One saturday night rush while working at an establishment that used to
be known for it’s striped shirts and funny hats, I was standing in the
aisle writing down an order I had just taken, when I heard “County
Police! County Police!”
I look up to see a very large black man running straight at me holding
a shotgun. Deciding that this would be a most opportune time to move
out of the way, I stepped to the side and watched him run into the
bathroom. I turned to see a dozen or more cops, half in baclavas
storming into the crowded restaurant with guns drawn while the
extremely petite 17 year old hostess holds the door for them.
Immediately, my table of guys night out starts in asking me what’s
going on. I tell them I don’t know. Of course, by this point, every
server in the restaurant except me has disappeared from the dining
room, me being the only one not *ahem* “holding”, and needing to
immediately use the nearest available toilet.
One of my co-workers – a 6’7″ black guy – was in the bathroom stall,
which only had saloon doors, not your typical bathroom stall doors,
taking a one hit from his pipe when the shotgun toting cop busted in.
He of course hopped up on the toilet, pipe in hand, trying to hide all
6’7″ 250lbs behind these tiny doors while holding a pipe and lighter.
Ended up that they hauled out four customers and our barback in cuffs.
Apparently, there was a Ryder van full of weed in the parking lot, and
the deal was happening over some jalepeno poppers and bud light.
I finally told my guests that I figured out what was going on. I told
them someone under tipped.