Why I Hope My Table Went to Jail, or, Why I Miss Byron

An example of karma and an example of the importance of police road blocks.

At last call, I offered my last table one last drink. They ordered four margaritas and one Grateful Dead. About fifteen minutes later, I informed them that we aimed to have all the patrons out in about eight minutes. They took exception. Assuring them that I still had plenty of cleaning to do before I could ask them to leave, I told them that it was ultimately the manager's discretion as to how long they could remain.

They told each other they would sleep here or take their drinks with them. (Both of which, illegal.)

I tried to collect the payment books with their credit card receipts, but, grabbing them all, one girl asked for five more seconds, stating that she had to double-check that her friends tipped me correctly. Funny, because I had overheard them complaining about the added gratuity. (You can't trust drunks with your paycheck.) A few minutes later, I returned to collect the receipts so that I could actually check out. I didn't have the time or energy to deal with selfish drunks. I found one book at one end of the table, but I couldn't find the remaining four on the table at all.

Turns out, the diligent tipper had hidden the four books in her leather jacket. Surprise, no extra tips were added.

I got them back, ran my checkout, counted my money, and told the hilarity to my manager, who then kicked the girls out, thirty minutes after receiving their last-call drink.

While finishing my cleaning, I heard the regulars/friends at the bar shouting at people through the shut iron gate. My coworker yelled that we can't open that door, that they'd have to go around, and that we were closed. The regulars/friends shouted other mean things to the people, notably, calling the people "pieces of shit." A reminder, none of the employees did so. And the offending yeller left immediately afterward.

Then my girls went storming in the back door, yelling about the name-calling. A coworker and I found the manager, but by that point I believe amends had been made (sort of). The manager then proceeded to kick the girls out again. Out of my never-ending belief in mankind, I'm going to say that knocking the condiment caddy off Table 10 was a complete, drunken accident. However, grabbing the caddy from their earlier booth and throwing it was nothing of the sort. This was when I worried about calling the cops.

The manager quickly followed, proceeded to continue kicking the girls out again, this time for disorderly conduct. As the girls walked onto the deck, the manager unconventionally removed one girl's margarita. She informed the girls of Atlanta's open container laws. I believe that was when they got in Jenny's face then pulled the race card. (I thought nothing of race while they sat at my table; they were lovely until I told them they'd have to leave.) Both the benevolent coworker and the feisty coworker had to restrain themselves.

When the bickering went to the parking lot, one girl threw her beer at my manager, and, missing, hit my car.

Thank god for our plastic cups.

Calling 911 as the girls walked away, my manager saw them with their drinks drive toward a road block. So the cops were already expecting these girls. Sweet.

I hope they went to jail. And, had they hit my car with anything more than plastic, I wouldn't have shown much restraint.

It was much more exciting than the guys who took a liking to me, openly gawked at my ass, and tipped me poorly. Oh, I need job with a different type of excitement.