Before any of our guests arrive, we usually peruse the reservation list to get an idea about the total number of people that will be coming in for dinner. Sometimes we find funny names in the reservation list, for example, one of my personal favorites is Steve Niggeman. Yes, pronounced the way that you fear it might be.
Today’s entries into the awful name hall of fame are, Rhonda Suckut, Sharon Bever, and Ian Sandercock. All of us had seen these names, so we were prepared in advance, so as not to laugh or smile at the chance that these names might be sprung upon us, but when Mr. Sandercock came in, it was a bizarre interaction. S. had to deal with it and it went a little something like this:
S: Welcome to (insert Restaurant name here) . . . (as he opens the driver door) can I get a last name?
SANDERCOCK: It’s Sandercock, S-A-N-D-E-R, I’m sure you can figure out the rest.
(S. smiles at him somewhat nervously)
SANDERCOCK: (whimsically) I know, it’s kind of a mouthful.
We both ended up laughing about it later in the parking lot.
Two of our managers came in for dinner and drinks. I knew that they would both end up getting drunk, so I decided it would be funny, since they both parked with us, to change their radio presets. M. is probably the whitest guy I know, but he only listens to rap music. His radio was set to B96, which is an R and B and Rap station for white people. I changed all of his presets to the most boring Christian music channel that only the elderly are able listen to, KTIS. I then turned his station back to B96, knowing that while he was driving home drunk, a song would come on the radio that he didn’t like, and he would try to change the channel and all that would come up is boring Christian music. At 1.50 am we all received a text from him, thanking us for our consideration.
Later that night, a drunken Indian was drawn to us like a magnet when he saw that T. had pulled some money out of his pocket and was counting it. He had giant sloppy lips that hung like an abused vagina off of his face, and he was drooling. He was muttering something, but neither of us could tell what he was saying, so I pointed to T. and told the Indian “He wants a little kiss”.
The Indian stumbled around the podium towards T., and T. moved to get away from him. He moved farther out towards the curb. ” You want a kiss? Why do you want a kiss?”
I whispered to the Indian, “He’s gay”.
“He’s gay?” he slobbered. He pointed to T. and asked, “Are you a faggot?”
Tony was clearly uncomfortable even though this man was so drunk he bobbed on his bended legs like a marionette. T. refused to make eye contact and just said, “Keep moving” as he motioned for the man to walk down the street, “you were walking that way, so . . . keep going”.
“Are you a faggot?” I couldn’t help it. I broke out laughing at the ridiculous amount of fear on T.’s face. This man could have been blown over by the gust of a passing car. His back was to me as he faced T., again asking him questions about his sexual orientation. “I hate faggots, are you a faggot?”
At this point I whispered to the Indian when he turned to me and asked if T. was a faggot, “You should probably leave, when he gets angry I can’t control him.”
The Indian gave me a knowing look and said “You better take care of that faggot”, then turned to T. and said, “He’s gonna take care of you faggot.”
“I surely will” I said.
“Do you have a smoke?” the Indian asked me. When I said no, he wetly muttered “faggot” in T.’s direction, then wandered off down the street, followed soon after by two security guards who regularly take their jobs way to seriously.