I had a dine and dash tonight. My first one.

The fellow comes in somewhere between five and five thirty in the evening. He orders a margarita and tries to engage me in conversation. Unless I’m in an exceptionally good mood, I avoid engaging the customers beyond the basic pleasantries. It leads to trouble.

And there’s something wrong with the way he’s engaging me. It’s hard to say what but something is off. I’m even more curt than usual. That’s pretty curt. As it is, I’m as curt as I can be without being impolite. I like efficiency. Your feelings and your need to share them, your interest in my day and mine in yours, are just obstacles to overcome as I try to bring you your drinks and dinner.

So I keep bringing him drinks and I bring him his meal. He eats and drinks, rubbing me the wrong way the whole time. Maybe it’s his nose. At some point in this guy’s life, someone broke it for him. Some people think that makes a person look tough.

It doesn’t.

It makes the person who broke it look tough. The person with the broken nose looks like they probably deserved it. They usually do, you know. Not a lot of people go around punching people in the face for no reason. When I see a man with a broken nose my first thought is always: Looks like you finally pissed off the wrong guy.

“I’m dying for a smoke,” he says when he’s done eating. “Mind if I go out front?”

I usually have no problem with this but my gut says no. So I say no. “You can have a smoke out back on the patio.” Then, to soften the blow. “You can bring your drink back there.” But I don’t think too much about it. I probably should have. When he doesn’t go out for a smoke, I don’t think too much about that either. I definitely should have.

This is the odd sort of thing that should really set off an alarm bell.

He asks for his bill and I bring it to him. A few minutes later, the cook who is sitting in the back with the sometimes dishwasher, says to me: “Is he running?”

I turn around and this guy is running for the door. I stride across the restaurant and –sure enough– there’s no money on the table. I’m out the door and after him. He’s staggering and jogging up the street. I chase him down like the mangy cur he is and, well, I get his attention. Let’s put it that way.

“You didn’t pay.”

“I’m not paying for that. Fifty bucks? It’s a rip off.”

He starts walking.

Now, this is an interesting moment for me. I don’t get robbed. That’s how that is. It does not happen. It has happened. It will never happen again. But what can I do? If this was just me and him on the street, I’d beat his ass down into pulp. We wouldn’t have even talked this much. I’d have hit the guy from behind. And hard. Then I would have kicked him in the face before he got up to complain.

But I’m in a professional capacity here. I’m wearing my goddamn apron and that brings certain responsibilities. You see, there are certain powerful taboos. These are not easily broken, nor should they be. A waiter can never throw the first punch. If waiters started thinking it was okay to hit people, a lot of people would get hit. Innocent and guilty alike, a lot of people would get hit. That’s just how it is. We’re basically suppressed rage molded into human form. I’m torn between the taboo and my urge to just rip this guy apart. He has, after all, provided an excuse.

So what do I do? I don’t know. But I’m not letting him walk away.

That’s when my new hero arrives upon the scene: The Dishwasher.

But he’s not just any dishwasher. This fellow has worked on the floor for years. He worked the floor when the resto was a punk and pitbull infested dive. He’s seen it all and then some. And, although he now has a much better job, he continues to wash dishes. It’s a bit of pocket money and he likes to hang out. And I think he waits for this sort of shit.

“PAY YOUR BILL!” I hear him shout.

I instantly understand. This is what we do. We shout “PAY YOUR BILL!” in the middle of Queen Street until this fucker gets embarrassed enough to pony up. If he doesn’t do that, we wave down a cop. He starts making an excuse. “PAY YOUR BILL!” I shout.

“PAY YOUR BILL!” shouts Dishwasher.

And all together now: “PAY YOUR BILL!”

“This isn’t fair.”

“You’re right. This isn’t fair. PAY YOUR BILL!”

“It’s a rip off.”

“You’re right. It is a rip-off. PAY YOUR BILL!”

Some punks crossing the street start shouting: “PAY YOUR BILL!”

The guy starts walking and, in between some choice words and threats of violence, we keep yelling: “PAY YOUR BILL!”

“I’ll pay you thirty bucks.”

“That’s right,” Dishwasher says. “And then you’ll pay the other 22 bucks too. PAY YOUR BILL!”

“It’s too much money.”

“The prices were on the menu,” I say. “You had no problem drinking the booze.”

“It’s not right. You know it’s not right–”

“Fuck you, you cunt,” I say. That’s just the sort of thing I say when I’m angry. I also say it if I like you. Like, I might say, ‘you’re a cunt but I like you.’ That’s different. This guy was just a cunt. And he gets upset at being called a cunt. Can’t say I blame him. The stupid fucking cunt. He finally looks ready to throw down.

And I’ve walked about five blocks shouting at him. I’m ready to go too. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a fight. He gets all puffy. I need him to throw that first punch.

“Yeah, take a swing,” Dishwasher shouts. “That’ll make it better when the cops get here.”

Thanks Dishwasher, I think. He’s at a safe distance. But, what I like about Dishwasher is, should the shit hit the fan, he won’t be at a safe distance for very long.

“You’re a fucking cunt,” I say. “You never had the money at all.”

The cunt looks like he’s been slapped. Picture that: A slapped cunt. That’s how he looks.  That’s how all cunts look when they hear the truth.  Slapped.

“PAY YOUR BILL!”

The guy shrinks, cools off and tries more of his bullshit. He gets more of the “PAY YOUR BILL!” routine. This slow-motion spectacle continues even further down the street. It’s getting a bit old. Where the fuck are the police when you need them? They’re never anywhere unless you don’t want them there.

Dishwasher sees a friend. “I’m gonna get his phone and call the cops,” he says.

A guy behind us says: “You can use mine.”

I take my eyes off the cunt and, when I look back, he’s bolting across the street, right through traffic. Fuck you, I think and I bolt right after him. He runs down a side street. I run after him. I feel like I’m in a 1970s movie of some kind. A young couple stands on the side of the road. They’re seeing a forty year old with a brush-cut being chased by a fellow with a tie and an apron. Their mouths hang open. Welcome to the city.

They get in their car and try to speed off.

I know I’m going to catch him. I might smoke but I also walk 6km to work and 6km home after work. And what do I do at work? I fucking walk some more. He doesn’t stand a chance. Hearing my steel-toe army boots pounding the pavement behind him, he figures this out. He stops. Throws up his fists.

I’m expecting this.

It’s dreary and predictable. He’s lucky that I have the taboo.

Once again, Dishwasher is yelling at him to go ahead and take a swing. The cunt decides against it. Starts walking back to Queen. Dishwasher is on the phone to the cops. We finally get a cruiser at the corner. They stop. The guy’s attitude does a sudden shift.

He’s suddenly very polite and trying to make it out like he’s being harassed. I cut him off. “This guy ran out on his bill,” I say.

The cop looks at him and says: “Why didn’t you pay your bill?”

God, it’s nice to wear a tie and apron. This is the first time a police officer has ever believed my side of the story. It’s probably the first time my side of the story has been the right one. There’s a lesson here: Authority sides with authority.

The cunt is presented with a choice. He can either pay the bill or he can get charged. His world has become a very simple place. He says he’ll pay the bill. He gives me a credit card. I walk all the way back to work to get the predicted result. DECLINED. And then I walk all the way back. Just how much of my time does the cunt plan on wasting? It’s already been too much.

And I’m not exactly expecting a tip here.

When I return, the cops have him handcuffed in the back of their cruiser. I’m informed that he has a record, that he has done this before. This is, apparently, his thing. He dines and dashes. It violates his parole to even be in a licensed establishment. I want you to think about how stupid this cunt is:

It’s illegal for him to be in a restaurant. And he got caught going to one.

Now that’s fucking stupid. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t take a criminal mastermind to get away with going to a restaurant. Violate your parole all you like. No one will ever know just as long as you pay your bill. This fuck can’t even figure that much out.

The cop asks me if I want to press charges.

I think about all the running and shouting that the cunt made me do. I think about the other servers, working in places unlike mine, where they’re not allowed to void, where the next server will probably be a twenty year old girl who’ll get stuck with his bill. I think about the fact this guy never intended to pay. I think about the bullshit so deep that, even caught by the police, he still made me walk blocks to test a credit card he knew didn’t work thus wasting even more of my time. I think about all that shit.

“Fuck him,” I say. “Charge him.”

The police take my statement and they take the cunt away.

When I return to work, the customers are happy to see me intact and one of the owners is covering the floor. Dishwasher and I get to play the conquering heroes. We learn that our shouts were audible for two blocks. And I’m actually looking forward to a day in court.

I guess there’s a first time for everything.