SETTING: A dark, busy dining room in a nameless metropolis. The handsome-yet-haggard mystery man slips into his trench-coat, picks up his umbrella, and makes his way towards the door. He's had enough of this gin-joint for one night. He is brooding, some thought or revelation weighing upon his mind. Outside the air is humid, the streets wet, and the skies heavy...not unlike the man's soul. He turns his back towards the camera and walks away as if to exit, then changes his mind, turning suddenly back around.
MYSTERY MAN: (to the vapid blonde waitress) Excuse me...K-uhr-sten?
WAITRESS: Yes sir?
MYSTERY MAN: I just wanted to tell you...(dramatic pause)
WAITRESS: Yes? Sir, what is it?
MYSTERY MAN: You're the worst waitress I've ever had.
He turns, makes his way towards the door, and slips out into the evening, leaving the befuddled, but strangely intrigued waitress in his wake.
Perhaps that's how the man at Table 48 imagined the scenario tonight. I'm fairly confident that he was unhappy from the moment his party sat down. They were seated at a fairly small three-top -- in reality the table was fine, it's just that his sense of entitlement was too big. They looked awkward and uncomfortable from the moment I offered them drinks. Then later, when they waved me down to tell me they were ready to order, they seemed oblivious the the fact that I was holding six dirty glasses and a plate and would have no means with which to write down their stupid order -- hence my decision to say, "I'll be right with you folks." Presumably all of these things conspired against me to cast me in the role of "worst waitress ever."
Since the entitled man called me by name, it seemed only fair that I write down his and google him when I got home tonight. He's kept his image a secret so I can't be sure, but I'm fairly certain he spends his days ah-nalyzing fil-uhm as a professor (currently working towards his doctorate) from high up in one of Boston's ivory towers. Good for him, as his pink shirt, weird man sandals, and utter lack of charisma make him decidedly un-film-worthy. And as we all know, those who cannot do teach.
I supposed the Mystery Man/Film Professor thought he was being the big man when he ceremoniously told me as he was leaving that I was "the worst waitress he'd ever had." But the line fell flat, his felt exit rapid and forced. He literally ran for the door before I could engage him in conversation about his comment, making the cutting and honest line sound whiny.
The supporting actresses in the scene weren't doing the Mystery Man/Film Professor any favors, either. They were moderately icy, forgettable brunettes who exuded about as much personality and intrigue as two pieces of cardboard.
Overall, I'd say the Mystery Man should stick to the role of film professor -- and leave dramatic scenes filled with witty dialogue to the pros. Like my gay friends.
Rating: Two Thumbs DOWN