Two waiters chit-chat during their break. The posh restaurant’s low-lighting has their heads adrift, so they keep the conversation simple: weather, sports, and a couple of regurgitated talking points about the latest tragic homicide.
In walks a stout man in plain spirits and clothes. He wears a battered flannel shirt and flip-flops, both of which are stark contrasts to the attire of the usual clientele. He reeks of Grateful Dead. The waiters expect he wants to use the restroom to relieve himself, or possibly to continue putting questionable substances in his body. The waiters think back to their training and are prepared to oust the intruder if needed.
The stout fellow walks up to the register and pulls out a checkbook.
“I wanna buy something,” he pleads.
The waiters can’t help but laugh. The waiter with the bigger smirk looks at the man, then around the restaurant with his arms spread out with a wide are-you-kidding-me wingspan.
“Sir, I’m sorry to be rude, but our chefs are rated the best in the world. We hand-select our beef and age it ourselves. We don’t serve any person who doesn’t have an income in the eight-figure range.”
The man, unperturbed by this statement, opens up his checkbook, fills out a check, and rips it from the book.
“You’re gettin’ me all wrong. I’m buying the restaurant.” With this, the waiter grabs the man’s arm to lead him out.
“Sir you need to exit the restaurant. You reek of marijuana and are clearly high as a kite,” as the waiter attempts to drag the man out, he notices a name embroidered in the checkbook. This name, which has been uttered in ink and pixels and the bitter-spit of every city-dweller, strikes a chord with the waiter that sends his smirk back to the bathroom to vomit. All color is gone from his face. He just tried to boot his new boss.
“I’m, I’m I’m…”
“You’re probably trying to say you’re sorry, but you aren’t,” the stout man buys back the smirk along with the restaurant in need of new waiters .