YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS

Crazy afternoon. I'm rushing around the bar at happy hour, serving rum and cokes, sloshing Budweisers. It's an unexpectedly warm fall day in my town, and people have packed into the Cantina to cool off the best way possible.

"I just love these Indian summer days, don't you?" a haggered, over-made up blonde says to a dried-out, over-made up brunette sitting across from her. I hate the term "Indian summer." What does that mean and where did it come from? (If anyone knows, fill me in.) Besides, I have a strong feeling that Indians aren't too stoked when they hear it.

So Im running in circles, doing my best to keep everyone's thirst quenched. I go past a corner booth and am suddenly assaulted by the foulest odor. I look: there is a man peeling off his socks. As I continue to stand there in shocked disgust, he proceeds to start massaging his bare feet.

Think I might barf.

One of the regulars starts loudly slurping the remainder of his drink, which is my cue to hightail it over to him with a refill. Im quickly sucked back into the daze of work. Until...

"Hey, you got any paper towels?"
It's Funky Foot Massager.
I tear off a couple sheets, and walk over to his booth, already knowing I've made a big mistake.
And I was right.
As I stand there breathing out of my mouth to avoid the pungent odor no one else sems to notice, he dips one of the paper towels into his glass of water and begins to clean between his toes.

Now I will barf.

That was it.
"Sir, you're going to have to do that in the bathroom," I tell him, still not able to turn away from this disgusting spectacle.
But he ignores me.
"Sir, you're going to need to..."
"Hey, look, Im done, alright?" He barks this at me as though I'm the one displaying completely inappropriate behavior in a bar. By this time the odor has wafted beyond his little corner. Ms. Indian Summer loudly demands to know 'what that horrible smell is', while Dried Up Brunette is frantically waving her hand back and forth in front of her nose. (I've always wondered what that is supposed to do, exactly.)
Massager is now putting his socks and shoes back on, all the while mumbling about how if his friend Ronoldo was here (one of the owners who is a sometimes-bartender and all-the-time borracho) he would be left alone. (Name dropping in a Mexican resturant bar? Sad. And unfortunately, it happens quite frequently.)

Whatever.

So I give him his tab and continue working.
Later, I go to clear his table and found he's been kind enough to leave me his $7.25 tab in quarters, nickels and dimes, as well as the balled up paper towels he used to wash his feet.
I laugh. There is no way in hell Im going to touch any of that.
His friend Ronaldo can deal with it when he gets here.