Friday, November 18, 2005

On the Warpath!

Y.E.L.R.A was on a warpath tonight.

The story goes something like this:

A certain retailer that is opening a couple of stores in this fine city this weekend had a party at the restaurant. This party was attended by the usual people who come for other parties: young socialites of this fine city who will go anywhere to be seen. Granted, they're not on the caliber of Paris Hilton, but they're just as annoying. I really wish they would go somewhere else sometimes.

The damn shindig didn't start until 11pm.

I had five hours before the party and boy were they good ones. A woman vomited in the bar. One of her friends got hit and came down to the restroom to clean herself off. Several minutes later a woman came down to clean off her purse that was covered in vomit. A man came down about an hour later. He had just sat down in some vomit. I did not need to see or smell any of that. Why in God's name does the smell of vomit linger?

A one point a possibly mentally handicapped woman came down and complained that she couldn't get any reception on her cell phone. I had to kindly tell the woman that she was in a basement.

"But I always make my phone calls from the bathroom," she complained.


By the time the party started I had had enough. I was not about to take shit from anybody. At first, it looked like the party was going to be bunk. Then the storm hit and I was in chaotic mode for about ten minutes. In my mind, I was threatening my manager and telling him that I wanted to quit. Thankfully, I regained control of the restroom.

The usual problems popped up. More than one person wanted to use a stall together. It all started when three woman wanted to use a handicapped stall together. I straight up told them "no" and kicked two of the women out of the stall. They did not like me.

Then, my enemy for the evening showed up. Let's call him Mr. Blue Shirt... simply because he was wearing a blue shirt. All caught up? Good...

Mr. Blue Shirt tried unsuccessfully to go into a stall with a female companion once. I deflected him. I was kind to him and told him I could only allow one per stall and yada, yada, yada. (I'm hoping you know my shpiel by now.)

The second time he tried to go into a stall with this woman I pulled him out. He quickly retreated and complained. I let him know that if we needed to talk to a manager I could arrange that. I also hinted to the fact that he could possibly be kicked out of the restaurant. He believed my bluff! How do you like that?

The third time he tried it, I kind of aggressively pulled him out and said, "Sir, I've told you several times. You need to listen to me. I cannot allow more than one person per stall." This put the fear of God in him. He retreated into a stall with his tail between his legs.

A woman overseeing the whole thing took offense to what I did. She complained to me. I found myself trying to defend what I do. Then, I realized, why should I do that? She has no right to tell me how to do my job. I kindly suggested that she talk to my manager if she has any problems with what I do.

It turns out that both Mr. Blue Shirt and his female companion apologized to me for their actions. That was cool for me, you know? I let him know that I did not want to ruin his evening, but I have to do my job. He understood. In fact, he said that if he talked to my manager he was sure that my manager would back me up.

It's true, too. I spoke to my manager and told him the whole story. I let him know that I may have been a little too aggressive. All his response was, "Good! I trust your judgment."

Huzzah! For once I have a job where being aggressive to people at times is justified.

Of course, I had to stop other people, including two men. They ended up separating into two stalls, but one had to use the stall again after he had finished. They did the ol' switcheroo where one handed the other something while entering a stall. They looked around to make sure I wasn't watching. Gee, I wonder what they were doing? You would think that there were better things to spend your money on.


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