Unfiltered Story #168442

, , | Unfiltered | September 29, 2019

Every fall our town is inundated with seasonal visitors from all over the world hoping to get a job harvesting and trimming marijuana. The locals call them “trimmigrants”. Most are cool and interesting; some are not. The worst kind ever is the dreaded Trustafarian – entitled, unkempt white dudes with dreadlocks, often with trust funds from mommy and daddy, sometimes with a fake Jamaican accent. I haven’t met one yet that defies the negative stereotypes.

I had just gotten off of my shift and had retired to our cozy patio with my drink to relax with my husband, a very good friend and a sweet lesbian couple from Hawaii we had just met. It was chilly, so i was wearing a zip-up hoodie that covered the bar’s logo on my work shirt. We were talking about all the lovely places they can visit during their stay, when we were interrupted by a particularly aggressive Trustafarian.

Dreads: “Who’s going to give me a cigarette?”
Us: *silence*
Dreads, louder: “I said, WHO’GOING TO GIVE ME A F***ING CIGARETTE?!”

My husband gives Dreads a cigarette just to shut him up. Though he already got what he wanted, he pulls out a dollar and angrily throws a dollar in the direction of one of the women and starts to rant and people around here being stingy with their smokes. We try to ignore him and resume our conversation, but he keeps interrupting with his rant and berating the women.

Under the guise of getting another drink, I go inside to warn the nighttime bartender. She’s tiny, sweet and pretty but you wouldn’t want to mess with her. She’s tougher than she looks.

I go back outside and Dreads is still ranting. Everybody else tells him to shut up and leave them alone, and he storms, in passing me as I’m coming out. I go back in and he’s sitting at the bar hassling my colleague. I sit on the barstool next to him.

Me, smiling: “Hi there!”
Dreads: “What the f*** do you want?”
Me, unzipping my coat and pointing to the bar’s logo: “You know what this means?”
Dreads: “What?”
Me: “It means I work here. And it’s time for you to leave.”
Dreads, not leaving: “F*** you! I don’t want to stay in this crummy bar anyway! I’m an artist! You people don’t know how to appreciate art for art’s sake!”
Other bartender: “What does that even mean?”
Me: “Apparently this is supposed to be performance art.”

A very burly regular patron grabs him by his greasy dreads and physically pulls him out of the bar. All the patrons start clapping.