Back in the day, I was a waiter at a high-end restaurant in Los Angeles. Seeing the occasional Hollywood star wasn’t out of the ordinary.

One of my waiter coworkers (a new guy) comes rushing over, looking pale but buzzing with excitement.

New Guy: “Dude, I think Jack Nicholson is at my table!”

Me: “What? Are you serious?”

New Guy: “I swear it. Look, table four; that’s gotta be him, right? Should I ask for an autograph?”

Me: *Glancing over.* “…oh. Oh, yeah! Totally Jack Nicholson. He loves being called “Mr. Nicholson,” and if you really want to flatter him, bring up One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Classic.”

The waiter nods, psyched out of his mind, and spends the whole meal treating the guest like Hollywood royalty. Finally, when the check is signed, he comes back clutching a napkin. I see the conversation happen from a distance, with our customer looking thoroughly confused but amicable during the entire interaction.

Later:

New Guy: *Confused.* “Okay, so… I got the autograph. But he seemed… really weird about it. And his signature looks… funny?”

I’m trying not to laugh.

Waiter: “…what?”

Me: “That’s because it doesn’t say Jack Nicholson. You just called John Malkovich “Mr. Nicholson” and told him how great he was in a movie he was never in.”

The new guy freezes, face draining of all color. The rest of us burst out laughing. Years later, we still tease him by yelling, “Here’s Johnny!” whenever he walks in.

I’m driving with my parents when my mom notices the truck in front of us venting a little gas.

Mom: “You should back off, that might be dangerous!”

A quick glance at the truck tells me it’s liquid nitrogen.

Me: “Mom, it’s just nitrogen, you’re breathing it right now. It makes up 78% of the atmosphere!”

Mom: “Well, you never know, they find out that things cause cancer all the time!”

I knew she’d rather die on that hill, so I just stopped talking.

My grandparents are lucky enough to have some really good insurance, which means they can get regular check-ups at a fancy private hospital.

I’m with them in the waiting room at an especially nice wing (I’m their driver), flipping through a magazine.

That’s when she walks in. Every stereotypical image of the stick-thin valley girl you have in your mind could be found in this one person. Oversized sunglasses, designer bag, pink heels, swaying like she’s on a runway.

She pauses at the check-in desk, flips her hair dramatically, and sighs.

Valley Girl: “Ugh, is this seriously the waiting room? I thought this place was supposed to be, like, fancy.”

The nurse politely smiles and asks her to wait.

She turns, surveys the room like she’s just caught a whiff of something unpleasant, and mutters loudly, looking at my grandparents.

Valley Girl: “God, this place is, like, 80% grandpas. Do they even treat real problems here or is this just where people come to die?”

Grandpa looks up. He closes the magazine, leans slightly toward us, and says, clear as a bell, and absolutely not subtle:

Grandpa: “This hospital doesn’t fill me with confidence if the morgue can’t even keep the skeletons from escaping.”

Grandma and I can’t help but burst out laughing. [Valley Girl] looks shocked, but doesn’t say anything else and sits in steaming silence for the rest of the time we were waiting.

I work at a grocery store close to a bougie area of Los Angeles. We’re opening up, and my manager walks by as I’m setting up the register.

It should also be noted that I am relatively new to California.

Manager: “Remember, it’s July 17^th.”

Me: “Is that a special day?”

Manager: “Mercury is in retrograde as of today.”

Me: “My question stands. Is that important?”

Manager: “This is LA, honey. You’ll see how important it is by the end of the week.”

My god was he right! By Friday, I had heard:

Customer #1: *Tries to pay with Apple Pay.* “Oh no, my battery died. It’s okay, I have my watch.” *Tries to pay with his Apple watch.* Wait, that’s dead, too? Mercury is really spiraling.”

Next encounter:

Customer #2: “Do you sell candles?”

Me: “Scented?”

Customer #2: “Protective.”

Next encounter:

Customer #3: “Can I get like, ten lottery tickets?”

Me: “Sure thing! Feeling lucky?”

Customer #3: “Well, I never bought a lottery ticket during retrograde. Am I manifesting chaos or abundance? Let’s find out!”

I’ve already Googled when the next retrograde happens, and I am booking PTO.

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I work at a fourteen-seat-only chef’s table restaurant. We are a reservation-only place with a $250 per person prepaid tasting menu. 

The dining room is almost full when a customer strides up to the host stand. The next seating starts in ten minutes. She starts talking into her phone.

Customer: “Okay, guys, I’m about to show you Los Angeles’s hottest tasting menu. Let’s see if they’re smart enough to collab!” 

She continues recording and addresses me.

Customer: “I want to feature you tonight. I post stories to my followers in real time, so if you comp my seat, everybody wins!”

Me: “Our seats are pre-paid weeks, sometimes months in advance. $250 per guest, no comps, no walk-ins.”

Customer: *Smiling like she’s explaining something to a toddler.* “You don’t understand the value of exposure. I’ll tag your chef, the location, everything!”

My manager, who’d been plating in the open kitchen, walks over and wipes his hands.

Manager: “Funny how the people who offer ‘exposure’ never seem to be able to afford a meal.”

Customer: “Excuse me?! Do you know how much reach I have?”

Manager: “If you want free food, there are sample trays at Costco.”

Guests at the counter snicker, and she doubles down.

Customer: “It really isn’t a good idea to be in my next video. Restaurants on my s*** list.”

Manager: “You mean ‘Restaurants That Respect Themselves’? Much more accurate title. Anyway, if you’d like to book and prepay for a meal like a normal person, we have an opening in about three months…”

She leaves in a huff. The kitchen gets back to work, and the guests toast the first course, utterly undisturbed. 

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Will Not Be Influenced By The Influencer, Part 9
Will Not Be Influenced By The Influencer, Part 8
Will Not Be Influenced By The Influencer, Part 7