I find him sitting at the bar top, placing his order with a busboy who keeps trying to explain in broken English that the server will take his order but the guy either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care.  Patience is a virtue that you, sir, are lacking.  Eventually he notices the confused look on the busser’s face and that’s my cue.  He turns to me to place is order and I’m beginning to regret coming over in the first place I was just gone for a moment, grabbing some limes from the back kitchen but next time I think I’ll just walk out the door instead of returning to the bar.

He’s the kind of guy that orders a water and doesn’t drink it.  Don’t do this.  California exists in a perpetual state of drought.  If you know you aren’t going to drink it, don’t ask for it.

I bring him his sandwich.  He takes a bite.  Chews.  Takes another bite.  Chews.  Another bite.  Still hasn’t swallowed.  “To-go box,” he stammers, mouth full.  And the letters t and o when put together have this distinct habit of making you spit and sir your mouth is still full.  Just not as full as it was before.  In case you’re hungry later you can find your leftovers in my hair.

And at the end of his meal he reads the bottom of the check.  “Please pay cashier.”  He reads it out loud to me.  “I can pay you right?”  I guess we weren’t specific enough when writing out directions because I thought that pay the cashier meant pay the cashier but it just appears to be one of those days.

He pays and he goes and I’m bending over the sink, washing the wine glasses and beer mugs that have accumulated over lunch.  It must be a stressful week because I’ve been elbow deep in suds for the last twenty minutes.  The man sitting at the bar leans over, Chardonnay in hand, and gestures my way.  “I like your bum.”  I pause for a moment.  Holding a glass in my hand, the water trickling off the rim.  My head tilts and I put down the glass.  I must have heard him wrong.  “What was that?”

I turn to him.

“I like your bummy.”

No.  No, I wasn’t wrong he had said exactly what I thought he had but in the creepiest way possible are you hitting on me or just complimenting me I can’t tell but either way please stop I don’t like it one bit.  Now I’m going to have to find a way to avoid this creep at the bar which is almost impossible because my job requires me to spend a frequent amount of time in this very spot.  He’s been here for at least two hours and isn’t showing any signs of retiring any time soon.  But hey, if bartending doesn’t work out for me at least I can rest assured knowing I have nice assets.  Nonetheless, the tips I’ve earned today are going to take me directly to the department store where I am going to purchase a looser pair of pants.  Much looser.  Maybe three sizes too big.

I’m starting to think that everyday is a full moon either that or all the wrong people are reproducing.  The creep at the bar walks out without paying his forty dollar check and all I’m saying is you could have left a tip for all the torture you put me through.  At least help invest in my creep repellant pants you are the reason I have to purchase them in the first place.

I still have to go home and wash the regurgitated sandwich out of my hair it’s starting to tangle and smell funny.  I just washed it this morning and I’m not too keen on multiple showers you know how I feel about the drought but I’m sure the government will grant me leniency here.

“Governor Brown,” my letter begins.  And then it stops.  Because how can I possibly explain the last hour of my shift?  Maybe I’ll just forward him the link to my blog.  Yeah.  That’ll do it.  I’ll be granted a reprieve in no time.