Non-Fiction Friday: Two Old Farts Part II

When Dumb and Dumber walked out the previous Friday night after sneaking in flasks of cheap gin, we all thought that was the last of those two guys. And we were grateful for that. They defined "over-staying one's welcome" and tipped like they were two. But apparently having a waitress, a bartender, and a busboy abrasively end their dinner didn't get the point across that they weren't welcome anymore.

So, shocking to us all, these two guys moseyed in at seven o-clock the following Friday night and wormed their way into some prime real estate at the bar. They must have sat there for a few minutes before I even registered that it was them.

I wish I could tell you that I refused to serve them, that I kicked them to the curb to drink from their flasks like bums. But I took their order. Hey, it was busy, okay? Faced with a very thirsty bar crowd and a machine spitting out server's drink orders by the second, confrontation wasn't something I had time for.

I delivered their first round of gin martini's with a side of cocktail onions without making eye contact. They drank them quickly and then sat there, waiting to be seated at a table. They waited and waited. I waited and waited. Other names were called from the hostess stand but not theirs. It soon became apparent that their usual table would never be available. I'm sure they knew why. That's what you get. Idiot that I was, I let them order dinner at the bar.

Two rounds and two giant burgers later, things took a turn for the worse. Looking back, I don't know why it never crossed my mind that maybe the reason they acted the way they did every Friday was because they came in totally plastered.

The first sound I remember was a strange gurgling. Then came an animalistic groan. The dumber one (always with that stupid grin) stood up (not grinning for once) to pat his friend on the back, I suppose fearing that these weird noises meant choking (dumb).

After receiving one hefty pat on the back, the "choker" stood up and vomited all over his plate, the bar, his bar stool, the floor. It was the most disgusting thing any of us had ever seen. Incredibly embarrassed, he knocked his seat over and stumbled out. His friend threw a napkin over the mess and ran out too. I put more napkins onto the pile and ran to the kitchen to improvise some sort of hazmat suit. My barbacks jumped on the scene and the three of us, armed with layers of aprons and latex gloves, and wielding a bottle of bleach, restored things as quickly as possible.

I regret serving them that night. It bothers me. No, they never came back again, but it shouldn't have come to that.

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