blog this week: Birthday Boy

Outside the New Albany, Ohio weather was brisk breezy 45 degree weather. The neon sign that not-to-subtly reads “Gibby’s Bar & grille”, flashes into the night, enticing patrons passing by to enter for a good time. Inside, the bar is dimly-lit and at the perfect temperature for fun with family and friends. Lindsay had put on her plain v-neck black t-shirt and jeans, knowing that tonight held a promise of good tips in her pocket. After all, it was a Friday night. Weekend nights always were a predictor of big tips- given out by crowds of heavy drinkers. Lindsay could practically hear the paper money crinkling in her pockets as she double knotted her black waist apron.

Lindsay only gets paid a measly small $3.50 an hour plus tips. But when she stepped into the haven that was Gibby’s she knew that her prediction of a Friday night boom had been correct. She was assigned to the table of 8 people in the back of the grille, opposite the swinging doors of the kitchen. This spot was a prime spot if you wanted to have a good time without feeling cramped by the surrounding patrons.

“Welcome to Gibby’s what can I get you?” Lindsay asked the group of mostly portly men and only two women.

“Well just got in from a day of golfing and it’s my fortieth birthday,” the large man on the right had stated.

It was 8 p.m.

They had a round of drinks, then another, and another. It became an assembly line of beverages to the table and after every delivery; Lindsay wouldn’t see the salt on the rim of their round glasses- but little green dollar signs floating right above the rims. When the costumers would take a sip of their liquid courage, they would also swallow these little dollar signs as well.
Delivery after delivery, the portly birthday boy would say his thank you’s and drink his money right down.

It was 10 p.m.

Two hours later and the table of 8 were still there. Only this time, everyone in the grille could hear their conversation. What once had been an intimate back table setting had become a loud stage for their drunkenness. The birthday boy seemed to get louder with each ticking of the Miller Lite beer clock that hung over the bar. Tick Tock. “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” ~ belch Tick Tock. ~ Belch “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Tick Tock. This cycle kept repeating.
The table had been served with 2 appetizers but that did not seem to be soaking up any of the alcohol or the loudness that they were producing. Their mouths would even be loud when food was in them- there was no reprieve.

It was 10:30 p.m.

“Check Please,” said the birthday boy’s booming voice.
Birthday Boy had given Lindsay the shiny rectangle that proclaimed richness: the dark plastic of a black American Express card.


Lindsay knew that this was going to be good: a $250 bill with a rich patron would most definitely mean a rich tip.


While Lindsay walked on air to the corner to ring up the meal, she noticed that her manager was now talking to the rich birthday boy. “I saw him talking to my manager and I thought it was a compliment that he was giving about me. I had no idea. No idea.”


With a quick step and a huge smile, Lindsay walked back towards the rich and drunk table. Her manager met her half way. She didn’t smile. “That guy just tore into you. He said that you didn’t clear his table fast enough and that you did not give them appetizer plates.”


A feeling of dread washed over Lindsay. She now walked with a hesitate gait towards the back of the restaurant. She opened the leather flap of the booklet. Her tip? Her tip for a $250 bill was one dollar. A dollar. “I would rather receive nothing than just a dollar. It was an insult,” Lindsay accuses.


Away from patrons in the back, she slams down the booklet, frustrated at her job. As she reluctantly goes to clear the now empty table, she notices an extra stack of appetizer dishes she had given them sitting at the head of the table- just in case the patrons needed more. They lay unused.