“Sir, I need a decision!” -Waiter
“Uh, uh, uh, uh salad. No, no wait soup, souppp!” -Peter Griffin
But it was too late…
***
I wasn’t there but Bryon told me the story.
Ten years ago Bry left town to have surgery. It was another open heart procedure, a torturous event he went through every few years. Bryon was given little notice as the appointment just opened up and he was gone within days. As I shook his hand he told me he’d be back in a few weeks. I wouldn’t see my best friend and honorary older brother for the next 8 months.
Bryon got there and had the surgery just before December 25th. Some ‘Christmas Gift.’ While the procedure went well enough in the aftermath his health declined more than expected so he was kept at the hospital far longer than planned. I can’t remember how long but it was easily over 100 days.
Being affable and winning over the staff, Bryon was allowed to construct his own makeshift refuge in an abandoned utility closet. His health permitting, Bry was occasionally allowed to read, listen to music, and get away from the chaos and sounds of death that permeated the halls.
Bry got out of the hospital sometime that spring and had planned to come home immediately. Unfortunately, Bryon’s heart specialists were in Alberta and as they wanted to keep an eye on him for an indeterminate amount of time, he was stuck there. And as he also wanted to help his family in the city, who were going through their own problems at the time, Bry knew he wouldn’t see his hometown for many months.
Given his passion for bartending (or more likely needing the tips) Bryon re-entered the bar industry after a necessary period of recovery from his surgery. At least that’s what he told me, as I’d later find out his doctors had been telling him to retire from beer-slinging for years. Because bartending is stressful and takes a heavy physical and mental toll on even young, healthy people. But soon enough after leaving the hospital Bry (who was nearly 50) was dragging kegs upstairs, stopping bar fights, and dealing with the never ending barrage of petty complaints customers inflict upon restaurant staff on a daily basis!
Anyway, there’s a hierarchy (or perhaps circles of hell) regarding bad customers. It descends from violent individuals, VLT players, general assholes, Karens, those who don’t tip, to people who are just annoying. But the worst offenders are dine-and dashers. Because whatever you can say about those other unsavoury groups, they at least help pay restaurants’ bills. Despite what TV and Hollywood suggest most bars run on small profits and tight margins and often need any penny they can get.
***
Bryon was working at a rough dive bar in Alberta. He did long shifts (usually 12 hours) between sleeping, lengthy commutes, and hospital visits. Between his heart condition and dealing with high strung colleagues, obnoxious customers, and a thieving boss, this routine would probably have killed a lesser man. But Bry was stubborn and addicted to the hospitality industry. Besides, had Bryon dropped dead and left me alone in this harsh world back then I would’ve killed him.
I’m not sure which bar it was but it was usually full, always open late, and never lacked drama. Bryon spoke of nonsense like a drunk biker chased through a cemetery by the cops, until he tripped over a tombstone. Why there was a cemetery next to the bar… I’ll never know. Another time a rich Saudi businessman, used to mistreating waiters back in the kingdom, slapped Bry across the face for being slow. Before he could react three cowboys set upon the offender, who got a fair dose of Canadian… ‘hospitality.’ I don’t think he got pummelled, but they put the fear of Allah into him.
But by far the best, or at least most comical, story was ‘the soup that got away.’
Bryon was working lunch on a slow weekday, with two waitresses serving the floor. According to Bry it was mostly uneventful. Eventually, an old man came in and sat at a table. While he seemed pleasant and sober enough there was something odd about him. Because due to the toll of a quarter century of bartending Bryon had developed an unequaled sixth sense to know when something was off. So he adopted the walk softly with a large stick stratagem he’d mastered over the years.
Bry made a point of introducing himself to the man and engaged in small talk. But he also showed him he was no fool in case the gentleman had… dishonourable motives. Because while the old man was pleasant enough he knew something was up. As the guy was too feeble to start a bar fight Bryon fell back on more likely scenarios: Being creepy to the waitresses or planning to dine and dash. And since the man was very polite and professional to the servers (in fact unusually so), Bry’s fear of the latter became increasingly pronounced.
Ultimately, the man merely ordered a small cup of soup and water, so any loss of revenue would’ve been as irrelevant as one dead Russian soldier during the Great Patriotic War. But Bryon had that rare quality most bartenders lack… HE ACTUALLY CARED. For him, it was about principle… he wouldn’t let any fucker steal from a bar, no matter how corrupt or toxic it was. Thus, Bry kept a vigilant, but discrete eye upon the man during lunch.
However, nothing happened as the man was kind, unassuming, and waited patiently for the bill. “Perhaps I was wrong,” Bryon thought at the time, before going to the staff washroom to take a piss. But once he got back the old man was gone and he noticed the waitress who served him seemed a bit sour.
“Anything wrong?,” he asked her.
“That old bastard just dashed on us,” she remarked bitterly.
“WHAT,” Bryon responded with unconcealed outrage, “what happened?”
“He said he was going to the washroom but slipped out when we weren’t watching,” she explained.
“Fuck…,” Bry muttered under his breath.
Bryon was beyond rage. The sneaky prick had waited until he took a quick whiz and had instantly bailed. Without hesitation Bry burst through the front door, hoping the old man hadn’t gone far. Unfortunately, the sidewalk and streets were packed and even if the old fucker was around it would’ve been like playing Where’s Waldo. So Bryon gritted his teeth, said “god damn it,” and returned to the bar. The old man with the soup had gotten away with his despicable act.
***
After going behind the bar Bryon noticed the garbage was overflowing. The closing bartender hadn’t thrown it out the previous night (a very common occurrence in the industry) and it was nearing the point of toppling over. Being old school and more than a bit pissed off, Bry grabbed it and went to the dumpster in the back alley, with a purpose. He came, he saw, he tossed it in the bin with considerable violence. By now he noticed his heart rate was pumping overtime and realized he had to calm down… fast.
So instead of going back inside Bryon took a moment to unwind and walked toward the street behind the bar. It was a warm, sunny day and unlike the street in front of the restaurant it was quiet and sparse. As Bry left the alley he started to relax. Unlike his chaotic bar it was peaceful here. There was no loud music, crying babies (before 8pm), obnoxious VLT noises, or the never-ending nonsense customers spout from their beer holes from opening to close.
For a brief moment Bryon enjoyed the sun and tranquility and forgot about everything. About the bar, his heart problems, and even the foolish roommate back home he entrusted to look after his house. Bry relaxed his shoulders, smiled, and experienced temporary bliss.
Then he saw him!
The old fucker was standing at a bus stop, without an ounce of shame apparently. He’d obviously slipped out the back of the patio and assumed he was home free. But Bryon had been lucky, because just like war in bartending logistics is everything. The old man was obviously cheap, and well… old, so it’s not surprising he had no car. And considering the size of the city unless he was close the man was shackled to public transit. But unfortunately for Bryon, a bus was pulling up to pick up the bastard and Bry was 50 meters away. Given his condition he had no chance to catch the bus in time and chasing it would only accelerate his heart rate to dangerous levels.
So of course he bolted after it like T-1000 chasing John Connor’s car in Terminator II. As he did so three Irish regulars saw Bryon and greeted him from afar. Being the consummate professional Bry waved, smiled, and said hi without missing a step.
Apparently, the trio, upon witnessing this freak event, said:
“Is that Bryon…” the first one asked.
“Where the fuck is he going?,” the second one continued.
“Doesn’t he have a heart condition?,” the last one finished the odd exchange.
Then they looked at each other in disbelief, went inside to do whiskey shots, and were still there when Bry got back and told them what happened.
Anyway, Bryon knew the odds of getting the bus to stop were highly dubious but he ran as long as he could. Unsurprisingly, after two blocks he reached the end of his endurance and realized he couldn’t keep running. The old coot was about to get away with murder. But suddenly fate, destiny, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, intervened as the driver slammed on the break… probably to find out why a 50 year old bartender was chasing his bus.
***
Bryon climbed up the bus’s steep stairs and took a moment to catch his breath. Then, as unfailingly polite as always, he told the bus driver “this will only take a second.” Thereupon, he swung towards the senile thief and looked him in the eye… with pure anger and contempt. Unsurprisingly, the old man was shocked, even terrified. Because I saw many things in my 17 year career. But I’ve never seen a 50 year old, grizzled bartender with a heart condition, chase down a bus to call out an old fart for stealing a $5.99 cup of Cream of Mushroom soup.
Had it been myself I’d just have noted it in my cash out (at a good restaurant) or used the manager’s password to delete it from the check (at a corrupt one). Then again, for me the industry had always just been a paycheck, but for Bryon it was his passion.
“YOU,” Bryon tore into the octogenarian without mercy, “you are a thief!” By now I’m sure everyone on the bus was thinking “what the fuck” but they allowed Bry to continue.
“You stole from a single mother!,” he went on. According to Bryon throughout the conversation the old shit kept repeating “I want to go home… I want to go home.”
But just like the dog that successfully chased the car and didn’t know what to do with it, Bryon knew he wouldn’t procure the small change for a cup of soup from a man old enough to have fled America to Canada during the draft for Vietnam. So Bry merely finished his tirade and left a stern warning: “You’re a liar and a thief. Don’t worry, we can easily cover the cost, but don’t EVER show your face in my bar again!” The dialogue was likely more colourful than this (and I hope it was) but either way Bryon told me the confrontation may have broken the senile bastard’s mind. Because as Bry turned away to leave the man continued to say “I want to go home… I want to go home.”
Satisfied after saving face for his bar Bryon left the bus. But before he did Bry glanced at the bus driver, who apparently was smiling ear to ear widely. Because like bartenders bus drivers also deal with the scum of the earth, and relish whenever a garbage customer is knocked down however pegs they deserve.
***
I wasn’t there, I don’t know exactly what happened. But whatever Bryon was he was never dishonest. As for the old bastard, who knows what fate befell him. Besides likely crapping his pants (or diaper) at the time he learned a necessary, harsh lesson every obnoxious customer should heed: Don’t fuck with a strong-minded bartender who actually cares.
Because unless the fool had dementia I doubt he ever stole another cheap, bland, mediocre cup of soup again.