Yesterday I had bad parent and a hell spawn as a customer.
I had gone on my lunch break, wolfed down leftovers from the kitchen and came back. Management gave away my good section to a waitress whose shift started as I ate lunch, and I got screwed to the back section for the rest of my shift.
My new, pathetic section was the only one in the place with no air conditioning. It had two tables and a large window overlooking the patio. It was a warm spring day outside, I guess about 70. But this section had to have been at least 80, 85.
It took an hour before anyone was willing to sit back there. The tackers were a late 20's yuppie looking couple with two kids. A girl of about 10 and a boy of about oh, 8 or 9. I got them seated, passed out the menus, and as I'm greeting them and introducing myself, the boy cut me off by saying "I want something to drink! Do you have root beer? Mom do they have root beer? Can I have root beer?"
I shit you not, that kid managed to fray my nerves in 3 seconds.
Mom asks if there are any specials. Before I could tell her our lunch specials (it was 2pmish, lunch specials ended at 3) the boy cuts me off with: "Can I have some root beer?"
I look at mom, with amusement.
"Aren't children lovely?" says mom.
I ask if I can bring everyone something to drink, seeing as how it is really hot. Mom and dad order some lemonade, and mom tells me "Two kids size root beers please."
Now, our “kid” size drinks are a joke. The cups hold 4-6 ounces, and the kids manage to scarf down the entire drink the second you bring it to them.
Mom and dad add a bottle of wine to their drink order as well. I am thinking I can handle this, being it is my only table, I get off work in four hours, and I can keep my cool with this kid no matter how bad his attention deficit disorder is.
I come back with the drinks, the bread basket, and as I'm setting the items down, I'm getting ready to ask them if they were interested in an appetizer or would they like to go straight for an entree?
"Did..." I started.
"Mom" says the boy, I pause so he can say what he has to say. She ignores him.
I follow her lead, once again: "Did you see an..."
"...appetizer you like?"
"MOM MOM MOM MOM!"
I am thinking FUCK! She still pretends like this brat isn't jumping up and down in his chair.
Still ignoring brat boy, she orders a side salad for her, dad orders some jo jos and nothing for the kids, that he'd share some of the jo jos with them. Dad also informs me they are going to take their time since they had the room to themselves (yay! my section is a daycare now). I go and enter the order, and refill brat boy's root beer.
I come back to the table with the root beer and wine. I assume this kid got a talking to or something because miraculously he didn't interrupt me during the wine service. With that out of the way, I see that it seems they are ready to order. Dad orders, mom orders, brat boy drinks his root beer down again. I go to sissy, and he starts again...
"What can I get you little miss?" I say to the girl.
"Excuse me" says brat boy, I ignore him.
"Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me."
"Grilled cheese sandwich please" says sissy.
"Would you like french fries or apple sauce?" I ask.
"French fries please" sis replies.
"HEY YOU!! HELLO!! EXCUSE ME! "
I take a deep breath before turning to brat boy. It is taking everything I have at this point not to beat the shit out brat boy. My own kids would never get away with what he's doing.
I screwed a smile on my face and said: "What would you like?"
I think a puff of smoke escaped my ears.
"She means, what do you want to eat honey,” his mom says.
"Hotdogs, and I don't want those black lines on them."
Grill marks. This kid is a shit. At this point he can't sit still. As soon as he has ordered he is up bouncing off the walls.
Fast forward. Meal, almost done; wine, gone. Root beer, well that kid put down ten cups of it to his sisters three.
Sissy cleared her plate, and it is the restaurants' policy to give them a little sundae for doing so. So I ask if they would like to order dessert, and you can tell mom and dad were ready to do just that.
Brat boy was still jumping around the room. Then he stopped in the doorway to the main dining room and looked over his shoulder at me, turned back towards the dining room and proceeded to blow chunks all over the floor.
"Wow, that was neat," Was all I could manage right about then.
Dad takes the little shit to the bathroom.
"I am guessing you probably want your check now." I say with a smile and a laugh.
Mom was mortified. She was apologizing, I was cool with it, shit happens etc. I bring the check, it came out to like $120. Dad is no where to be found, and thankfully neither is the brat. However, mom looks as if she is disturbed by something. I ask if there was something wrong with the check.
"Well you would think that the manager would do something about it," She says in a kind of a hurt voice. I look stupid. So she says, "Well I don't think he would have thrown up if it wasn't so terribly hot in here." So I say, kind of jokingly but not, "The 10 glasses of root beer and jumping around didn't help any either I am sure."
"He wasn't jumping around at all, and that shouldn't have happened. I know we knew how hot it was when we sat down, but I just don't think we should have to pay for all of this."
OK I am not even going to argue with this. I guess I'm stupid and must have been seeing things when I saw him do a cartwheel not to mention all the WWE type moves and tumbling he and his sister were doing on the floor just feet away from the table.
I take the check to the same manager who helped me out with the vomit, and gave him the run down. He was shocked to say the least, but gave them like 50% off of the check. I take it back. Mom is happy, but peeved that we made her son hurl (fucking brat).
She also complains to management that I was rude to her when I said what I did about brat boy drinking all the root beer. She leaves me a tip of a stick of gum, three tic tacs and spare change that came to just over a dollar.
Later that night, as I'm clocking out and fishing my car keys out my purse, the manager that helped me with the check tells me not to worry about brat boy (I wasn't going to loose any sleep over him anyway) and he tells me that Brat Boy came running out of the bathroom and slammed into one of the other managers. The unlucky manager was carrying a large tray of sodas (for a table with 10 customers) thus drenching said manager. Brat Boy didn't even pause, just kept going. He also kicked the swinging door to the dishwasher area so hard it slammed into one of our bus boys, who had been innocently putting away a booster seat, knocking him down completely.
I made close to $30 in tips, and I gave the bus boy who cleaned up brat boys puke $20 for having to deal with the nasty ass hell spawn.
--Amy the waitress slave