You see them walk in the door, and you pray that the greeter does not seat them in your section. The stained pajama pants. The stained shirt that is two sizes too large. Hair thrown up in a scrunchie. Dear God…no. It's the white trash table that we all fear.
The greeter sends you a look that's mixed with pity, sorrow, and fear, as she sits them in the booth that they will undoubtedly occupy for a good two hours. There goes your table turn over.
We've all had these tables, right? I've had a couple golden ones that stick out in my head. Most of the time, it involves an overweight mother, skinny, strung out male figure (oldest son? Boyfriend? Husband? Meth dealer? We'll never know), and usually, I see the teenage daughter. The Kurt Cobain shirt looks dumb as fuck on you, by the way. The crack your mom was on when you were conceived hadn't been made yet when that CD came out.
I'll give her props. Her grill was slightly jacked up, and the gap wasn't that noticeable. From a distance. In fact, from a distance, she was remotely pretty. As I got closer, I realized that she was a Monet- good looking from far away, and a hideous mess up close. You could've fit a Tic-Tac between those things. Her bad box dye job was fading away fast, as was apparent by her abundance of roots showing. Sweetie, you can tell you're not a natural blonde. Bleach blonde and dark bushy eyebrows don't go well together. Don't worry, I've seen worse. You're still the prettiest girl in the trailer park.
There's also a younger child here. I'm not sure if it's the teenager's kid (I wouldn't doubt it), or the fat mess of a human sitting there, in Mountain Dew pajama pants and a shirt that appears to have been used to clean car tires. The kid is young enough to belong to either of them. Neither of them shout out motherly instincts, so it's hard to tell.
I have nothing against kids. In fact, I love them. I would willingly take tables with children, because I love interacting with them, and the parents love seeing that. I make a minimum of 20% off of tables with children. But, this kid…
For one. Please wash your kid! This poor little guy had the remnants of something sticky on his face, perhaps from earlier in the day. Or yesterday. Who knows. Not only was his face dirty, his hands were disgusting. I don't know where the hell his hands had been. They looked like he had used them to hand wash (or warsh, as they say it) an oil rig. Whatever, though. He's not my kid. In fact, at this point, I'm still not sure who the hell he belongs to.
They ask about beer, so I look at their IDs. I see that they're from a small town close to here, so I automatically tell them that we have Busch Lt. (the hillbillies Cristal). Boom, sold. Their food is put into the computer, beers are set down, and I am on my merry way to bullshit with my other tables.
Towards the end, I drop off their check, and tell them to have a good night. I had been putting off going to the bathroom for the entire night, and now that I had a chance, I was going to pee. FINALLY. I'm sitting in there (because I'm a lady), feeling euphoric almost, until I hear two familiar voices. The two women at the table.
They're talking to the little boy, who had apparently shit his pants. Well, whatever. Kids do that. I listen as the younger one chastising the little guy, and who am I to judge? The kid was old enough to talk, so he could've asked to go to the bathroom. I've always found it awkward to walk out of the stall while people from my table are in the bathroom, so I sit and linger in the stall until they leave. It gives me time to check my Facebook and read some FMLs before I have to get back to work.
They do whatever they're doing, and I hear them say something about how he won't be able to wear 'big boy underwear' anymore, if he keeps pooping his pants. Seems legit. They finish up, I hear the diaper station close…
no water running…
door closes.
THEY LEFT WITHOUT WASHING THEIR FUCKING HANDS. They better be gone, and they goddamn better of left cash on the table before they went to the bathroom. Fuck that. Money is dirty enough, and I know for a fact that one of them, if not both, changed a dirty….wait a minute.
They said that if he didn't stop shitting his pants, he wouldn't be wearing big boy underwear… anymore. Does that mean he was wearing them WHILE he shit his pants? Where did they go? Did he shit on the chair? Dear God.
Thankfully, they had left money on the table (around 10/%, of course), and naturally the floor around it was the mess. I kept eyeballing the one chair that he had been sitting in, looking for any trace of disgustingness, and thankfully didn't see any. I refused to sanitize that damn thing, though. A manager took care of it after I explained what I had heard, and that I refused to touch the chair until it had been cleaned. Who knows if that kid dropped a deuce when he was sitting in that chair, and how long had he been sitting in it? As far as I know, there were no traces of little boy boom boom. I'm not taking my damn chances, though.
That was a close one.
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