Industry Studies: Check Please
Gimme the loot, gimme the loot! That's what this all comes down to ultimately, right? Ripped more than a few pages out of that B.I.G. textbook when it comes to industry revenue retrieval...and rest assured I've picked up on a few patterns over time. Jumping over patio walls for that merchant slip? Shit...if you're feeling froggy, then leap. Making game time decisions on which uncouth unfriendly takes the tab? Better hope you've correctly assessed all the telltale signs. Been cut for two hours now with nothing else to do other than avoid helping your comrades, all because that last cutesy couple still hasn't flipped over the check? There are methods to prevent the madness. The flow ain't sauce, it's Sicilian gravy with hearts.
Yes, yes ya'll. Draped down in that kind of glittery glow only achievable by fine rhythms laced with piano keys and those horns. Like a more forgiving napalm. Ever sticky, ever burning, but in a clean way that doesn't leave you guilt trippin' for generations. Life's a rich sauce made only possible through time, intuition, and delicious shit left to simmer. Rays of that ever rolling sunlight gleaming through windows highlighting the disheveled dust of the day. Bout' to fuck up this bodega with my bullshit like the best of em'. Whatcha' want, watcha' need. It's a new one. Time for work, and time for play. Chairs down, locks cranked toward the less desirable status, and something nice flowing through those headphones. Feel like I'm suppose to be frontin' in furs walking through the kitchen with flour being flung upon that freshly rolled fettuccine. Cuz' why the fuck not. Eight fingers up, two toward me. Symbolic, but ain't mean shit to me.
Let's go ahead and just begin this one with the merchant copy being taken. Yeah, you get two copies and one of them is clearly labeled as ours - hence why you feel compelled to sign it, cuz you already know those funds are being taken out...you just need to take a moment to determine what was the cost of service. Don't forget to scribble VOID over the customer copy also. Nothing else is powerful enough to stop me from entering in a $100,000,000.00 tip. And you filling it out and then stuffing it into your back pocket is a direct assault upon my more sympathetic outlooks on individuals. Fuck off with your whoopsidaisical happenstance bullshit. You didn't take the simple obligatory chance to pay for service where "Everything is just amazing!". The absence of a very moral action translates to a slap in the face upon myself while I scour the table for the merchant copy that is tucked away in your sweaty ass pocket.
I've most definitely already taken this all out on the bussers and the less than desirable servers - because I'll automatically assume these half-a-tard's are doing something wrong. Rightfully so. But they can't always be the universal whipping boys & scape goats. That leaves guest error. Hopping over walls and shouting down families in parking lots isn't my favorite part of the day. But that tip entering at the end of the night is. Sorry, not sorry. Wasn't trying to call you cheap in front of your in-laws & kids, but I got some irrelevant shit to be able to pay for. Just like you. It's always the same perplexed, crumbled receipt drawn, and playfully caught demeanor. Yes ma'am, cute babies. Yes, I actually need that signed piece of paper. You knew that when you signed it. Hence why you sign shit. It goes to places; far, far beyond what you and I deal with. A fairy tale for a different time. Fuck you, pay me, is the narrative & title of said tale.
As I sit here contemplating negative matter over a glass of Kaniche rum #Kaniche #WhereIsTheRum #GreatProduct #PayMePlease, I can't help but think about another moment where checks tickled my asshole wrongly. What the fuck do we do when your G-ma asks for the check and it takes three painfully obvious attempts at trying to take the card out of this ladies hand before you understand her, and she's willing to let it go? That's not even the annoying part. I deal with this shit on the regular. You want the Rectum? The Subaru without swiss? Subaru's don't have Swiss on them. Car's don't - oh, the Reuben! Yes. Absolutely. And why are you handing me a card now? I mean, I know why - you want to pay, but why are you asking for a pen? I haven't ran the payment yet (that's processing a card on a swipey thing, for you civilians). They always ask for the pen like you're the one that isn't fucking comprehending the situation. Is tip included? I can't read this, why is the font so small. No one could possibly read this. Is this a good tip? And you're sure tip isn't included? I've never been charged for soda water before, in all eighty-six years of life. I'm never coming back.
No, it's especially annoying when daughter and son-in-law, A.K.A. husband, starts shuffling around for a card to pay for the dinner knowing damn well that the lady he is suppose to impress when it comes to turkey's on Thanksgiving is about to pay for the meal. This brings me to a fundamental part of my service.
Whoever gives me the card first, gets to pay.
It's a simple concept honestly. Mercenary shit. I'll only entertain the first bid so long as the next one doesn't approach me with a significantly more enticing proposition. How does one up the ante you ask? Let's take it back to cocktails since we're all belligerent drunks. It's two parts guaranteed money - the meat and potatoes in the getting fucked up equation. From there it's for better, or for worst, 1/4th parts stereotypes. I'm sorry. We're, sorry. Then you wanna add 1/2 part chance, because if I didn't want to live on the dangerous side of upswings, I'd work in a cubicle, buy condoms and listen to your boring stories. Squeeze in guilty stigmas on who you actually think should be paying. Just a squeeze though, let's not get carried away and lose out here. How many ounces we have at this point? Pour some more guaranteed money. Na, fuck it, pour some more chance. Shit, I'm all in at this point and the glass is overflowing. Fuck it. Grabbing a straw and handing your ass a pen. Rub hands, clap and hope for the best!
But I'll never respect the individual that is purposefully slow to the draw on reaching for the bill. I think it's one of those primal smells that we all know to detest without really knowing why. Rotting flesh and insincere lunch-welchers, one in the same. Maybe it's just how disingenuous it looks when someone fumbles for their wallet like it's the first time they've ever been handed a check. Maybe it's made to look worst than what it is by the person who confidently takes control; already intending to treat someone else. The gravity of the latter is just so much more compelling altruistically. Whatever, shit, who the fuck am I right now; Friedrick Von Zitzschnoloph? That's me creating a random German sociologist name and running with it.
At the end of the day, I'm just angling for someone to pay, someone to tip, and everyone to get the fuck out. That sweet, creepy grin part of the night dressed in bright lights and printers vomiting check outs. Getting the fuck out. That's the last thing standing between myself and silence. You. And when I say silence, that's just code for shots, compulsive bitching, sorrow, more shots, and this article. Because we rarely do what we like to think we'd like to do at the end of a shift. A scrunched up face of a life-time destined to end before tomorrow's shift. It's the little moments that marble the big ones. Don't you judge me, don't you fucking dare judge me. I'm seasoned with sweat and some situational shittiness at this very second. And silence.
You know what's really annoying? Not getting paid. I think we can all agree on that. Even worst is not getting paid and knowing that you're not going to get paid due to a glaring loop hole in the payment structure. Pro-tip alert! Split checks are fine and dandy. But...split one check via two cards and a large cash payment that conveniently goes unnoticed toward those that are paying with a card and tipping off their charged amount? Not. Fucking. Cool.
In fact, this is so uncool to the point where I am mentally gutting you with your own dirty silverware to even make up for the anguish that you have now imposed upon me by slyly - no, dickishly dodging the fruits of my labor. One mustard-stained butter knife to the liver, on the fly. Cuz' while you can rest easy knowing you left $6 on $30, of what was originally $96, but your cheap friend left $4.72 on $32, and your third friend weaseled their way out of a tip by throwing down $34 in cash before leaving early...you see what I'm getting at? I just made $10.72 on a $96 tab. My pessimistic side feels like you might have conveniently forgotten a few details...just sayin'. Next time, just fucking ask for split checks so that I don't have to entrust you with math integrity. Cuz' then at the worse, I just have someone knowingly and willingly, stiff me. I respect that asshole move more, funny enough.
You got the beginning, though, right? Like, Instagram and YouTube video people that know how to do something that is common knowledge say pro-tip a lot. But, I took it beyond that and italicized the tip part, because this article is mostly about tips. Otherwise it'd all be italicized to look more dramatic than it is. At the root of this, I'm just pissed at missing out on a few dollars. Fire and brimstone entails. Yeeeeeaaah. Adore me for the needy cunt that I am as I serve you needy cunts. Six feet deep with forbidden Industry knowledge; Sam I fucking am. Book deal? Give me my green eggs & ham. Single file as you dig, please.
It's just occurred to me, dear reader, that I never explain my choice of quotes. Essentially, Action Bronson is saying that if he makes the right life decisions, he'll achieve wealth. But he's betting on horses, and that's gambling. So by making the right bets, he's taking a commonly dangerous and ill-advised path toward riches. There's like, some serious metaphorical fuckery there. I tend to view working in the Industry as a poor way to maximize instant gratification. You make your money. You also lose your money. And sanity. We're all looking for that white Porsche, while driving that horse into the fucking dirt. That's the gamble of human interaction in the Industry. Or, just a paradigm of perceived prerogative falling perpendicular to some other person's bullshit when all purposes were meant to parallel, void of perforations in the world of perfection. And as I conclude this mid-shift mental break down, I present to you, the most aggravating of dropping-the-check scenarios...
Man, straight up. Fuck lingerers that won't close out with you. All types, cuz' essentially the beef with these fuckers is that their time overlaps with yours. Talking shift changes and hours dictated by our very schedule that we really should abide considering the shit storm that follows hitting overtime. My shifts over at 4:00pm, and here you are still sipping on your first beer that I fucking handed you at 2:48pm. Restaurant closes at 10:00pm and you're snuggling in a booth trying to be all fucking sorts of romantic with this dude until 11:05pm, who's gonna fuck you and leave you ASAP anyways. Shit, you're my first table in the morning on the patio and you just command seventeen water refills because you're fucking around on your tablet from then until our sun implodes from a natural galactic cycle. But you'll be in and out today. Gotcha.
And after passing by that turned over check for the zillionth fucking time, you decide you want to order some hummus. It's been four and a half hours. And you might have a friend joining soon, you say? And why is it so hot outside? You got the hummus order, right? Can we move over to that dirty table in the corner where the party of seventeen just left? It's shaded! Well, we're already moving over there anyways so what we're really asking is can you clean this shit up. There's salsa on the table cloth. Thaaaank you! You're so good at this! We're such a pain, I know! El-oh-el! Can you fix your WiFi? Another virgin, skinny mojito-water, please. The hummus is still coming, right?
Next thing I know, I'm working the fucking night shift without taking anymore tables - essentially lowering my per hour pay that made this fucking torture worthwhile in the first place. Just to cater to your hummus and cucumber-mint-lime-water fetishes. And I'll be bitched at for still being on the clock. In most cases, you would just be transferred. But sometimes my just as unenthusiastic coworkers don't want to pick up my garbage tab. Or, your tab is actually substantial and transferring you over negates a huge portion of my earnings - which then feeds into all of these issues again. And ya' don't stop.
The fucked up part is that I don't have a solution to this. Because I don't believe in having a table pay out with you in the middle of their experience just because my shift is over. It's awkward and clunky for both sides. If you want the earn, then go down with the shitty ship. We're in the service business; life's a trip, que no?
And I'm also not a fan of someone paying out with a coworker (closing the existing tab) and letting them know that I'll be taking care of them from there. Why? Because that inevitably more times than not means I just inherited a table that will two hours from then order one fucking round, and I make $2 off three hours of invested time. Simply put, that's not a legit time expenditure for my taste. You already ate the meat and potato's, leaving me with burnt piece of shit acting like it'll be dessert. Shit ain't all Gucci. I don't give a fuck how much whip cream you throw on it.
I guess that ultimately, I just can't win. We can't win. You gave up on winning in transferring, and I accepted that I was going to win very little while sacrificing potentially a lot. But how much shit can one shovel into their mouths? Not a winning amount generally. How long can one wait upon the urges of others? When does the stacking of tolerance eventually topple over? Takes a long time. The shit is stacked unfortunately sturdy. Human nature is a fucking bitch and a half. Plates stacked too high will find a way to break.
Split checks? Na, na. No. Noooo. Haha, foooook no. On my Conor McGregor bullshit. What were you even thinking, asking for such bullshit? Man, I'd rather fuck your long retired pussy of a mother than to separate your pretzel bites from your friends burger. I'd rather act interested in whatever garbage fell out of your mouth onto the floor. I'd rather be like hey dude, nice shoes! While making bang, bang hand gestures toward them. Don't mean it! I'd rather try to explain the POS system to you in extreme detail. I'd rather try to sit down with you on a manageable sofa and pinpoint just where you became an annoying fuckboi. I'd rather try to explain to you what I meant by manageable when it came to the sofa when it comes to me talking to you about how little I want to talk to you. You fucking smell, to me. You're why I take stupid routes around the grocery store just to avoid your ass. Walking down the ethnic isle not needing a single fucking kosher noodle, or a single fucking taco shell - only needing a single fucking moment away from your ass. If I was at UPS, and you had a package to deliver that needed to be delivered at that very moment, or you'd die, and you were like please man, lift this onto the scale to determine the appropriate shipping weight, I'd walk out that fucking door. And you know what? I mentioned nice shoes earlier. And I just hate you so fucking much, that I want to point out that your shoes fucking suck. Didn't want to spend the time dissing them twenty-six seconds ago. The laces are wack though and make no sense with the overall design. Pitiful. #KanicheRum #IndustryStudies #milesteenstra.com
Here's the check, but if you folks need anything else - please, don't hesitate to ask!