It’s Friday night and I’m waiting on some real assholes. Two middle aged couples, so busy bad mouthing absent friends, I wonder what they say about one another in private. So animated is this little hate fest that I’m shooed away every time I approach the table. After half an hour I finally get the wine order. It’s the cheapest white we sell.

I open the bottle, go though the tasting ritual, and pour the swill into the glasses. I begin parroting the specials when one of the men looks alarmed and says,

“Waiter you’re bleeding.”

I look down. I must have nicked my finger on the foil opening the bottle. There is a small bit of blood on my finger.

“Oh dear.” I say

The man looks like he is about to jump out of his seat. He is really freaked.

“I am a doctor. I insist you put a band aid on that finger NOW!”

I want to say my case of Ebola is in remission; but before I can say anything a drop of blood slides off my finger.

The entire table tracks the path of my hemoglobin as it plummets down, down, PLOP! into one of the bitch’s wine glasses.

I have tuned chardonnay into rose blush. Voila!

The ladies look like they are about to faint. Marcus Welby is out of his seat.

“Take this wine away; get a new bottle, and GET A BAND AID!!!!!!!!!!”

The busboy removes the offending glasses and bottle. I run into the kitchen, wash out the wound with vodka, get a bandage and return to the table with a fresh bottle of vino cheapo.

The entire table looks like they are about to throw up. The doctor tells me to skip opening the bottle.

“We have lost our appetite. We’re leaving.” He says shaking his head disgustedly.

“Sir I am very sorry for what happened. This bottle is on the house.” I say trying to rescue the situation.

“No we’re going. You are a terrible waiter. We are never coming back here again.”

All this fuss over a simple accident. Now I’m pissed. As the couples walk past me I inject a Scottish burr in my voice and pay a small homage to Monthy Python,

“But sir it’s only a flesh wound!”

“You’re an asshole” the doctor counters.

Oh, THANK YOU SIR! Have a wonderful evening.” I reply obsequiously.

The couples storm out the front door. The owner gives me a “What the fuck?” look. I shrug. He shrugs. A new table takes the assholes’ place in under a minute,

Here’s the kicker. The new table’s bill came close to a thousand bucks. I got a $200 tip.

If you prick me do I not bleed?

Cheap wine would have tasted better with my blood in it anyway.

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