One For the History Books

So, while I was away from work, I missed some very interesting shit.

But I have witnessed a HISTORY MAKING MOMENT since my return, dear readers. All 4 of you.

Vomiting Grandpa.

Oh yes, you read that correctly. Vomiting Grandpa.

Something like this has only happened ONCE in 12 years--and it was not even close to the same scale. (the restaurant I work for has been around since the early sixties, but the employee who has been there the longest has been there just over 12 years, so that is where we take our history lessons. So there.)

The first story went something like this.......

A local 'celebrity', of the time, it being the mid-nineties, (she was a real estate agent. And a 'Celebrity'. Do you see what I'm saying about where I live?) was meeting with a retired member of the NBA team for the city closest to us. He was interested in purchasing a home here, and she, by God, was going to sell it to him. Well, they meet. He is a kind, polite man who poses for pictures with the servers, compliments and tips the kitchen personally, and who was about to be horrified beyond his wildest dreams.

See, Local Celebrity Real Estate Agent is nervous. So she has a cocktail. And then another. Now, they are sitting in a bar, so this is alright. And another. And another. (you see where this is going.) In the middle of her show-stopping, career-making dinner with a REAL celebrity, this woman proceeds to vomit directly into the heater. (Oh, and did I mention it was February?) Vomit. Everything she has inside her, shoved out with the force of her desire to sell that home--into the heater.

The retired NBA player? He stood up, took his coat and walked out. Didn't say a word.

The Real Estate agent? She moved to another state.

And now....To Vomiting Grandpa.

Earlier this week, just before the dinner service/Happy hour (Aside:Fuck off, Happy Hour. I really, really hate you, with everything I have inside of me. I could give a shit that business is up 35% from last year--I hate you.) changing of the watch (Read:Changing of the watch equals more servers arrive. Like anyone gets to work a half shift! Ha! I worked 13.5 hours yesterday!), a disheveled, grossly overweight man walks in. He had been in a few hours before, and had ordered several shots of Jose Cuervo gold with a Pale Ale back. (yuck.) He didn't drink enough to appear intoxicated, and several hours had elapsed since his departure, so no one thought anything of serving him again. Only this time, he has his two year old grandson with him.

Let me paint the picture for you. This man would have fit in perfectly in the town where my mother lives. (everyone but the kind soul who reads this from New York understands.) He is wearing stained sweatpants, a torn and similarly stained tshirt, falling apart sneakers. His grey hair is uncombed and dirty, his beard is equally as unruly and is stained yellow in parts. Yummy.

The child is adorable, but a brat. The kind of brat that has been made a brat by being raised by parents who were raised by this man described above. Neglect, alcoholism, no boundaries, etc. And he is two. (Now, I understand that just because people are wearing dirty clothes and don't wash their hair that they may very well be excellent parents. I know several people that fit this description that are fabulous parents. However, let me finish the story and you will understand why and how I came to make that judgement.)

As this dynamic duo arrive, so does our new LEAST favorite server, B, who happens to be a guy. (Lots of Parenthesis this post. Anyway, this guy is super nice and really fun, but he's totally lazy and only took this job because he wants to be an actor and thinks that all actors were at one time waiters, so.....yeah. Makes sense to me. Wait.....No.)I announce to him that it is his table, goddamn it, as he normally comes to work and sings for at least an hour while doing nothing else but occupy space, and this way, well, he's doing SOMETHING.

Thank you, sweet golden fleece diapered baby Jesus, for letting him take this table.

I have a table, as well, and they are the only other people in the restaurant. They are a very sweet retired couple on vacation--total perfect grandparent types. They are on the opposing end of the floor, facing this man.

Vomiting Grandpa is actively taking part in a parenting strategy I like to call "Barking". He sits, never moving, while his grandchild runs rampant through the restaurant, screaming, yelling, damaging things, going behind the bar (!!). Instead of getting up and speaking with the child about how we stay in our seats while in a restaurant, that this is not the playground, that he could be seriously hurt here, that one of us could be seriously hurt were we to be carrying a tray and trip over him, he sits there like a toad and alternately swears/yells/snaps his fingers at the child.

Nice.

Anyway, he orders a coke for the child (coke????He's two! ARGH! Why not give him a cigarette and a miller high life while you're at it??) and yet another shot of Jose and a Pale ale.

The barking and drinking continues. He orders food for himself the child, who is now being babysat by two servers. His food is delivered, the child returned, and they eat.

I walk to my table, and clear a plate. As I am walking back, I look at his table. Suddenly, it looks like the man is spitting his food out onto his plate....(this happens more than one would think, actually)....Wait, no, that's not spit...Oh, Jesus, did that man just puke? Oh, GOD! He barfed! On his plate! Not a lot, but....Yep, that's vomit.

I put the plate down, trying mightily to quell the urge to vomit as well and wipe the look of abject horror off my face. I walk into the break room, where the other servers are.

"B, the man at your table just vomited into his plate."

"WHAT?" is the collective reply of everyone else.

"He barfed. On his plate. He fucking puked!"

"Is he ok?", asks the lead server.

"I don't know! I didn't stop to look! He barfed! I saw him do it!"

It is about this time that we hear the "UUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHAAAAAAAA........splat" of him vomiting for real.

All over himself, the table, the floor. The vomit is creeping slowly towards the child.

Now, I cannot HANDLE vomit. I can if I have to, if someone is in dire need and I love them, small children, etc., but I seriously could not handle this. Tequila, beer, cheeseburger, french fry vomit.

C, another server and I, are standing in the pass way between the bar and the restaurant, trying not to gag. B goes over, pulls the child, who is now yelling "Mess! Mess! Mess!", away from the table and rivulets of his grandfather's vomit, and begins to mop up the mess. The man makes no explanations or apologies. Does not go to the bathroom to clean up. Just sits there and watches this happen.

I realize I have to get the check to my table. I also realize that in order to do this, I will have to walk past the vomit fountain, and will then vomit myself. I look back towards my table, and they make eye contact. They are equally horrified.

The kitchen has now been notified of this "explosion" of events, and bring down rubber gloves and commercial grade cleaners. And laughter. The entire staff of the restaurant (aside from those of us gagging or cleaning) are now silently rolling with laughter in the break room. Tears are being shed from the laughter.

I didn't think it was that funny.

Anyway, I get the check and take it to my table. I thank them for their patience.

"Sweetie, DON'T worry about it!"

The man collects his grandchild and leaves. AND DOESN'T TIP A CENT.

B now has to pull the table out and mop up the rest of the vomit. While he is doing so, THE VOMITING GRANDPA COMES BACK.

And what does he do, you ask? Apologise? Leave money?

Orders another shot and beer. And a cheeseburger, to go.

He is denied the sale of alcohol. No argument, however.

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You think this story is over, don't you?

Later that night, he went to the other restaurant, which is 'Fine Dining'. Also, carpeted.

He drank and vomited there as well. From what I hear he asked for another shot and a towel--due to the vomit.

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Still not done.

The next day, Vomiting Grandpa returned (!?!?!?!)with his grandson and his wife, who I assume is Vomiting Grandma, but they didn't get that far.

The executive chef, General Manager and Restaurant Manager happened to be in a meeting at another table when he walked in. One of the servers flagged them down and informed them of just who these people were.....

Vomiting Grandma says to her server, "I'm going to be bad! I'll have a shot of Jose Cuervo!", and was denied the sale of alcohol. The three managers walk over.

"Why? Is it because of the kid?", she said, jerking her thumb towards her grandson.

"No, ma'am, it's due to the two incidents we had on property yesterday with your husband. We are unable to serve you alcohol at either location."

"What? What the fuck happened?", she sneers.

"I got sick." Mumbles Vomiting Grandpa.

And you know what? They left. LEFT, because they couldn't drink. All the while, the grandson is crying that he is hungry for breakfast. It was two in the afternoon.

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Now, I ask you, was I judging these people too harshly? Was I wrong when I thought they were bad parents, role models, and guardians for that child? Who acts like that in front of a child aside from my mother? Who doesn't feed a two year old until late afternoon, and then only feeds them fried food and soda to keep them quiet while they get shitfaced?

Jesus.