They’re Not In Tip-Top Form
I’m the author of this story.
Back in the long, long ago — that is, the ancient times of 2013 to 2014 or so — I work at a student-run bar, one of the many centuries-old student-run clubs in the town. They are run in accordance with the strict Swedish alcohol laws, where over-serving someone is technically a jailable offence for the bartender (though that rarely happens). The bartender is also always right, so if I say someone has had enough, they have.
It is a big club night, the last one before the end of the semester. The drinks are quite cheap (by Swedish standards), and a lot of people are a bit desperate.
A sleazy guy with an open shirt and a not-very-comfortable lady come to the bar.
Guy: “Two [cheap cider]s!”
Me: “Right-o.” *Uncorks and serves them* “That will be 58 kronor.” *About $6*
Guy: *Handing me a 500-kronor (50-dollar) note* “Keep the change!”
He is obviously trying to impress the lady, who seems unimpressed.
Me: *Incredulously* “Are you tipping me 442 kronor?”
Guy: “Yeah. It’s yours! I study economics! I’m gonna be really rich!”
The lady remains unimpressed.
Guy: “In fact, I am, like, top of my class and, like, really smart!”
Me: “Oh? I’ve heard that economics is simple.”
Guy: *Removing his arm from around the woman* “Yeah, it’s simple for someone like me!”
He starts a rambling story about how you can use “economics” to make money by tricking people into giving it to you. The woman looks even less impressed and slinks away while he talks (giving me a thankful glance), and he finds that he is alone after a few minutes. I keep serving other customers meanwhile, and he pays little attention to me.
Guy: “Hey, where did the little slut go?”
Me: “I think she went that way.”
I point in the opposite direction, and he runs off. I keep working for a few hectic hours, and then the guy returns, fuming but pretending to be polite.
Guy: “Yeah, so, do you remember me?”
Me: “Sorry, not really.”
Guy: “Yeah, I tipped you a, a, a lot. Like loads. I had a super hot slut with me. She disappeared, and you probably helped her get away so you could get the slut yourself!”
Me: “Please don’t call women that.”
Guy: “Whatever. I want my tip back.”
Me: “Sorry?”
Guy: “I gave you 500 kronor, and I bought, like, just a cider.”
Me: “I remember you now. I asked if it was a tip and you said yes. So, no.”
Guy: “No, see, I need that money now.”
Me: “That’s not gonna happen.”
Guy: “No, but, I can’t tip that much! I gave you my bus money home. I’m, like, broke.”
Me: “Sorry. You could probably walk, though.”
Guy: “DO I LOOK LIKE A F****** [slur for Roma people]? Give me my money!”
He drunkenly fails to climb over the bar. I flag down a passing security guard.
Me: “No. You are to leave, now.”
The guard intervened and the guy was dragged away. I was told that he disappeared right into the back of a drunk-cell with some hefty fines after he decided to call the non-European-descended guard every slur in existence.
Question of the Week
What is the most wholesome experience you’ve ever had?
