Part 41
The Previous Evening.
I slide into the booth, bumping the table and spilling a mouthful of Nep’s pint. It rolls toward me agonizing slow. “I fucking hate it when people get all star-struck taking my order. Yeah, so what? So you saw me on TV, big deal.”
“That doesn’t really happen to you,” he says. “‘I feel signing autographs demeans what I do by reducing my value to the worth of my name written on paper,’” Nepotism says, waving his fingers in the air.
“I told you I was joking when I said that, will you give it a rest?”
The bartender walks past us, giving us a sideways glance and a nod, dodging between a couple college kids coming out of the VIP women’s room where the blow is open and free. I stare blankly at the cigarette machine. Nepotism is silent, watching off into space in some kind of creepy, open- mouth, dinosaur grin. Each second ticks my brain. The juke changes to Iron Maiden, “Women in Uniform.” I might have picked this song when we got here, but I can’t be sure.
How long does it take to hand in the order? She’s probably wasting my time and the cook’s with some gossip or secret while he should be grilling my ground beef. I have a good mind to talk with Zombie about this treatment. I am a high profile regular in his bar, and some two-week-twit bar wench is keeping me from my pink-centered sammich.
Did she write the specifics? What’s the point of getting a Meat Grab Spot Slab if it doesn’t come with extra bacon. The cook is too concerned with shooting up to remember such incidentals as onion rings. I’m going to end up with a big basket of french fries that Nepotism will devour. Nepotism hates onion rings.
She walks out of the kitchen, past us without a sideways glance.
“Mephis better buy a pitcher,” I snap, finishing my first pint and pouring a second.
“How much did you tip?” He narrows his eyebrow. “Did you tip the cook?”
“You’re not supposed to tip the cook.”
“You are.”
“You tip service people: waitresses, bartenders, deliverers.”
“He’s not providing a service?” Nepotism sips his beer.
“No, you tip the people who give it to you, not the people who make it.” I sip my beer. “It’s symbolic. A delivery person’s salary is paid by the customer. It’s a reward for prompt service. The cook is a master of his craft and his salary acknowledges it.” I sip my beer.
“Not necessarily a ‘him,’ dude. Not cool.” Nepotism sips his beer. “You should tip the cook.”
“It’s a matter of principle.”
“I tip the cook.” Nepotism sips his beer.
“So?”
“I always get my food before you.”
“That’s not true. We get it at the same time.”
“And when we do, yours is always cold. Not only are they punishing you, they are making me wait.” Nepotism sips his beer.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Not at all. You are being singled out. My chicken fingers are always fresh and warm. It doesn’t take long to cook chicken fingers. Much less time than a cheeseburger. They are pressuring me to confront you on the subject. I thought you would realize it on your own.”
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