front of my husband’s face. Normally, it’s a bad idea to do that when he’s contemplating meat. At times, it’s downright dangerous.

My husband is quick, and he got to the glass first. John jumped backward several inches. The husband bared his teeth and growled, “No, I’ll keep this ice and use a little of it in the glass of water you bring.”

Clearly distressed, John emitted a string of barely intelligible words, all mushed together. Whatever he was trying to say, I’m sure it was important to him.

“No. Plain water. In a new glass with no more ice.”

Desperate smile still plastered to his face, John pivoted, and then backed away in the opposite direction of sneaking up on me. He tried to catch my attention. From the corner of my eye, I saw him wave his arms. Despite my resolve, and the husband saying, “Don’t do it; be strong!” I had to look.

He slapped himself in the face. We gaped. No way! We looked for the cameras. There had to be cameras.

Slapping himself in the face a couple of times, John flailed and jerked. He pretended to fall over his own feet, losing pieces of flair in the struggle. If it was his way of screaming, “I’m an idiot!” we got the point.

Bowing at us, flopping around like a suffocating fish, our strange little waiter tripped along to the kitchen without somehow getting himself killed.

Huddled over the table, shooting furtive looks at the kitchen, we formed an Alliance. Escape wasn’t an option at that point; we’d already ordered our food. And there wasn’t enough time to get a restraining order. Since prisoners are often given very little time to themselves, we knew we had only seconds to plan our strategy. We intended to fight back.

John thrived on attention. Eye contact. He sought eye contact. We readied our first offensive. No more eye contact! Not for John!

Ninety seconds later (!), he was back with the manager on duty and some lame excuse as to why a steakhouse is out of prime rib at 6:30pm. Standing next to her, his distress grew; he wrung himself some more. Now, there’ve been plenty of times when I’ve ordered something, only to find out they’d run out of it minutes before my butt hit the seat. But this? Seriously?

I declined the free dessert and chose a different steak. The manager ran away to hide her shame.

Our food finally came. Despite John’s valiant efforts to be bffs with us, we responded to him in clipped, non-leading monosyllables to keep the encounter short. He left the food and walked away, dejected in his failure to engage us.

“Is he watching?” asked the husband.

“Yes, and he looks very sad.” Evil sparkled in his eyes. He’s lucky he has me to moderate him, otherwise there’s no telling how much trouble he’d get himself into.

But I already knew what he was going to say. “I can’t wait until they have robots for this. It would surely save lives.” Visions of his collection of eleventy-billion servo motors ran through my head.

Sigh.

Judging from the incident with the toll booth guy, I think he’s right.

written by vic