While hiding out in Tampa, Florida from my girlfriend’s connected family*, nursing a broken wrist, I couldn’t play guitar and was forced to work at a TGI Fridays. Needless to say, I wasn’t a very good waiter. To this day it’s the only other job I’ve ever had since I was 20.
This is what got me fired after 3 weeks.
Lady: “Waiter, is the de-caf coffee done by the chemical method, or by the reverse osmosis method? I have (she whispers) Cancer, and strict diet guidelines.
Me: “Um, I’m not sure, but either way it’s most-likely a (I whisper) carcinogenic.”
Lady: “Well, I’m already very sick and I “don’t want to make it worse. Could you find out?
Me: “If you’re already sick, it probably doesn’t matter; have the de-caf and live a little.”
Author’s note*: To this day I’m nervous about telling the story of the Rich Italian Girl and the Poor Irish Troubadour and what happened to the Troubadour’s wrist in the parking lot of the Crackerbox Palace in Kingston, PA after a gig.
