Down the Rabbit Hole

- 11/22:  I know I'm skipping almost an entire week, but in no way can this one wait.

7:30 PM.  The restaurant is slammed.  Two servers are juggling eighteen total tables between them.  Two cooks are churning out fifty bowls of soup.  One slightly-overmatched bartender is creating drinks for forty-plus people while keeping track of about fifteen of the aforementioned soups.  Three kegs go out in the span of fifteen minutes.  I was sweating like a Biggest Loser contestant sent to an American Ninja Warrior tryout.  Shit was getting real real.  In the middle of all this, homeless man number three this week to get [eventually] kicked out walks in the door.

Oh fuck.

A short back story for this gentleman:  he comes in at least three times a week asking the owner for five dollars to sweep the parking lot.  I had zero time to listen to a word he said.

Me:  [Yelling across the bar]  "[Owner]'s not here."
HM3:  "What do you mean he's not here?"
Me:  "[Owner]'s not here."
HM3:  "Man, what is your problem?"
Me:  "GET.  OUT."

Yes, I sounded exactly like Arnold from the Terminator, except without the amazing Austrian accent.  I call the cops at this point, and the dispatcher recognizes my voice.  That's a bad thing, right?

At this point, two of my fifteen(?) soups are supposed to be ready, so I turn to rush out of the kitchen, and get the surprise of all surprises.

He followed me INTO the kitchen.

For my fellow service industry friends, you know the reaction I had: complete and utter shock.  My instinctual response was turning to throw a right hook that 1980's Mike Tyson would not have performed any better.  Thankfully, I stopped myself.

For my non-service industry friends, let me describe the kitchen for you.  The kitchen is the safe haven.  If you do not work there, you do not go into the kitchen.  EVER.  It resembles a psychologist that you tell your problems to regarding your tables, except that the walls nor the bread oven give advice back.  Usually, all you get is agreement from fellow servers, or if you suck, "What you can't handle one table?  I remember my first shift ever."

Me:  "Get the FUCK out of the kitchen!"
HM3:  *Deer in headlights look*
Me:  "Get the FUCK out of the kitchen, why the FUCK are you still standing there!?"

He leaves the kitchen, following me back to the bar.  I deliver the soups, go to the computer to turn in another order, look to the right, and there's HM3, standing right in the choke point to get out of the bar.

Me:  "I need to leave the bar.  Either you move, or I will move you."

Of course he did not move.  Why?  That would have made sense.  So I did the only logical thing I could think of: on my way out of the bar, I placed my hands on his shoulders, and while still supporting him, moved him a foot to the side so I could squeeze by.  What was the response?

A flop so bad he would have been penalized heavily by the NBA, NFL, NHL, and FIFA at the same time.  It would have spent more time as the #1 Not Top-10 Sportscenter moment for much longer than the Mark Sanchez butt-fumble.  Manu Ginobili's only reaction would have been, "damn, that was awful," and offered to teach flopping lessons for free.

The cops finally arrive after what seems like an eternity.  Thankfully, my manager talks to them first, and then the cops talk to HM3.  Wouldn't you know, HM3 just walked in to talk to me, and without even saying a word, I tried to hulk smash him through the patio door.  Yeah, sounds legit.  After the cops check out the video feed, they come talk to me, and while they can't say I'm 100% clear, say there is little that can happen to me.  Of course, before leaving I give the cop my contact information, in case this mouth-breather decides to actually pursue anything.

This week did not end fast enough.