Puke

I’m driving to work when a wave of nausea hits me.

I break into a cold clammy sweat. Every bump and swell in the road threatens to propel the contents of my stomach on to the dashboard. I have to throw up NOW.

I pull my car into a gas station.

“Where’s your bathroom?” I ask the attendant getting out of the car. I must look green.

The turbaned Sikh thinks I’m drunk at ten in the morning. Shaking his head disapprovingly he hands me a key chained to a hubcap.

I race into the bathroom. As soon as I see the toilet nature takes its course. I’ll spare you the details. Suffice to say I have to change my shirt.

I emerge from the bathroom still shaking from the effort. I hate throwing up. I walk into the small convenience shop attached to the station to buy some gum. Out of the corner of my eye I see the Sikh walk over to the men’s room to inspect the damage. Hey. I cleaned it up.

I get back in my car and head home. Once inside I call Fluvio and tell him I’m sick.

“What’s the matter with you? You pregnant?” Fluvio says. I can almost see him grinning on the other end.

“Must have been the sushi I had last night,” I say.

“Forget working lunch,” Fluvio says, “But can you come in at four? I have to go somewhere tonight.”

I’m sick and tired. I need another day off. The prospect of sitting home and watching old movies while dining on saltines and ginger ale is suddenly very appealing to me. But I can’t.

“I’ll be in at four,” I say hanging up. I go and take a long nap.

Feeling much better I walk into the Bistro at four on the dot. Louis is already there doing prep work. He looks terrible.

“What’s the matter with you?’ I ask

“I don’t feel good,” he replies.

“You too?

“My ulcer’s acting up again.” Louis moans.

“Have you been to the doc?” I ask.

“Yeah, she put me on all sorts of drugs. They’re kicking my ass.”

“Can you work tonight?”

Louis shakes his head, “Negatory,” he says.

Great. Just great.

I tell Louis to go home. I ask Beth, who worked lunch, to stay for dinner.

“What else can go wrong today?” I mutter to myself.

I learn later it’s not wise to tempt the Fates.

Fifteen minutes before closing a drunk guy walks in the door. I curse silently under my breath. A few more minutes and we’d have been home free. The man sits down and immediately wants a drink.

“I’m sorry sir, you’re visibly intoxicated. I’m not allowed to serve you.” I say.

“Whaddaya mean I can’t have a drink?” the man sputters. Telling a drunk he’s cut off can always be a tense moment.

“Sorry sir.”

“Just a small one.”

“No way.”

“Oh fur ch-ch-Chrissakes.”

“Try eating something. You’ll feel better,” I tell him.

Giving up on the drink the man orders some pasta. I deliver it to the table. He eats it slowly, his movements wooden. When he’s finished I go over to the table.

“How was your meal sir?” I ask politely.

The man replies by regurgitating his pasta all over the table.

“That good huh?”

The young couple sitting few tables away looks on in horror. I think the boy’s date is gonna hurl.

Moaning, the man slumps back in his chair, eyes glazed over, looking at no one in particular.

A busboy races over to the table with a garbage can. His cleanup method is simple. Pulling the four corners of the tablecloth together he wraps everything, cups, plates, and vomit, into a bundle which he dumps, dripping, into the trash can. Another busperson brings up the rear with a mop and bucket. In a minute it looks like nothing ever happened.

That is, except for the bile hanging from the guy’s chin.

“Ok, time to go buddy,” I say.

“Uhnnnnh” the man groans.

“You gotta go now.”

The man hands me his wallet. I extract his Amex card and run the bill. He makes his mark on the receipt and stumbles towards the door. I notice he’s fumbling with his car keys.

“Did you drive here buddy?” I ask.

“I drive a Lexus,” the man answers stupidly.

“Not tonight you don’t.” I say taking the keys away from him.

“Hey….” the man protests.

“Where do you live?” I ask. The man tells me.

“I’m calling you a cab.” I dial the number for the car service we use. They’re good for getting drunks, upset girlfriends, and coked out hookers off the premises in a pinch. We’ve used them before.

The cab pulls up and I dump the drunk into the backseat. I pull a few bills out of the man’s wallet and tell the cabbie the address.

“Have a good night pal,” I say tossing the keys and wallet in his lap.

No response – he’s out like a light. I bang on the hood. The cab takes off.

Back inside the bistro I comp the young couple’s dessert and apologize for “the unpleasantness.”

I started my day with puke. I ended my day with puke. Lovely.

I go and retrieve the drunk’s checkbook. Of course – there’s no tip.

Now I feel sick.

Goddamn it.

6 thoughts on “Puke”

  1. John says:

    You are ENTIRELY too kind.
    Drunk guy comes into my restaurant? He’s out. I get a manager and we show him the door.

  2. Stacey says:

    You really handled that situation well!! I admire you for that.
    The shit we have to put up with can be ridiculous sometimes.

  3. Anonymous says:

    you should have written in the tip yourself before handing it back to him to sign. i would have given myself at least 25%.

  4. Tomescu says:

    I can’t believe you expected a tip from him! That’s HILARIOUS!!!!!!!

  5. Max says:

    A 40% tip would be better, especially since he had to go through all that trouble.

  6. Maui says:

    Tomescu is, sadly, right. You can’t always expect a man that drunk to tip (although you DEFINATELY deserved 40%, as Max put in). One of those little cruelties.

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