Stop Ordeing Me Around.docVIP

Stop Ordering Me Around I had just sat an extra hour and a half waiting for some country-club tennis buddies to finish a pizza. They came in 15 minutes after the restaurant dosed-they hadnt wanted to cut short their tennis match. The owner complied and agreed to turn the oven back on and make them a pizza. The cook had long since gone home. The customers had no problem demanding service after I explained that the restaurant had closed. They had no problem sitting there until well after 11 oclock to recount the highlights of their tennis game (the restaurant closed at 9.30 p.m.). And, most important, they had no problem making me the brunt of their cruel little post-tennis match. What fun it was to harass the pathetic little waitress. Oh, its just so nice sitting here like this, one man said. After getting no response, he continued: Boy, I guess you want us to leave. I was ready to explode in anger. I am not going to respond to your comments, I said, and walked away. He was geared up for a fight. The red flag had been waved. The man approached me and asked about dessert. A regular customer, he had never made a practice of ordering desert before. You know, the 90s low-fat thing. But that night he enjoyed the power. He felt strong. I felt violated. Three dollars and 20 cents later, I went home. Their tip was my payment for this emotional rape. As I drove, tears streamed down my face. Why was I crying? I had been harassed before. Ten years of waitressing should have inured me to this all too common situation. But this was a watershed: the culmination of a decade of abuse. I am now at the breaking point. I cant take being the publics punching bag. People seem to think abuse is included in the price of an entree. All sense of decency and manners is checked with their coats at the door. They see themselves in a position far superior to mine. They are the kings. I am the peasant. I would like them to be the peasants. I am a strong advocate of compulsory restaurant service i