Contrary to popular belief, writing the most influential blog of our generation has yet to land me on Forbes Richest Motherfuckers On The Planet list. Yes, I do have a job. And no, it is not my job to be awesome. I believe in volunteer work, so I do that pro bono. For those of you who don't know me personally, I'm a bartender and manager of a fast paced restaurant in the suburbs of Philadelphia. (I just pulled that directly from my resume. Jealous? ) If you were wondering if it's all true, I say to you yes, yes it is. Being a bartender is just as illustrious as it sounds. It comes with so many French benefits such as your family looking down on you and your more 'sucessful' friends grilling you about when you are "going to get your shit together", to name a few. But I'm the LeBron of bartending so up yours you high horse riding jerks. Did I mention that I'm also a manager? I did? Well I'm going to tell you again, because it's that important. Managing a restaurant is great. I get to do my two favorite things under one roof. I farm out assignments that I'm not interested in doing myself and I use my employers computer to surf for porn so I don't crash my hard drive again. For the record, I have been to the darkest corners of the internet and the things I have seen should only be spoken about in moments where the outcome might be death, like if the plane were on starts to spin wildly out of control or you are holding a gun to my head asking me to describe a mechanized dildo machine. It's oddly similar to a sock 'em bopper, but that's all I'll say.
Somtimes managing a restaurant isn't so glorious though. All joking aside, it does come with a certain set of responsibilities that must be upheld. Sometimes you see things that you will never be able to erase from your brain. This is a story about one of those times.
This past July, I was managing The "ONP" on a Thursday night. It was maybe 7 o'clock but the sun was still beating and we were having an air conditioner problem (didn't pay the bill) so it was extremely hot and muggy in the restaurant. Taking a break from running food to tables or as I like to call it 'eating french fries off of people's plates while no one is looking', i went on a brief sebatical to the men's because I more than likely have BPH and am in serious need of Flomax. Because of my BPH I can't go mountain biking with my friends, and I always miss out of perfect photo opportunities because I'm in the can. So be it. Anyhow, as I approached the men's room I encountered a gentleman in his early 60's. I can only describe the look on his face as that of shear terror. Shock and awe. Scuds and Patriots. He looked like he had seen not only a ghost, but more than likely he had just watched two ghosts go at it in a fit of after life bliss. He was scared, you get the point. Before I could ask this gentleman if he was waiting in line for the bathroom he softly cooed to me, "are you the manger?"
"Yes I am, sir. Is everything ok?"
Dramatic pause...
"Somebody... had an... accident in there. I think you better clean it up." And like that...poof, he was gone.
Having been in this business for the better part of a decade I have seen many a bathroom mess and assumed the floor was covered in urine or my repeat offender of a friend had once again vomited in the urinal. Nothing, and I mean literally nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when I opened the door. THERE WAS SHIT EVERYWHERE. I refuse to exaggerate this at all, and mainly because it needs no exaggeration. This violent eruption encompassed the following locations: On the seat, under the seat, on the front of the tank, on the lid of the tank, on the base of the bowl, on the handle, on the floor, on two, count 'em, two separate walls and amazingly even in the bowl. Just talking about it now I feel like Michael Jackson giving a deposition.
("There was doo doo and feces everywhere... Shamon!")
It was at that moment that I dropped my metaphorical coffee mug and became Agent Dave Cuilion. I flashed back to moments before when I had watched the man walk away but didn't pay attention to the poop that was all over his pants. The greatest trick that the senior citizen ever pulled was convincing the Oakmont that he didn't exist. (Side bar - I have to give the man credit. He did the right thing. He notified the proper authorities that an accident had occurred, just didn't stick around long enough for anyone to know he was the culprit. And believe me when I say that this could only be described as an accident. No one would do something like this intentionally. The bathroom literally looked like a human being had exploded inside of it, after eating bean pies for a week straight.) Have I mentioned yet that he was nice enough to leave his underwear in the trash can for me? Because I thought I might honestly choke to death, I exited the bathroom to the wondering eyes of my staff and quite a few customers. I quickly whipped up an out of order sign, which read "Abandon all hope, Ye who enter" and pondered my next move. This man was the Bobby Fischer of poop. He had me in check mate before I knew what hit me. As much as I really do love farming out assignments, some things are beyond the call of duty. I looked at the rookie bus boy and before I could speak he very eloquently said, "nope." Turning to the senior bus boy I was greeted with a "No fucking way." Rats. It was then that a waitress, who between you and me might be into some really weird shit (no pun intended), very perkily volunteered to clean it for a fee of $50. It made me wonder what else she has done for that kind of money because this was like the Exxon Valdez of B.M.'s. And because I really do care for the business and the customers, I couldn't let her actually clean it and then resume her post as the person delivering your food and drinks. Don't say I never did anything for you. Out of options and overwhelmed with a nagging sense of responsibility, I did what any good manager would do. I strapped on multiple pairs of the body cavity search gloves, grabbed a trash bag, two different disinfectants, a mop, paper towels, and a loaded gun just in case I reached my breaking point and I locked myself into that room for the next 45 minutes, cleaning it from top to bottom. Chances are you've never gone swimming in a septic tank, but if you have, then you know you have time to think while you're in there. As the son of a highly decorated detective I felt it was my civic duty to crack the case. It goes something like this:
While on a dinner date, possibly with his wife or just a twilight companion this man began to feel a twinge in his lower stomach. Ignoring it at first, the pains only grew worse as he felt the summer air kiss the back of his neck ever so gently. Not wanting to admit to his dinner guest that he had to blow one out, he tried to ignore these symptoms until he reached the point of no return. He arose from his seat and moved faster toward the mens room than he has moved in years. This man was realizing that he was about to have his first old age accident and he certainly did no want it to happen in a public place. So he rushed. He reached the bathroom and upon entering he found that the lock on the men's room door at the Oakmont can be tricky and requires an extra jiggle to ensure maximum privacy. After spending far more time on the lock than he had anticipated he shuffled toward the toilet, only to fumble with his belt in a moment of shear panic. Finally pulling the belt just so, he unhooked the clasps and began to crouch into the seated position. And it was then, that the crime took place. As soon as his cheeks hit air, the dog of war was unleashed. This man had just had an accident. He sat there in shame, stewing in his own corner of hell on earth. By the time he was actually on the toilet, there was nothing left to do but think. The firing had stopped. He thought of those nights he spent in Vietnam and how he would rather go back to DaNang than be where he was at that moment. Then he disrobed and tossed his soiled shorts in the garbage, never to see them again. He did his best to wipe, but there was not enough toilet paper in the world to make him feel clean again. He needed a shower, and months of therapy. He stood up and he examined what he had just done. He literally washed his hands of it, leaving trace amounts of his stomach contents in the sink. And then he exited the bathroom and waited. For how long I don't know, but he waited. He couldn't just leave that for someone to see. Instead he stuck around until he happened upon me and uttered the words that I will never forget. "Someone just had an accident in there." And then he disappeared into the great unknown. He has never come back, to date. I think I have a better chance to seeing the Olsen twins scissor, than I do of seeing him ever again.
But I did my job dutifully that evening, and effectively ended my shift at roughly 8 pm after which I drank myself into oblivion on the company dime. I always wonder, when I find myself in situations like these, will it be worth the story?
Shit yeah, it was.
