The coffee run was the hardest part of any wedding night for Patricio. Sure, the coffee pots were easy enough to lift when they were empty, but they were a massive strain on this wrist when they were full, wrists he would need later. Then he had to walk out the door into the hoard of energy deficient zombies, each with a distant look in their eyes and a single arm outstretched holding a porcelain teacup. The only way to get these zombies to die down was to fill those teacups with coffee.
One of the better dressed patrons decided that snapping at Patricio was a good idea. In response, Patricio decided to serve everyone else at the surrounding tables, making sure to chat with everyone he served along the way, until all he had left was half a cup's worth. Patricio finally made his way over to the table with the snapping man. As he made his way over, he overheard the man say, "I hate it when waiters can't speak English. If you are going to be in our country, you should know our language and that snapping fingers mean come over here, now." The statement cut right through Patricio. He could have laughed at the irony of the man thinking he spoke no English despite having received a major in it; however, his desire to laugh was overshadowed by his desire to smash the pot of coffee into his face. His limbs did not seem to stop carrying him over to the table and begin pouring.
Patricio had been eyeing her all night. He felt a great emptiness in his gut. Why did the girls always go for the bad guy? Seeing her made him a bit soft, but the man she was with set his brain on fire.
Patricio felt this great longing for this blonde, artistic beauty and resolved to tell her. As he finished pouring the coffee, he couldn't help notice the sleeves of his uniform randomly covered in caked splotches of food that had been cleared off of plates. He immediately felt disgusted with himself, there was no way she would find him attractive looking like someone who was at the epicenter of a food fight.
"Discúlpeme," Patricio started," eres tan bella que no tienes porque perder tu tiempo con un culero."
Her large blue eyes stared at him, eye brows raised. Maybe she would understand it, he thought as he walked away, but he knew deep down that that was a stretch. Patricio headed back to the server's hallway, behind the banquet hall to fill up his coffee pots. On the way, he began formulating a story in his head. Everyone agreed that smashing the coffee pot into that douche bag's head was a great decision. The hero then received a check for a full-year's pay and then promptly quit his job. It wasn't a story that would win Patricio any awards, but it did made him feel moderately better about his position.
It was while he was lost in this flight of fancy that a small child decided to dart out toward the dance floor. The child's head had performed a rudimentary head-butt to Patricio's pelvis. Patricio flew forward. It all happened to fast for him to block his fall. He tumbled over the child, falling onto his back. For a brief moment the room seemed entirely quiet. Of course, Patricio thought, it had to happen between songs. He sat up, pain surged through his left side. He looked down. The coffee pot in his left hand had shattered, leaving a large piece of glass in his forearm. The other coffee pot had somehow stayed intact.
It's not that bad, he told himself. He stood up and blood dripped down his hand. Shit! It is that bad. Then came the sound, that horrible, condescending slow clap. He turned around to see the date of the pretty blonde grinning and clapping. Patricio couldn't bring himself to look at her, his face was hot. Deena rushed up to him, "Are you ok?"
Through gritted teeth, Patricio responded, "I'm fine."
Deena looked down and gasped. "That looks really bad, you might need to fill out an incident report and get some stitches."
"I said I'm fucking fine, God damn it!" Patricio stormed off, clutching his left arm close to him.
He was not fine.
