This Story Comes With A Kicker

I work as a computer technician, usually in people’s businesses. I go out to an exclusive country club in my city to replace the touchscreen on the point-of-sale system in the bar. While I’m replacing the screen, I notice that the power cable on the new screen isn’t the same as it is on the old screen; I will need to get inside the cabinet under the POS in order to run the new power cable to the new screen.

The bartender is present at this time, opening a bottle of wine. A few minutes later, I hear the bartender leave the bar area.

Still torso deep in the cabinet, I have just started running the new cable when I hear someone walk behind the bar.

Customer: “Boy!”

I’m not sure who is shouting or what they are shouting about so I stop moving to better listen. 

Customer: *Yelling* “Hey, boy!”

This is followed by someone kicking me forcefully in the side of my leg. I quickly slide out of the counter to see a large grey-headed man towering above me. I’m expecting some sort of emergency.

Me: “What?” 

Customer: “Don’t ‘what’ me! Scotch neat and a martini. Dirty. Gin. Up.”

I am still on the floor, on my back, covered in dust, and I imagine I have the most confused look on my face.

Me: “Umm… The bartender should be back in a few minutes. Did you just kick me?”

Customer: *Stomps his foot* “We’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes! Make the d*** drinks!” 

That’s a lie; the bartender has been gone under five minutes. I stand up, brushing off some dust, and ask again:

Me: “Did you kick me?”

Even though I am clearly taller than him, he puffs out his chest in an unsuccessful attempt to appear threatening.

Customer: “I saw you pouring wine earlier!”

Me: “That was the bartender.”

Customer: “Just get the d*** drinks!”

I point to the emblem on my shirt:

Me: “I work for [Computer Service Company]. The bartender will be—”

Customer: *Loudly talking over me* “SCOTCH NEAT. DIRTY MARTINI. UP.”

Just then, the staff door swings open violently and in rushes the kitchen manager.

Manager: “Sir, you can’t be back here. Stop harassing the computer guy!”

The man abruptly turned to face the kitchen manager for a few seconds and then looked back at me, face flushed, with the most bewildered look. He mumbled something quietly about bad service and shuffled back to his table. His friends at the table appeared to be supremely embarrassed.

The kitchen manager decided to cut him off from the bar for the day.

I wish I had been wiser at the time, but sadly, I didn’t call the police. My boss heavily discouraged calls to the police involving this hoity-toity place, as business from this place meant more to him than our safety and comfort. Instead, I just quickly finished up my work and got out of there.