8:38 a.m. - 2005-11-02
Effin Steve. Steve is what one would label a very objectionable human. Unpleasant inside and out. Uglier than life itself, he looks like a cross between a teenage mutant ninja turtle that has been plunjered out of its shell and Gollum of the Hobbit movies. He doesn’t shower, or change clothes—ever to my knowledge, and much of the latter part of this entry will be dedicated to the rank smell produced from his ever-emitting mouth. He is inherently unlikable, a jerk to be certain, but also houses the type of pathetic that blankets you and leaves no oxygen for any kind of empathy to live on, if it ever were to sprout.
Effin Steve. He is a regular at the VIP table and for reasons I would love to know in order to track down their source and scratch it’s eyes out, Steve has a unquenchable need to be as close to me as he can all—night—fucking—long.
Steve is rude. He has long since stopped caring what people think of him so he does whatever he wants. Steve is a cheap motherfucker. He never tips a dealer, even when on a ten grand winning streak. Steve is an asshole. He gloats when he wins and whines and bitches when he loses. And although Steve may sound like some after school special character designed to teach kids how they ought not behave, he is real. And I would bet my life that his breath rivals Yuk-mouth, fictional character invented for that very same purpose.
I’m not kidding. I’m sure you have all run into a person who had breath so bad it hurts. The old guy, or the alcoholic guy, or the lady who you can smell just by sitting in proximity of her, never mind the fact that she always has something to get close and whisper to you. Not garlic breath, or onion breath. Not morning time have yet to brush the gritters breath. Bad, bad, BAD breath. The kind that gets you paranoid that your own mouth might stink that bad as well, because if this fucker can walk around day after day without knowing that they are polluting common breathing space, maybe you can too. But, no, this is a one in a thousand level. This is the have to roll down the window if they are in the same vehicle with you level. You have met one or more of these, I’m sure.
Steve is ten times worse. His mouth emits an odor so foul it seems like it must be a solid—like some kind of fragrant cheese that can be crumbled with the edge of a fork. Every so often you get a powerful little nugget that is so strong in makes you wince. You can fucking taste his breath. I am not joking when I say it makes my stomach hurt when he is next to me. I lose all appetite and try my fucking hardest to survive on as little oxygen as possible, but somehow he infiltrates my every inhale with his rot. And although it is bad enough when he is just raspilly hissing through his open stink cavern to fill his lungs, it is even worse when he starts to talk. And he almost never shuts the fuck up, even if it is just repeating the words “yeah, yeah, okay, okay” to himself quietly and in my fucking direction.
When my shift starts around ten, I can be certain that if Steve is sitting at my table, waaaaay on the other side from my seat, it will be a short matter of time before he is right next to me. And after he is right next to me, it will be like the fucking fog taking over a city as he encroaches ever closer, ever closer, ever closer in on my fucking space. I shove his chair as far away as I can ever time he gets up. I've put a drink table between us only to have him complain to my manager when I didn’t let him wrestle it out of his path enroute to my fucking lap. I have tried to get people to sit next to me as a shield, but invariably they get driven away by the very forces I am attempting to have them block. The result is always the same, he ends up in front of my seat, and I end up huddled together with my other neighbor. Thankfully, everyone is well aware of my struggle and very sympathetic to my plight, as evidenced by the international sign for “this motherfucker stinks, yo!” the waving of the hand in front of the pinched nostrils.
Gum you say? He won’t chew it. Mints? The offer only results in him exhaling the word no in my face. This is one instance when I am glad he has no manners because the extra syllables “thank you” would produce might do me in for good. He will, however, slurp a plate full of muscles down his hatch in my fucking ear, and gulp n’ gurgle a ginger ale so as he can burp over and over mere inches from my face. Yes. He’ll do that.
And body odor and greasy clammy hair and skin and unwashed sweater and everything else. But the fucking drive ol heck over the edge toward getting his pink slip and final paycheck coup de gras is when, over the last week or so, he developed what sounds terrifically like a tuberculosis induced hacking cough that when not merely blowing my hair around would actually rain little droplets of his mucus and saliva and whatever else comes out of his gizzard all over me. Yes. He did. On my fucking glasses even. The only time he would cover his mouth was when a particularly big gob was expelled into his hand and he had to shuffle off to the garbage can to dispose of it. I guess for him having his disease spray out all over the table and chips and cards is okay, but if it isn’t atomized into a fine mist he had better use his hands to directly smear it onto the community property in play. In his defense, though, there was one time when he was cleaning his glasses with a napkin at the same moment he started hacking up a lung and he did hold the loogie in his mouth till his specs were polished before spitting it into the napkin. That was considerate.
Don’t be surprised if I am the second case of bird pox in North America.