Thank Goodness it was Me

For a few weeks I've been staying with a friend in a neighboring city, helping her on the property where she lives. Another guy and I have been cutting down trees, trimming this and that, clearing out brush and what not. Definitely far from my normal apron-wearing duties, but it's good to step out of the box sometimes.

With intense work under the sun comes hunger. Generally we slap together some sandwiches, but sometimes we'll make the long trek into town (yes, it's a long trek, the kind of distance where you hope not to have forgotten anything at the grocery store) and pick up burritos or whatever. This time around we hit a Subway (can't beat a $5 footlong).

Having been a Sandwich Artist for a number of years in a similarly set up deli, I'm usually much more polite and empathetic to the woes of Subway workers. First of all, they always look miserable. If you notice, when you walk in the door the employees are obligated to welcome you. It's never jovial. It's always a bland, boring, instinctive, "Welcome to Subway." It sounds like someone let the air out of their personalities.

My coworker and I enter. I notice immediately there are only two other people in the shop, eating at a table in the corner. There's a heavy-set gal with bug eyes behind the counter doing some menial task. "Welcome to Subway," she croaks.

"Hello," I say.

A second girl emerges from the back. She's equally-sized as Bug Eyes but has platinum blonde hair, definitely not from Mother Nature. "Hello," she says mechanically.

My coworker proceeds to order, as do I. Within 30 seconds the girls are bustling about, smiling, seemingly enjoying themselves. My coworker and I are joking with them, trying to be lighthearted about everything. It was a good two-minute process. A third girl emerges from the back, looking serious and firm, quite managerial. She couldn't have been older than 22. A few exchanges between the girls are made, but nothing out of the ordinary.

The couple sitting in the corner of the restaurant get up and leave behind us. When they are out the door, Serious says, "And goodbye to you, motherfuckers."

Dead silence.

It was like someone had said the President had been killed. It was eerie. Blondie and Bug Eyes, in usinon, say, "Serious!" trying not to laugh, and clearly embarrassed.

Serious puts her hands to her mouth in shock, as if the word 'motherfucker' just slipped out. I can guarantee you this: she knew exactly what she was saying and knew very well my coworker and I were standing right there. There was no missing us; we were two feet away. I'm not guessing -- I know this from experience. I, too, have insulted customers within earshot of other customers. It's our way of saying, "Watch it, or we'll talk about you behind your back, too."

"I didn't mean you guys!" Serious says to me and my coworker.

I shrugged it off. "Oh jeez, we don't care," I reassure her. "We'd only hope you'd have the decency to wait until we left before you call us that." I chuckled to make light of it. It was pretty funny, but she was lucky it was me as the customer, and not someone ready to pick up a phone and call Subway Corporate Headquarters to gripe and groan about the foul language.

"Are those people assholes or something?" I ask, referring to the motherfuckers.

Blondie, wrapping my sub, says, "Nah, they're just here every day. They always want the same thing. They always want us to turn down the music, make a fresh pot of coffee. They want a fresh pot every time."

"And they never say thank you," Serious adds.

"Well I worked for Substandard for fifteen years, so I sympathize."

"Oh my God," Bug Eyes says, genuinely shocked. "Fifteen years?"

"Yep," I say.

"I hope you were at least a manager," Serious says.

"Sort of. Whatever the case, I'm not there now, but I totally understand how you feel about customers like that. My store had one lady who always complained it was too cold. 'Can you turn off the air conditioner?' she'd ask us. My response was always the same: 'Lady, we're working hard back here, that's why the AC is on. I'm not going to sweat through my pants just because you're too cold.'"

This sent the Subway girls into a tiny fit of laughter. Obviously they needed to get that kind of tension out of their systems. I know the feeling. It's nice when someone comes into your place of employment and they know how it is. We shouldn't have to be serious all the time.

There isn't enough money in the world that should force someone to fake a smile 8 hours a day. It's unnatural. I mean, think about it: Do you think you could cry for 8 hours a day if you were paid enough? I don't think so.

It's Not the End of the World

During my coffee-making days, I met a lot of uptight people. A lot. More than my fair share. Granted, I met uptight people during all of my jobs, but the coffee house industry sees more than it needs to.

Think of it this way: caffeine is a highly addictive drug and, like crack or meth, people need their fix. People become skittish, antsy, trying to quell the urge for something that will calm their nerves.

During my tenure at The Grind, I dealt with far too many people like this. I was a crack dealer, essentially. A legally employed crack dealer.

The line at The Grind, as I'm sure you can imagine, was longest and steadiest during the morning hours. We're talking the wee morning hours, too. I'd pull into the parking lot at 4:30 in the morning just to get things started (we opened at 5 a.m., an ungodly hour, a I-can-still-see-the-moon-and-stars hour), and there they were, the four cars I could count on to wait for me to unlock the doors at 5.

The procession would start, customers trailing in to order their stiff coffee drinks and flaky pastries. Most of them were zombies. Things ran pretty smoothly until around 7 a.m., when the coffee tweakers were at their most incessantly needy. You could pick them out in line; impatiently tapping a foot, or glancing at a wrist-watch again and again. If you paid close enough attention, you could see them mouth the words Come on, already. As if this were going to make me or my co-workers move any faster (in fact, we all took a morbid kind of glee in making them wait).

Customer, looking well-coiffed and Ready for the Day, but clearly trying to hide her desperation for coffee, says, "I'll have a grande, non-fat, extra-hot, upside-down, no-whip, no foam, extra, extra caramel, caramel macchiatto." For those of you not versed in Coffee, that's a caramel macchiatto, but with all the bells and whistles.

Awesome. Cool. Customer orders a pastry, and I'm left to make this lofty drink at the esspresso bar. Steadily I make it, place it on the counter to my left (where customers pick up their delicious drinks), and I call it out: "I have a grande, non-fat, extra-hot, upside-down, no-whip, with foam, extra, extra caramel, caramel macchiatto on the bar!"

The first thing Customer does is lift the lid to her drink. No "thank you" or "have a nice day." No, instead she inspects her drink as if maybe I'd spit in it. "There's foam on here," Customer snaps, "I didn't want foam."

"Oh," I said, "I apologize. I can make you another one."

She scowls at me with such eyes, I thought maybe I might disintegrate into dust. "I don't have time," she nearly howls. "I have to get to work!"

"Miss, it's an easily fixable mistake."

"My God," she starts, "I can't even drink this. I can't even drink this now that it has foam on it."

I sigh. "Look, it's written on the cup you wanted no whip cream. I apologize. I just assumed..."

"I've been coming in here long enough," Customer gripes. "You think you'd know my drink by now."

Well, frankly, you're one of about a thousand people I see a week, so don't flatter yourself. I want to say this, but I don't. Instead I grab the steamed milk spoon, lean over, scoop the foam off her drink, top it off with more steamed milk, and say, "See, it's not the end of the world."

Even though I've fixed what was apparently a life-altering mistake, Customer says, "That was a smart-ass thing to do and I don't appreciate it. Who's your manager."

With a smile that screams warmth I say, "You're looking at him."

Customer rolls her eyes, grabs her drink, slips her sunglasses back on, and turns on heel to leave.

"Have a great day!" I yell after her.

Higher Ups

Customer service is not the only hassle being dealt with on a daily basis in an apron-wearing environment -- as I've said in the past, pretty much any job that involves an apron also involves manual labor. There are, however, other factors to consider.

The Powers That Be, to be precise.

Every job (whether it involve an apron or not) has its Head Honchos. There is always someone to answer to.

My last position, i.e. Sandwich Artist at Substandard, was not your typical customer service job. Yes, I made sandwiches for the public, but I did not work for a franchise store. The store for which I worked was family owned, and by family I mean a husband and wife. Because I worked there for more years than I care to admit, I was often asked if I was their son. "Hell no," was often my how-dare-you-even-assume-that answer.

Wife, a tall and intimidating woman with tightly coiffed hair and a scowl that could singe your flesh, was too involved in paying attention to small details than paying attention to the bigger, more important ones. For example, she might tuck the tag of my shirt back in its collar but completely miss the fact that my collar was becoming tattered (a far more unsightly image than a rebellious collar tag, but new work shirts meant she'd have to spend money on something other than hair appointments and kitchy knick-knacks).

On more than one occasion Wife asked me why I was growing a beard. "It doesn't look very neat," she'd say officiously, but would try to not sound officious, which made it all the worse.

After a number of years I learned to agree with her. It didn't matter that I could point out her husband, not five feet away from us, had a beard and a blossoming mullet. Talk about unsightly. "He's different," she'd probably say. What that would translate to was "You're my employee, not my husband."

Wife was always particular about the aprons. Always. They were flap aprons, the basic type, the kind that tied around the waist and hung in front of your delicates. Shirts had to be tucked in and the aprons had to be clearly displayed. The name of the business, afterall, was jauntily embroidered on the bottom right hand corner of each.

"Your apron is on backwards," Wife said to me one day when I arrived for work. I hadn't even clocked in yet. Heck, I hadn't even blinked.

I looked down at it. My emerald-green apron was, in fact, inside out. "Oh well," I said and breezed past her.

"Aren't you going to fix it?" she said. This was not really a question, but rather an thinly disguised demand, a talent Wife had carefully honed over the years.

"What's the big deal?" I said. "It's just going to get dirty anyway."

"Customers can't see our business name," she said.

"You mean the same business name that's right here on my shirt? The one on the front door? The one on the sneeze guard? The one on all the take-out menus?"

Wife said, "It's my business, and my apron, and if I want customers to see it then I should have that right."

Good God. I should have known better; sometimes I forgot the soapbox she carried around could be unfolded in a heartbeat.

I could have just agreed (as I've said, I learned to do that early), but I didn't see the problem. It's not like I had my underwear on the outside of my pants. "No one will notice."

"Please just fix it," she said. "It just doens't look good."

It just doesn't look good, she says. This from a woman who once taught me to, "put the good avocado over the old avocado, that way the customer won't see it and I'm not forced to throw away product."

I sighed, undid my apron, and fixed it. "Thank you," Wife said, proud of herself.

I suppose, in the end, Wife was right in her convictions; an hour into the lunch rush, when Wife was busying herself about the register, an observant customer said to her, quite pointedly, "Your apron is on inside out."

If there were a name for the color of red she suddenly turned, I couldn't tell you what it is. Shameful Scarlet? Eat-Crow Crimson?

"Hmph," I said a moment later, "you were right, Wife. I guess customers do notice. How about that."

Bookselling

I will admit, being a bookseller did not always require me to wear an apron. If I worked in, say, the stock room, sometimes I'd slip on an over-the-shoulder number and meander through the stacks, trying to make order out of the chaos. God forbid I make a trek out of the stock room and onto the sales floor in my apron; I was like a beacon for all the browse-weary shoppers lost in a sea of books.

I could not make it ten feet without being accosted.

"Excuse me, I need help finding a book," Customer asks. Mind you, this is not asked with a casual calm but rather a repressed panic that shimmers with serial killer qualities -- customers who want something want it now.

It also doesn't matter that I'm carrying an a stack of books to my chin.

"Let me just get these books out of my way," I say, "and I'll be right with you."

Customer shakes her head, as if I'm spouting gibberish. "I just need to get that new book from the author who wrote...gosh, what's that one book? The one about the dragons?"

"I need a little bit more than that to go on," I say politely as my arms start to shake under the weight of my book stack.

Customer is snapping her fingers to herself, looking at the ceiling, trying in vain to remember the title or author of the book she's jonesing for. If my experience tells me anything, she's going to say she heard about it on the radio.

"I heard about it on the radio," she spits out quickly, rather proud of herself, as if this would be the one piece of evidence I'd need to know exactly what she's talking about. Customer is still oblivious to the stack of books growing precariously heavier in my feeble arms.

"Miss, I'm really sorry, but I'd need a title or an author to know what it is you're looking for."

Faster than a junior high school girl vying for a boyfriend, Customer turns on me. "Don't you guys know about the books that are advertised on the radio?" she barks at me.

"Not every single one," I answer as politely as possible, given my situation. The books in my arms feel like I'm carrying a dozen sandbags; they are on the brink of spilling from my hands. "Especially books about dragons. They're not exactly high on the list of Must Haves."

Customer curls her upper lip in disdain or disgust, it was hard to tell with my vision blurring. "This place is called Bookstore Galore Booksellers, right?"

"The last time I checked," I answered.

"It's imperative I find this book. It's for my son. He'll just go crazy if I don't find it for him."

As sympathetic as I am to wanting to read the next book in a series about dragons, I can't help but sigh, pray to the heavens that what is about to happen next doesn't get me fired, and I allow the stack of books in my arms to tumble to the floor. It was quite the spectacle. Customer jumped back as if I'd dropped a bucket of sewer water at her feet.

"Shit," I said under my breath.

"Oh!" Customer says emphatically. She leans forward, grabs a hardcover book from the mess at my feet, and says, "Here it is!" Without even a "thank you" she is gone.

Frustrated, but not unused to being treated like a piece of bellybutton lint, I get on my knees to start collecting the books that have fallen this way and that. It isn't long before I hear the inevitable, "Excuse me, can you help me find a book?"

An Interview with S, Customer Service Extraordinaire

There is something good to be said about customer service. I will be sure to write about that when I find out what it is. Ask me what's bad about it and I can give you seventeen years' worth of answers.

What is customer service, S?

Customer service is a chunk of time (generally 8 hours) in which a person is forced to put aside the true essence of themselves and step into a uniform that drains them of their soul.

Did you say "uniform"?
I did. Namely the apron. The apron has special powers. It can make one smile, nod pleasantly, sometimes bow, and spit out phrases like "Absolutely" and "No problem" and "Would you like me to carry that out for you?" Under dire circumstances, this special apron can be fashioned quickly into a cape.

Wow! A cape?!

Yes, a cape! Customer servants, you see, sometimes need to be superheroes. The mere ability to wear an apron sometimes just isn't enough. We are required, at times, to read people's minds, know exactly what they want before they utter a word, and we must fix every little problem before it starts. And superheroes, after all, are selfless; sometimes we must take the blame for even the most pitiful of circumstances (the special apron helps us by allowing us to utter things like, "You're right ma'am, I apologize. Is there anything I can do to fix this?" or "I take full responsibility.").

Customer service sounds hard, S.

It is! It's like being a hooker. I get a client, I dole out a service, and in the end I'm left with less of my dignity than I started with. At least with hooking the money goes undetected by the government; not only do I get the shaft by serving rude and odious clients, but I'm left with my arms at my sides and a gentle tear running down my cheek, wondering how on God's Green Earth did I manage to get myself in this position.

Is there anything you like about customer service, S?

Of course. I apologize -- I'm such a naysayer! Without question I like the paycheck. And I like getting discounts on my meals and drinks. I like the people I work with (expect for owners or management: it is absolutely imperative that you either dislike or hate the head honchos because, no matter how nice they are to you, they will fire you as soon as look at you, no matter what the reason). I like pretending that I care. I like when the shift ends. And, most importantly, I like that I'm able to leave my mark on every establishment I've ever worked, you know, like a dog pissing on a tree.

What's the worst customer service position you've ever had, S?

Goodness, that's like asking Rod Blagojevich what his worst day has been so far! I wish I could answer this question easily. They've all had their moments, believe me. But all you have to do is keep reading my blog to find out what joyous excursions into the world of Customer Service I've experienced over the years!

Do you have any advice for up-and-coming Customer Servants?

I'd probably have to say just tie that apron on tight and whatever you do, don't forget that there's a person underneath it! Just as that apron has the power to turn you into a smiling idiot, it also has the uncanny ability to make you look like a machine, because that's exactly how people will treat you. But remember: machines break down, and when that happens pieces go flying all over the place! That can be just plain messy. We certainly don't want to see you on the 5 o'clock news being escorted out of your place of employment in a pair of handcuffs and a frown on your face. Keep your chin up! That apron might feel like a prison, but at the end of the day it comes off, the same way tires can be taken off your boss' SUV, or a smile can be smeared off the face of an annoying child.

There's Not Enough Money in the World

Being a busboy has its quirks: I was pretty much invisible; the cooks tended to like me the most because I was on par with their level in the heirachy (and taking a quick swig off half-empty Long Island Iced Teas meant cleaning off tables wasn't as demeaning a job I thought).

But, despite those silver linings, being a busboy was pretty much the worst apron-wearing job I have ever had.

The restaurant I spent many a month wiping barbecue sauce and ranch dressing off cheap dining booths was more eye-opening than a week in an orphanage camp. The orphanage camp, you must understand, is a dire circumstance that goes without saying: it's very sad and an awful fact of life. Bussing, on the other hand, made me realize that people have less scruples than a Jackie Collins novel. Customers, in the restaurant world, expect you to not only bend over backwards, but they want you to bring them a cup of water in one hand and your soul in the other.

Bussing was hard work. I was the waitress's bitch. I did everything they weren't willing to do (eventhough they happily dirtied their knees kissing the ass of every tip-worthy customer who walked through the front door). I cleared tables, set them up again, folded napkins, cleaned up spilled drinks and barf, and even delivered food. Working in a restaurant where the busboys delivered the food could do nothing but confuse customers and, even worse, create a disaster that only I could start.

One evening (a busy night of elderly couples sipping Manhattans and demanding a discount because of their advanced age), I dutifully brought out a trayful of fried mozarella and badly grilled hamburgers to a table with four women sucking down Kamikazes faster than a water-deprived dog at a toilet. Clearly they were hammered. Three of them looked about my age -- mid-twenties -- and the fourth had a neck on her like a turkey. I was guessing she was pushing fifty.

"Whoo-hoo!" Turkey-neck shouted, popping a Kamikaze shot like a pill-addict. "This is some good shit!"

I imagine it was; I'd had three thanks to the bartender who liked me because I knew how to stock his bar fast and without flaw.

"Here you go ladies," I said, placing their plates carefully on the cup-strewn table. "If you need anything else, your server will be with you in a..."

"You're cute," one of the younger gals said. "What're you doing working in a dump like this?" The gal, rather pretty in a young-but-I-worship-Courtney-Love kind of way, slurred her words and kept pushing back a chunk of bangs that did not exist.

"Just making a living," I said, getting ready to leave.

"I'll give you twenty bucks to get on this table and dance for me!" she wailed. The older patrons, deeply involved in their own Metamucil troubles, barely blinked an eye. I worked, after all, in the "downstairs" portion of the restaurant where, in less than hour, a disc jockey named Jake would take the reins of the musical library and turn the pool-sized dance floor into a place where 80s bloomers pretended Paula Abdul was still the pinnacle of musical godliness.

"I don't think so," I said curtly and started to make my getaway.

"Come on!" Turkey-neck shouted. "Shake that cute ass for us! We'll make it forty!" she said, as if this were enough for me to demean myself (they forget that the apron was enough).

"I have work to do," I said.

I could tell that the four of them were growing agitated and I felt it was my duty to book it out of there as fast as I could. Drunk women, I had come to learn, were worse than coyotes flocking around a wounded poodle.

"You fucking fag," one of them said. "What kind of guy passes up forty bucks for a teeny, tiny little dance?" I don't remember which girl it was, but she kept fingering her nipple. If anything, this made me not want to dance, no matter the payment.

"The kind with work to do," I answered back. After eyeing my surroundings to make sure my higher-ups were not hovering around this particular conversation, I said, "Besides, none of you has a penis, which would be more incentive for me to dance on your table than your measly forty bucks."

If the sound of jaws dropping could be documented, this would have been the one to put on record.

"A hundred!" a young one said, teetering back and forth like a boat in the ocean. Had she the choice of taking another shot or falling asleep, I think she would have opted for la-la land.

Wow, maybe I was cuter than I thought. "Thank you, ladies, but I don't think my boss would appreciate me getting on your table and doing a little a dance."

With a serious scowl, Turkey-neck said, "But we're paying customers."

"And I'm a man with work to do. I'm really sorry."

A moment passed. I waited to see if anything else had to be said. I could sense the tables around me waiting for the next course of dialogue, as if this were a really good movie they were watching; I don't blame them, this was an interesting exchange.

"Fine," Turkey-neck said, throwing a ten dollar bill at the edge of the table, far enough for it to hang on the edge of the table and fall at my feet. "Go get me a pack of cigarettes then." She proceeded to have a conversation with the girls at her table.

I stood there, relatively dumbfounded (I like to think that, at that point, I'd seen it all...I was wrong).

Turkey-neck looked at me with a bitchy yet quizzical gaze and said, "Are you lost? The cigarette machine is over there." She pointed over my shoulder where, in fact, the cigarette machine was.

I took a deep breath. Being the nice, pleasant, generous person I am, I bent down and picked up the money. I tossed it back on the table. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I think you have me mistaken for either your husband or the guy you leave money for on the side of the night table in your hotel room after an hour of mediocre hooker sex." I wish I could tell you I made this up, but I did not -- the words came out as fluid as a water tap.

Had Turkey-neck or her friends had anything else to say, I couldn't tell you -- my shift was over not five minutes later and I had turned on heel more quickly than a ballerina in The Nutcracker. I must admit, despite the belittling set of circumstances involving me girating my ass on their table, had they upped their ante to at least a hundred bucks, I might have actually considered it.

But, unfortunately, this is what happens when you deal with an embittered apron-wearer.

Typical Conversations

Apron-wearers in customer service have a common understanding that with wearing an apron comes the tedious conversations that arise between worker and customer. Here are a simple few.

The Sandwich Artist Conversation. These can range from anywhere between inane ("So I decided to get this sandwich for my wife, because she's sick, you know. But I didn't want fast food. So I was driving from our house over on Rancho Santa Fe when I thought I'd stop at the gas station for some gas, and...") to the downright stupid. Here's a great Example:

"Hi, what can I get for you today?" I ask.

"How big is a six inch?"

"Six inches."

"I know, but how big is that?"

Sigh. "SIX inches."

Customer, growing agitated, says (with more oomph! this time), "But what does it look like?"

"It's three inches shorter than a nine inch roll and three inches bigger than a three inch roll."

"This is ridiculous!" the customer grunts, and walks away.

You see, if the customer had merely said, "Can you please show me what a six inch roll looks like?" then I would have more than happy to oblige. I gotta make my entertainment somehow.

Bookselling is world's different than making sandwiches, but there's no lack of idiots to deal with in the world of books. I find it ironic that people lack common sense in a book store, which is supposed to be the hub of intellectualism. But, alas, someone with something stupid to say always pops up.

"Hi, welcome to Bookstore Galore. Do you need help with anything?" I ask.

"Where's your non-fiction section?" the woman asks.

"It depends. What are you looking for?" I ask patiently.

"Just the non-fiction section."

"I realize that, but it depends on what kind of non-fiction you're looking for." As usual, my patience is wearing thin, but I trudge onward. "There are different kinds."

Frustrated because she has been confronted with her own ignorance yet, in typical customer fashion, she doesn't want to take fault for it, the customer says, "I don't know! Just non-fiction!"

I collect my wits about me, sigh, and say, "Miss, do you see that part of the bookstore over there?" I point exaggeratedly with one hand to a corner of the store.

"Yes."

"That's fiction. Those are the make-believe books. Everything else," I say, gesturing towards the rest of the store, "Is non-fiction. Religion, History, Self-Help, Knitting, How to Build a Porch...that's all non-fiction. So I need to know what you're looking for specifically in order to help you."

"Oh," the woman says. "I need a book on mathematics for kids."

If only the conversation had started out that way.

Bartending has its good moments. The money, I remember fondly, was always good. Even on a slow night I could bank 80 bucks for six hours of work, plus my hourly wage. People were generally cool, because they are in a bar to get drunk. It's when a patron passes that one-too-many marker when things get ugly.

"S, I need another drink," a patron says to me. We'll call him Bill. Bill is now glassy-eyed and smiling like a boy who had just lost his virginity -- confused but thrilled at the prospect of more.

"I don't know, Bill, you're looking like a hangover waiting to happen."

"I don't get hangovers," Bill declares.

"Really? Don't you remember about two hours ago we were talking about the hangover you had this morning?" I do try my best to be pragmatic about these situations.

"Oh. Yeah. But I've only had a few," Bill says sadly, sloshing the ice in his empty glass.

"A few means three, Bill. Eight is not a few."

"Did I really have eight of these?" Bill slurs. His eyelids have now begun to droop. Believe me, bartending is not Cheers. True life would be Cliff the mailmain teetering on his barstool with drool coming down his chin.

"You sure did. And you bitched at me each time that there wasn't enough bourbon in it."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Bill," I console him. As a bartender, that happens a lot.

"I promise to take a cab," Bill says with as much gusto as he can muster.

"I know you will. You gave me your keys four drinks ago."

"I did?"

"You did."

After a brief pause and a pathetic attempt to suck down the last watered down remnants from his glass, Bill says, "I'll make it worth your while."

"Oh?" I ask. It's probably pertinent to mention here that the bar in question is a gay bar and I am, at the time, the only male bartender on crew, and the only bartender on shift. I was like a bloodied corpse in a tank full of sharks. And as thrilling as a one-night stand might have been, there wasn't much excitment to be had with a sixty-year old dermatologist whose jowls looked like silly puddy and whose hands had more spots than a dalmation.

"I will...give you a hundred dollar tip!" Bill says, reaching for his wallet. The wallet fell on the floor and in trying to retrieve the wallet, Bill fell on the floor as well, where he proceeded to vomit and pass out.

When Bill finally came to and was dragged out to a cab by our local cabbie, he blew me a kiss and said, "Thanks for that extra drink!"

Good thing I had Bill's credit card on hand, for his tab. I was sure to add that $100 tip anyway; I figured I deserved it.

These, my dear readers, are only mere examples. These stories are only the tip of the iceberg. All in a day's work, I guess.