I haven’t really posted about the US election or primaries or whatever they are. I don’t plan to start now. Thought I’d tell you a story instead. So gather round dear old Grumpy’s feet and listen to a little tale that I call: “Fatty and the Witch.”
On Monday night a lady and her kid come into the restaurant. It’s after ten and the kid is a bit young to be out on the town. He’s nine to eleven years old and, shall we say, obese. (That’s fancy talk for “fat little bugger.”)
They order their drinks and their food. I check up on them. All is fine. At one point I hear their cutlery clatter to the floor and I go over with a fresh set. They greet me with blank stares and deny that it ever happened. That’s weird but it seems like the typical idiocy. I don’t pay it much mind.
A while later the woman gets up and walks towards the kitchen. She looks like she wants something so I greet her on the way. She steps straight past me to talk to the cook. That’s weird but this time it’s not quite so typical. I’m paying attention. She’s up to something and when people are up to something, they’re up to no good. It’s a law.
“Here’s the story . . .” she says.
This statement is a really bad sign. No one needs to hear a story. You just place your order and I just bring it to you. It’s a simple process. If I have to tell you a story, it means something has gone wrong. If you have to tell me one, it means something is about to.
“I’m having a really rough time with my son and I was wondering if you have anything, sweet that I could give him, like something sweet, for him, to quieten him down.”
“We have a raspberry cheesecake,” I say but I’m thinking — Holy shit; this woman is drunk! Not just a little drunk. She’s absolutely pissed. Slurring and swaying.
My heart goes out to the kid.
“Okay, give ‘em some of that. But I need something for myself too. So load on the liquor.”
Something becomes very clear. This is all going to end badly. There is only one question to ask and only one decision to make: Does this end badly now or later? The woman is smashed and out with her little kid on a Monday night. She’s having a rough time with her son and her solution is to “load on the liquor.” She even told me a story. No matter what I do, there’s no happy ending.
“Actually,” I say, “I’m going to cut you off.”
She, of course, can’t believe this. She says she’s going to leave. I inform that she can leave after she pays her bill. She needs to use to washroom first. On the way down the stairs she calls me an asshole. I smile at the cook. He smiles at me.
“You already know you’re an asshole,” he says.
“Everyone knows that,” I say.
I print her bill and leave it on the table. She comes back upstairs and you better believe that I’m watching this crazy bitch. I follow her to her table and she’s too drunk to notice. Her kid shows her the bill. She ignores it and tells him to put on his jacket. As expected, she’s going to try to do a runner. With her fat kid. Drunk. On a Monday night.
I get in the way.
“You have to pay before you leave.”
“What does that mean?”
“You have to pay before you leave.”
“What does that mean.”
“You have to pay before you leave.”
“Do I sign this? What does that mean? What do I do?”
“You give me money.”
She gives me a credit card. I ring her through. And I’m even honest about the whole thing. I don’t put any extra money on her bill, not even a tip. I just make her pay for what she had. The woman has enough fucking problems. Actually, she’s fine. Someone that drunk makes all of their problems into everyone else’s problems. She doesn’t have any problems at all. She even has the solution: Load on the liquor.
She pays and leaves. Her kid, well, he looks like he’s been through this before and he’s probably about to go through it again at the next restaurant. Maybe he’ll get his candy and she’ll get hers. They just won’t get it from me.
When this woman drinks, she buys him sweets to shut him up. So how much does she drink to make that kid so damn fat? I’d say that dear old Mom is hitting the bottle pretty hard and has been for a while. And I’m guessing that the kid –victim though he may be– has learned to turn her blackouts into cheesecake. Their relationship is a sick, brutal and sordid thing. Mom has all the power and she’s drunk. Junior manipulates her and he’s fat.
They’re both fucked up.
I want my American readers to keep this story in mind when they’re choosing their next leader. Republican, Democrat or Independent, you need to stop and ask yourself: Is it worth the cheesecake? I’m not sure that it is.
