They don’t like me.  I know they don’t like me because they have told every other server in this restaurant who has waited on them that they don’t like me.  They don’t like me because I didn’t give them the Happy Hour price on their non Happy Hour martinis.  I’ll get over it.

But I have to be nice and I so give myself my little mental pep talk in the galley by the toasters and I walk out and paste a grin on my face and ask them how they are and what they’d like to drink.

“Are you still the only one here who won’t give us the Martini for five dollars?”

This is an excellent way to start off with your server.  My answer to this is, of course, yes.  Yes, I am.  Hell yeah.  Especially now.

“Okay,” she nods and glares at me.  “So you’re still the only one.”

Yep, that’s me.  The only one.  I carry the torch.  I keep this bad boy lit and there’s no way in hell you’re blowing it out.  Huff and puff all you want, little she wolf.  I have a gold medal in pettiness.  Let’s dance.

“Well then, I don’t know what I want yet.”

And that’s fine with me.  It would be even finer if you stopped coming in on the one night a week I work and then complain about me working.  It seems counterintuitive.

But I’m not worried about it.  I’m not worried about it because I’m in a panicked frenzy over the guy at the bar who just shouted, “Hey esé,” to my busboy.  “Bring me some pepiños, yeah?”  I swear this guy is a real life Donald Trump in the making no need to ask what choice he’s making in November.  A customer leans over and looks down the bar,  “I bet you’re into misogyny.”

“I don’t even know what that means, but sure.”  He cheers the empty air with his glass of scotch on the rocks, takes a generous swig.  I can feel my tuition rates increasing by the minute.  Oh, look at that, the price of Epi Pens just doubled again.  We’re on a roll.

It’s 6:29 and Happy Hour is about to be over which I am, sorry for the pun, quite happy about.  I take an order and run a table their soups and I come back to the bar where a man and his wife now sit.

“Listen,” he says, “I know Happy Hour ends at 6:30 but we’ve been sitting here for a few minutes already so can we get the Happy Hour prices?”

I look at the clock.  It’s 6:34.  But I’m still skeptical.

“Let me check.”

And what they don’t know is that we have cameras posted all around the place and those cameras show the lovely couple walking in at 6:31.  And I’m on a mission to civilize so I return to them and inform them that I know they didn’t come in on time, but I’m not an unreasonable human being, so I’ll still give them the discount.

He thanks me and orders an Absolute Martini and I tell him that’s not on Happy Hour and he asks me what the hell the point of my whole speech was and I’m just about done.  In fact, I am done.  Put a damn fork in me I’m finished.

You came in late.  But you know I didn’t see you come in late so instead of just being honest you tried to pin it on me, by accusing me of being too busy and not coming over to you on time.  Which most certainly equates to me not being good at my job.  And I don’t like that.  But I still offered you the discount, because I appreciate grey areas, like the five minutes between 6:30 and 6:35.  Except now you’ve gone too far. Why don’t you go sit with Donald Trump over there?  You can talk all about the white male privilege you seem so fond of throwing in my face.  Enjoy your twelve dollar martini, and be sure to write me in as your nominee tomorrow.  That’s S-H-A-Y-L-E-E-N-E.  With three e’s.

Like I said, I’m on a mission to civilize.  To eradicate dishonesty.  Manipulation.  Entitlement.  And I’m starting with you.  No means no, my dear, or haven’t you heard?