For a long time now, I have collected guest names that make the juvenile in me laugh and smile. Some of my favorites include: Dr. Weiner, Jerry Curl (not made up), Steve Niggemen (a white guy), Dick Schmoker, and tonights winner, Harold Hymen. Yes Harry Hymen was the guest of the night in my book. His reservation wasn’t until an hour after the restaurant opened, so I had time to prepare, time to collect myself, and time to work up the poker face usually intended to deflect and hide any amused look that creeps into my face when I ask for a name to put on the ticket, and I’m told “Hymen”.
The problem was that he came early, and when he said “Hymen” I was caught off guard. A smile crept onto my face for the briefest of instances before I could suppress it. I almost said something stupid like “Oh, you’re Harry” or “That’s right, the Hymen birthday party”, but instead I just mumbled something, got in the car, and drove off. When he left several hours later, I handed the keys to someone else, so I wouldn’t have to be the one to say, “Have a nice night Mr. Hymen”.
When we return cars, we have to make a loop around the block, but the first stoplight is the most awkward, because no one ever takes a right turn on red. There ‘s usually a gap between a car sitting at the light and the curb, big enough for another car to fit through, so I will take a right on red if the other car is just sitting there waiting. Sometimes drivers get mad and honk as I pull past them. I’ve never understood why you would honk at someone turning when you’re the moron sitting at a red light. Tonight I not only got honked at, but when my co-worker tried to do the same thing after me, the guy in a beat up truck flicked him off, honked again, yelled and screamed, then peeled out all the way around the corner. I heard this behind me, and then saw the truck barreling at me and . . . . we still all ended waiting at the next stop light. When I turned around and looked at him, he looked away, perhaps out of embarrassment, and drove off with nary another honk.
We had a customer with an unpronounceable name that looked exactly like the Soup Nazi. I think he had the lobster bisque.
There’s a limo driver for one of the VIP guests that stops in all the time to talk to us, only he has no filter on what comes out of his mouth. He’s also too stupid to know if it is inappropriate or not. He looks like a 260 pound, 5’4, 60 year old Charles Bronson, but his name is Scotty. The night before he’d dropped by and wanted guest passes to a bunch of strip clubs, so of course today he wanted to tell me all about it.
Scotty: “I only made it to one of the clubs last night. We went over to the Seville. Do you know Ashley?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“She’s 39 years old, but she looks 24. She was doing me and ohhh . . .” he rolls his eyes in ecstasy. “I could’ve probably taken her home. But she was doing me right, and my buddy he just couldn’t control himself. She had the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen, and when she slapped it, it drove my buddy wild.”
“Did he want to wear it as a hat?”
“No, he wanted to start right up on the hole if you know what I mean, and not the foxhole either, the other one.”
“Why would anyone want to start at the butthole Scotty?”
“Well, you’d have to see it. Her name is Ashley, I thought my buddy was going to lose his mind.”
At this point, one of the managers of the restaurant came out and said hello to Scotty, who then just started the conversation like this, “I went over to that Club Seven last night, horseshit.”
Manager, “What do you mean horseshit? The food wasn’t any good?”
“It’s not that, it’s just that at 10.30 it was about 90% negro. It was just horseshit at that point, so we left and went to the Seville.”
After this, the manager leaft, and Scotty started in with a story. “Did I ever tell you about the time I went to a wedding and my cousin brought a girl with him, but she got bored with him and I started dancing with her?”
“Well, my cousin is a real loser, and he brought this girl with him, but pretty soon, I was slow dancing with her, and whispering dirty things in her ear, and she was sick of my cousin anyway, so I took her up to my room.”
“Did you have sex with your cousins girlfriend?”
“Yeah, but who cares, my cousin is a real asshole. So anyway, I’m going down on her foxhole and all of a sudden I realize that I don’t have any gum in my mouth anymore.”
“Hold on, you dropped your gum in her pubic hair?”
“I don’t know. I looked and didn’t see anything, so I just kept going. The next day I asked her if she was okay down there, and she said, yes, why? I said, oh nothing.”
“Did you check your pubic hair after you had sex with her? You were probably mashing yours up against hers.”
“I didn’t even think of that, it might have went in the foxhole.” He starts heading for the door. “I’m going to go get a salad.”
“Are you having Dave make your salad?”
“Just make sure you have Dave wash his hands before he tosses your salad.”
Scotty doesn’t get it. He smiles stupidly, ” Does he have dirty fingers?”
“Something like that Scott.”
He leaves us and goes inside confused.
Several hours later, a woman and her husband approach me and my buddy, while one of our regular guests stands near us smoking. She’s decked out in what’s probably her nicest dress, and carries a bottle of wine that’s been wrapped like a present. Her husband wears a button up shirt tucked into khakis, with a brown belt, loafers, and glasses. He looks like an IT guy. “Do you know where Shout is?”
“Do you mean The Shout House?”
“I don’t know, I’m looking for a place that has dueling penises.”
My buddy and I both somehow keep a straight face. Actually I turned away, so I could smile without being noticed, recovered, then turned back.
She says, “Two pianos, it’s supposed to be fun?”
My buddy gives her directions and they walk off. Dueling penises are not that uncommon downtown, nor are Harry Hymens it would seem.