The bar is full and normally that wouldn’t be a problem but tonight a group of 20 young insurance agents in training just rolled in from their cocktail hour at the hotel across the street and want to sit on the patio.  And drink less drive.  So now my tap is overflowing while I’m dusting off the bottle of amaretto for some young girl with very unique hair and a very bad attitude.  But I’d probably have a bad attitude too if my hair was that shade of orange…or if my drink of choice was an Amaretto Sour.

“Do you even know how to make it?”

Amaretto Sour.  Amaretto.  Sour.  The ingredients are in the name maybe your skirt is cutting off the circulation to your brain but mine is working fine please don’t insult my intelligence.

“Where’s the cherry?”

So you’re 34 going on 12 I’m so sorry I’ll throw in an extra one to make up for the displeasure I’ve caused you.  But I’m assuming, due to the permanent frown lines on your face, that displeasure is an emotion you’re very familiar with don’t think your fillers are fooling anybody.

And I have to say, it’s kind of cute how her hair matches her drink at least she has something going for her. As she ambles off, the forty year old divorcee at the bar stares at her ass which is fine because it means he’s taken a 30 second break from staring at me.

“Shay, baby.  What a beautiful name.  You are gorgeous.  What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Well, currently, I’m being objectified by you.  You have been undressing me with your eyes for the last twenty minutes and I’m trying to keep my distance but you keep ordering more liquor which means I’m required to approach you.  You seem like the type of guy who isn’t allowed within fifty feet of a school zone. I’m not sure if you’re a sex offender or not; all I know is that you are sexually offending me.

I have to go take the order for the 20 people outside and if they weren’t drunk when they got here than they certainly are now and it’s like trying to feed 20 screaming children who all want separate checks.  Miss Amaretto Sour starts to place her order with me while I’m still taking the order of the girl across the table from her but she’s not stopping come hell or high water so I increase my words per minute ratio and utter a silent prayer to whatever gods may be that I will be able to decipher this chicken scratch when it comes time to send this in to the cooks.

And I head back to the bar where my stalker is awaiting my return he must be having one hell of a midlife crisis.

“Shay, baby.”

No, don’t start.  My name is Shay there is no “baby” on my name tag don’t read between the lines there’s nothing there…not that you could read in the first place I’m seriously doubting your literacy. Or maybe you’re just drunk.

And while I’m trying to stave off the advances of Leering Larry the young professionals let me know they are ready for their checks and I walk outside with twenty slips of paper in my hand and Amaretto wants to pay and she wants to pay now.  In the middle of this chaos she hands me her credit card and I tell her I’ll grab it in just a second and I guess no one in her life has ever made her wait for anything.

“No, you’re going to take this now.”

And in the midst of all the shouting and the screaming and the beer slinging, I pause.  The world stops spinning and everything grows silent and it’s just her and I.

“No.  You’re going to wait a minute.”

I’ve chosen my words carefully and paused dramatically after the no and emphasized the you’re and raised my eyebrows like I’m talking to an errant child, and really, I am. And whispers start to travel and the shouting ceases and there are 19 pairs of eyes staring at us.  38 glowing orbs of blue and brown and green focused in our direction and it’s high noon.  I firmly plant my feet onto the tile floor of the patio and stand my ground.  My fingers are twitching by my side.  Who’s going to draw first?  Our gazes are locked and she purses her lips and I grit my teeth and she narrows her eyes and I narrow mine.  And she looks down and the spell is broken and I clear my throat.

“Okay, you had the Bacon Cheddar Burger with two Blue Moons.  Here’s your check.”

And I continue on down the line and so do the whispers and I know she’s going to complain and that’s fine.  If the punishment for standing up to that bully of a woman is a write up for my attitude I’ll gladly put my John Hancock on that slip of paper any day.  Bring it on.  Because you won’t win.  You don’t get to sit on your plastic wicker patio chair of a throne and dictate your whims to the world I am not a dog I am a waitress I don’t play fetch and I never roll over.

Because there’s only so much a person is required to take and I reached max bullshit capacity when you interrupted me taking someone else’s order to place your own.  And even then I still smiled and asked all the right questions and brought you your food as requested, with all the ranch and ketchup and blue cheese, but this is too much.  You went too far and it seems like you’ve always gone too far but eventually your road of entitlement will run its course and you’ll reach a wall and that wall is me.  Huff and puff all you want, little she wolf, you’ll never blow this house down.

The only thing about you that terrifies me is the fact that a human being such as yourself could actually exist in this world.  Your energy is as toxic as the neon liquid in that glass you keep sipping from.

That’s fine, you say.  I just won’t leave a tip.

And you know what I have to say to that?  Even better.  Because I don’t need your two dollars.  In fact, if you tried to tip me I’d probably give it back to you maybe instead of paying for a tighter face you can invest in some therapy and buy yourself a better personality.

The only regrettable thing about tonight is the fact that no one else before me has ever stood up to you.  So while you’re filing a complaint against me I have one to file against you.  Mine’s only temporary.  It’s going to be stashed away in some manila folder bearing my last name that’s locked away in the bottom shelf of a filing cabinet in the office.  But yours?  Yours will last for an eternity.

Now, if you don’t mind, I have a sexual predator sitting at my bar and his vodka to ice ratio is steadily declining and if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that he’s tipping 25%.  That and, at the end of the night, I’m having one of the bus boys walk me out to my car.