a missing credit card
She and I share a register three times a week, and split the floor of the big restaurant, each of us waiting half of the tables. I haven't seen her in over a week because she had some days off, but it's busy so we don't get a chance to catch up right away.
One of the managers makes a joke and she pretends to take offense, something about who's working what unit on my shift. I am puzzled, not getting it. After a while when it slows down, she and I stand at the back counter and she fills me in.
"You didn't hear yet what happened last night," she says. I shake my head. "With the missing credit card?" I shake my head again. "Oh [Airportbartender], it was awful. I lost some guy's credit card!"
"Oh no," I say. "How?"
She spreads her hands. "That's the story," she said. "Oh, I don't know if you heard this, but I left my husband last week." They've been married 25 years, but he has struggled with mental illness and refused counseling, and I know he's been a nightmare, verbally abusing her and even hitting her a few times.
"Oh God," I say.
"Yes," she answers. "So things've been tough. I can't eat, he's calling all the time, I've had to call the cops-- it's just been a laugh a minute, being me."
"I see," I say.
"And so this guy comes into the restaurant. Sits down. I say, 'How are you?' He says, 'Awful! I'm fighting with my partner, I'm way too early for my plane, nothing's working out, and I don't think the day can get any worse!' So this is what I'm starting with, right?"
"Great," I say.
"So I do my thing. This is the last customer of the night, did I mention?"
"No!"
"Yes. So it's the end of my shift and it's been a long day and my husband has been calling the office, here, since nine in the morning, and saying all kinds of things to the office staff-- I mean, [Airportbartender], he's been saying really graphic, nasty things about me to them--"
"Oh God."
"--yeah. Meanwhile [Night Bartender] is doing her usual thing where she flips out about everything, and calls down to order more beer bottles. She's got like 18 Bud Lites in a case on the floor, and the fridge is full! We don't even need them! There's nowhere to put them! So the case is sitting right here, so you can't even open the door." She gestures to a spot right next to her register. "We're all tripping over them and of course she's all, 'Oh I'm too busy I can't deal with these now someone else do it for me!'"
"Great," I say.
"Right. And this guy, he's grumpy. He says to me, 'Great! Now they've just delayed my flight. Cash me out so I can go yell at them.' So he gives me his card, and I bring it to the register, and I swipe it. While it's authorizing, I say, 'I gotta get this beer outta my way,' and so I pick up the case and shove it under the sink. I go and get an order of food that's waiting, bring it out to the customer, and then I come back, pull the printouts off the register, and-- where's the credit card?"
"Shit," I say.
"Yes! Where's the credit card?" She pantomimes looking around frantically. "So I ask Night Bartender, and she helps me look, a little. I'm going crazy, [Airportbartender]. I drag that case of beer out and look through it, I look under the register, I look all over the floor, I'm looking in the drain-- I have to go out and tell the guy, 'I'm sorry, I can't find your credit card. It must be right back here, I just have to look for it.' And what do you think he does?"
"What?" I am horrified.
"He starts cursing about how I must've stolen it! Why would I steal it? What would I even do? But he's ranting on about how I'm a thief, how I must've taken it-- he is saying that I have to be strip-searched. Oh my God, [Airportbartender], it was awful."
"It must've been in the case of beer," I said.
"We all went through that case, [Airportbartender]. All of us. I mean, me, and [Night Bartender], and the manager, and the supervisor, and the cashiers. The cashiers helped me, that's how bad it was. After about fifteen minutes they realized I was serious and they came over and they helped me. I went through the garbage cans. I had trash-- wing sauce, up over my elbows. I smelled like a garbage can. I'm about to cry, and you know I never cry. I'm about to cry, and my hair is all plastered to my face, and I am frantic. And this guy. He is freaking out."
"How long did it take?" I ask.
"Forty-five minutes, [Airportbartender]. It was missing for forty-five minutes. And oh, [Night Bartender]'s standing right over there, talking to a customer, 'You know I'm going to get blamed for this, you know someone's going to throw my name in and I'm going to get blamed for this somehow, I just know it, everything that goes wrong around here gets blamed on me somehow--' [Airportbartender], I could've strangled her."
"Is anything not all about her?"
"No. But it's the truth! She was the one freaking out over the stupid beer. If that case hadn't been there-- Finally I am sitting on the floor, and I take all the beers out of that damned case, four at a time, and I don't know what made me do it, [Airportbartender], but I pulled the cardboard insert out, and I shook it, and *click*--"
"No."
"Yes. Out falls the card. It's a grey Mastercard, worn so slick you can't even read the numbers. And it was stuck, stuck hard, to the cardboard in this beer case."
"Jesus."
"So the guy-- he says we need to run a report on this card to see if I rang up anything else with it. Me, covered in wing sauce, hair all stuck to my face, filthy from grubbing around on this nasty floor, and I'm supposed to have rung stuff up here? When?"
"I can't imagine," I say truthfully.
"I don't know. So he finally goes, and I'm standing here kind of shellshocked, and [Manager] says, 'We need to talk. Just come around the corner here with me.'"
"Shit," I say. [Manager] is new, and we are all suspicious of him. He has gone on power trips before, most memorably one night when he flipped out at me for leaving at the end of my scheduled shift. He is something of an unknown, a bit volatile, and none of us feels we can rely on his common sense.
"I don't know, [Airportbartender], what he intended to say to me. I really don't. I went around the corner, and I sat down, and it was all suddenly too much for me. You know me. I've sworn never to cry in front of these people. But he sits down, and he says my name, and I--" She gestures, a spraying gesture out from her eyes. "It just started. And I have promised myself not to cry in front of these people. So I just put my head down and covered my face. And I know he knows what's going on in my life because my husband has been harassing the office staff and of course he knows about that. And I'm just mortified but I can't take it."
"Oh no," I said, sympathetic. I cry easily, and I have cried in front of [Manager], and it is not pretty.
"[Airportbartender], he didn't know what to do! He had no idea what to do. He starts talking really fast-- 'oh God it's OK you know I know what you're going through I've had some bad breakups-- ok not that bad-- but it can be really tough and I'm sure you're going to get through it and oh my God-- [Airportbartender], if I hadn't been so far gone, it would've been funny."
"Jeez."
"So that's why I was pitching a fit this afternoon when they were going to send that new girl down here instead of you. I said, 'I cannot work with both [Night Bartender] and a new hire who's been here less than two weeks!'"
"I was ten minutes late because of the parking shuttle," I say.
"I couldn't have dealt with it," she says.
"Man," I say, shaking my head.
"I know," she says. "I'm not looking forward to seeing [Night Bartender] tonight."
I nod. "Hey," I say, in a moment. "If you need anything, you have my number, and your husband has no idea where I live." We don't hang together much socially, but we have once or twice. She's been to my house, but I've never been to hers, and I've only met her husband briefly. He is a huge man.
She shakes her head. "I'm not hiding from him," she says. "He'll find me eventually and I'd rather deal with this bullshit now than drag it out."
I nod.
Dialogue paraphrased, as my memory's not that good.
One of the managers makes a joke and she pretends to take offense, something about who's working what unit on my shift. I am puzzled, not getting it. After a while when it slows down, she and I stand at the back counter and she fills me in.
"You didn't hear yet what happened last night," she says. I shake my head. "With the missing credit card?" I shake my head again. "Oh [Airportbartender], it was awful. I lost some guy's credit card!"
"Oh no," I say. "How?"
She spreads her hands. "That's the story," she said. "Oh, I don't know if you heard this, but I left my husband last week." They've been married 25 years, but he has struggled with mental illness and refused counseling, and I know he's been a nightmare, verbally abusing her and even hitting her a few times.
"Oh God," I say.
"Yes," she answers. "So things've been tough. I can't eat, he's calling all the time, I've had to call the cops-- it's just been a laugh a minute, being me."
"I see," I say.
"And so this guy comes into the restaurant. Sits down. I say, 'How are you?' He says, 'Awful! I'm fighting with my partner, I'm way too early for my plane, nothing's working out, and I don't think the day can get any worse!' So this is what I'm starting with, right?"
"Great," I say.
"So I do my thing. This is the last customer of the night, did I mention?"
"No!"
"Yes. So it's the end of my shift and it's been a long day and my husband has been calling the office, here, since nine in the morning, and saying all kinds of things to the office staff-- I mean, [Airportbartender], he's been saying really graphic, nasty things about me to them--"
"Oh God."
"--yeah. Meanwhile [Night Bartender] is doing her usual thing where she flips out about everything, and calls down to order more beer bottles. She's got like 18 Bud Lites in a case on the floor, and the fridge is full! We don't even need them! There's nowhere to put them! So the case is sitting right here, so you can't even open the door." She gestures to a spot right next to her register. "We're all tripping over them and of course she's all, 'Oh I'm too busy I can't deal with these now someone else do it for me!'"
"Great," I say.
"Right. And this guy, he's grumpy. He says to me, 'Great! Now they've just delayed my flight. Cash me out so I can go yell at them.' So he gives me his card, and I bring it to the register, and I swipe it. While it's authorizing, I say, 'I gotta get this beer outta my way,' and so I pick up the case and shove it under the sink. I go and get an order of food that's waiting, bring it out to the customer, and then I come back, pull the printouts off the register, and-- where's the credit card?"
"Shit," I say.
"Yes! Where's the credit card?" She pantomimes looking around frantically. "So I ask Night Bartender, and she helps me look, a little. I'm going crazy, [Airportbartender]. I drag that case of beer out and look through it, I look under the register, I look all over the floor, I'm looking in the drain-- I have to go out and tell the guy, 'I'm sorry, I can't find your credit card. It must be right back here, I just have to look for it.' And what do you think he does?"
"What?" I am horrified.
"He starts cursing about how I must've stolen it! Why would I steal it? What would I even do? But he's ranting on about how I'm a thief, how I must've taken it-- he is saying that I have to be strip-searched. Oh my God, [Airportbartender], it was awful."
"It must've been in the case of beer," I said.
"We all went through that case, [Airportbartender]. All of us. I mean, me, and [Night Bartender], and the manager, and the supervisor, and the cashiers. The cashiers helped me, that's how bad it was. After about fifteen minutes they realized I was serious and they came over and they helped me. I went through the garbage cans. I had trash-- wing sauce, up over my elbows. I smelled like a garbage can. I'm about to cry, and you know I never cry. I'm about to cry, and my hair is all plastered to my face, and I am frantic. And this guy. He is freaking out."
"How long did it take?" I ask.
"Forty-five minutes, [Airportbartender]. It was missing for forty-five minutes. And oh, [Night Bartender]'s standing right over there, talking to a customer, 'You know I'm going to get blamed for this, you know someone's going to throw my name in and I'm going to get blamed for this somehow, I just know it, everything that goes wrong around here gets blamed on me somehow--' [Airportbartender], I could've strangled her."
"Is anything not all about her?"
"No. But it's the truth! She was the one freaking out over the stupid beer. If that case hadn't been there-- Finally I am sitting on the floor, and I take all the beers out of that damned case, four at a time, and I don't know what made me do it, [Airportbartender], but I pulled the cardboard insert out, and I shook it, and *click*--"
"No."
"Yes. Out falls the card. It's a grey Mastercard, worn so slick you can't even read the numbers. And it was stuck, stuck hard, to the cardboard in this beer case."
"Jesus."
"So the guy-- he says we need to run a report on this card to see if I rang up anything else with it. Me, covered in wing sauce, hair all stuck to my face, filthy from grubbing around on this nasty floor, and I'm supposed to have rung stuff up here? When?"
"I can't imagine," I say truthfully.
"I don't know. So he finally goes, and I'm standing here kind of shellshocked, and [Manager] says, 'We need to talk. Just come around the corner here with me.'"
"Shit," I say. [Manager] is new, and we are all suspicious of him. He has gone on power trips before, most memorably one night when he flipped out at me for leaving at the end of my scheduled shift. He is something of an unknown, a bit volatile, and none of us feels we can rely on his common sense.
"I don't know, [Airportbartender], what he intended to say to me. I really don't. I went around the corner, and I sat down, and it was all suddenly too much for me. You know me. I've sworn never to cry in front of these people. But he sits down, and he says my name, and I--" She gestures, a spraying gesture out from her eyes. "It just started. And I have promised myself not to cry in front of these people. So I just put my head down and covered my face. And I know he knows what's going on in my life because my husband has been harassing the office staff and of course he knows about that. And I'm just mortified but I can't take it."
"Oh no," I said, sympathetic. I cry easily, and I have cried in front of [Manager], and it is not pretty.
"[Airportbartender], he didn't know what to do! He had no idea what to do. He starts talking really fast-- 'oh God it's OK you know I know what you're going through I've had some bad breakups-- ok not that bad-- but it can be really tough and I'm sure you're going to get through it and oh my God-- [Airportbartender], if I hadn't been so far gone, it would've been funny."
"Jeez."
"So that's why I was pitching a fit this afternoon when they were going to send that new girl down here instead of you. I said, 'I cannot work with both [Night Bartender] and a new hire who's been here less than two weeks!'"
"I was ten minutes late because of the parking shuttle," I say.
"I couldn't have dealt with it," she says.
"Man," I say, shaking my head.
"I know," she says. "I'm not looking forward to seeing [Night Bartender] tonight."
I nod. "Hey," I say, in a moment. "If you need anything, you have my number, and your husband has no idea where I live." We don't hang together much socially, but we have once or twice. She's been to my house, but I've never been to hers, and I've only met her husband briefly. He is a huge man.
She shakes her head. "I'm not hiding from him," she says. "He'll find me eventually and I'd rather deal with this bullshit now than drag it out."
I nod.
Dialogue paraphrased, as my memory's not that good.
posted by airportbartender at 10:07 AM
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