Stone Cold

I am waiting on a table of three hotties. They flirt, they drink; they’re loud and obnoxious. I keep the happy smile plastered on my face – their check is $300.

As they leave I pick up the check and look at my tip.

Zero. Zip. Zlich. Nada.

I am pissed. The ladies, laughing hysterically, have piled into a convertible parked directly outside the bistro. I go up to them and say,

“I am sorry to bother you but you forgot to leave a gratuity.”

The ladies laugh even harder.

Flummoxed, I repeat, “You forgot to leave a tip.”

The driver just waves dismissively, starts the car, and drives away. I hear their laughter fade into the distance.

Burning up, I walk back inside. I head toward the waiter’s prep area. I grab a cell phone from the pile and dial 911.

“Anytown Police Department – what is your emergency?”

“Yes I would like to report a drunk driver.” I rattle off the make, model, tags and direction.

“We’ll get on it.”

I hang up.

To this day I don’t know if they caught them. Probably not. I never saw them again.

I can be one stone cold son of a bitch.