Slave labor

Last night I met the most horrible man in the span of humanity. The restaurant management staff is made up of two managers and three owners, two of whom act as managers. The third owner, Allen, is more or less a silent partner who stops by the restaurant once or twice a month. He is the aborted fetus of Satan's bride, a man so vile that demons wouldn't so much as wipe their asses with him.

Allen's reputation preceded him long before I met him. Servers shared stories of being humiliated, degraded and hollered at (and not in a cool Gwen Stefani way). He doesn't bother to learn anyone's name and enjoys firing employees on the spot. Allen is an unhappy son-of-a-bitch whose contempt for humanity is the bright spot of his day. I could tell all this from our brief yet painful exchange as I was leaving work yesterday.

I had no idea what Allen looked like, nor did I know he was coming in yesterday until it was too late. I wasn't prepared. So imagine my surprise when some random stranger approached me and said something unbelievably rude. I responded as I naturally would, with my unfiltered wit and bitterness. But we'll get to that in a moment...

I worked a lunch shift yesterday. Lunch shifts don't end until 6, and because we're not allowed a break, I was a rather hungry grump. I'd had two Asian dipshits leave a 10 cent tip and another white trash bitch short her check by $2. To say I was in a bad mood was to say that Hitler had trouble playing with others.

As lunch was ending, a group of ignorant studio executives came piling in for a meeting in the private room. We were forewarned that they were rude and demanding. Our manager told us to let their designated servers deal with them and to try and avoid them unless absolutely necessary. You can imagine the ease with which I followed that order.

So, as I was standing at the computer in the back doing my cash out, a bellowing whale of a man with all the gusto of a Dom DeLuise-Jabba the Hutt hybrid came screaming maniacally at me.

"WAITER!" he yelled. Doing my best Helen Keller, I stared blankly at the computer screen. Until Allen the Hutt grabbed me by the shoulder, turned me around and hollered, with food in his mouth, "I...SAID...WAITER!"

"Pardon me sir," I replied with condescending cool, "but my name is not waiter." I assumed this pudgy, pungent man was of the aforementioned studio party, so I said, "Your 'waiter' is attending to you in the private room. Ask him if you need something."

"I AM NOT A FUCKING CUSTOMER," the gorged one bellowed. "I OWN THIS GODDAMN PLACE, NOW GET YOUR ASS TO THE EXPO LINE AND RUN THE FUCKING FOOD THAT'S BEEN SITTING THERE FOR 20 MINUTES!!"

Not since 5th grade science with that cunt Mrs. Holloway had I been yelled at so unabashedly in front of my peers. I wanted to cry. I wanted to get back in that blubbering whale's face, take my job and shove it up his infinite ass and go drink. Instead, I opted for shock. I continued in my performance of Helen Keller until one of the managers came to my aid.

"Nevermind, Allen," she said. "All the food's run."

Allen immediately walked away from this exchange without so much as flinching. No apology, no recourse for my disobedience. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten what had just happened. I felt like Jack's son in The Shining when he's hiding from his psychotic father in the kitchen cabinet. I narrowly escaped death.

I have seen the face of evil. Once again, it has found its sinister way into my place of work.