The queer who cried wolf

Bruce, a server at my restaurant, is a gay 45-year-old with severe hypochondria. He also drones on and on about himself as if the whole world wakes up to ask, "I wonder what Bruce will do today!" In short, he's the most annoying person I've met in L..A. (and mind you I've met uber-cunt Jessica Simpson).

Thank God in Heaven, Bruce was fired Saturday. I could let the story rest on the laurels of my intense relief and pleasure. But I'd rather tell you the hilarious tale about how one man's hypochondria cost a restaurant $5,000 and resulted in an "attempted murder" claim made against me.

Bruce's latest imagined ailment was a heart attack. From the moment he arrived at work humming Barbra Streisand, Bruce was convinced he was having a heart attack. This didn't stop him from eating his employee meal in the middle of the restaurant during a busy Saturday night shift. Nor did it stop him from smoking a cigarette like Bette Davis on the patio (which is non-smoking).

Bruce's heart attack escalated when racial tensions mounted between him and our token black server (Tod). Bruce has a way of politely informing people why they aren't as good as he is. In this instance, Bruce informed Tod that Tod was naturally intimidating and untrustworthy because he's black, which is equated with car-jackings and shootings. Tod didn't take this very well. When he became undeniably angry, Bruce's heart attack kicked into high gear and he went into hiding.

Tod (literally) threatened to kill Bruce to prove Bruce's point. Our manager, Paul, took Tod outside to issue a verbal warning against such threats. I was unaware of this at the time. I needed Paul to void something off a receipt, and I assumed he was in his office. When I went into the office, I did not find Paul. I found Bruce, doing his best Jessie-Spano-on-speed. He told me to call 9-1-1. I rolled my eyes and asked, "Where's Paul?" Bruce replied, "No, I'm serious, I think I'm DYING." Had Bruce not played his death card 50 times beforehand, I might have believed him. Instead, I said, "So you have no idea where Paul is?" and walked out.

I informed Paul of Bruce's impending death. Paul shared my indifference and took his time getting back to the office. Unbeknownst to anyone, Bruce had used the company phone to dial 9-1-1 himself. Not only did he report his heart attack. He also informed the operator that a man at work "was trying to kill him."

By the time the ambulance had arrived, completely distracting every guest in the restaurant, Bruce had magically recovered from his heart attack and dismissed it as "intense gas." Tod had been sent home. The E.R. staff and police officer were not amused. They slapped the restaurant with a $5,000 false alarm charge and left.

But Bruce still had some and piss and vinegar left. He decided to come after me for not taking his queries (pardon the pun) seriously. I explained that hypochondriacs do not inspire sympathy in me. He said I was lucky he dismissed the police because I "could have been in jail" for "attempted murder." I laughed, explained that had I wanted him dead he would be, and continued refilling salts and peppers.

That night, Bruce was fired for abusing 9-1-1. Even though he and I had never established any sort of friendship or basis for communication, Bruce called me the next day to let me know there were no hard feelings. He wasn't going to pursue any legal action against me, and he was feeling much better. And even though he was speaking to my voice mail, he told me about his new job, about his cats, about the cherry-flavored lube he bought for his boyfriend, and the nasty cold he caught at the library. He told me to give him a call back so we could catch up.

I had my roommate call him back and inform him that he had a wrong number. He kept my roommate on the phone for 15 minutes telling her about his recent heart attack. She eventually just hung up on him.