The Story of Douchebag Lewis

The story of Douchebag Lewis

The band came in and with them some a neckless, jowled ‘tard in a red polo shirt with all the charisma of a Texas cop.  His face looked like a stump.  The forcedly inverted smile pointed to his dull eyes housed under a unibrow and a bad haircut from the sopranos.

There’s a lot of uuuuughly Americans with uuuuugly attitudes greasing up some bland kmart polo shirt tucked into khaki slacks with yellow sweat.  We have all come here to not get picked on and Here comes Douchebag Lewis, who’s fashion sense hasn’t changed since the seventh grade.  Besides, it fits his company’s casual dress code.   He asked for a beer before we were open.  I asked him if he was with the band and he told me “Friend of the drummer.”  Yes, gullibility runs strong in me.

He didn’t tip.

People who don’t tip will one day get their legs broken by a crime boss thug.  My grip on a better-than-worse mood slipped loose like a bowling ball or rage. He opened the tab as soon as we did.  I practiced forgiveness through grinding teeth.  He ordered an eight-dollar drink and I marked him as “Douchebag Lewis” so my coworker, Tim, would know exactly who I referred to and probably find the name faster.  He smirked.

So Douchebag Lewis closes his tab, confused at how much money he spent.  This is common with the bafflingly underdeveloped.  It’s math.  Do it.  He didn’t want to, so he demanded Tim show him the drink tally sheet with his proud new title in black ink, the total circled and his tallies crossed out.  So Tim revealed what I assumed would never be seen and be discarded.  He knew my rage and I can only sympathize with what I see of myself in others.  The his cross and furrowed monobrow bent in the center while his jowly frown sagged deeper, both pointing to his crossed eyes buried in a fury-flush of fat flesh.  He didn’t say a word about his new nickname and inquired about the price.  Furious.

I get called over when the question arises.

“But you told me the drink was six.”

“I was trying to be nice.”  I said.

“Well it wasn’t very nice.” he said, trying with all his might not to be a Douchebag.  Well, it’s a start.  He was new to not being a Douchebag.  Of all the tabs I’ve written, I’ve never sassed one, except for this Douchebag.  No one demands to see the tally sheet.  Except for Douchebags. I thought god made me do it, but Douchebag Lewis did it to himself. I knew his rage and he knew my wrath.  His dull brown enraged bull eyes locked with my vacantly pleased pair.  He expected me to apologize.  I shrugged and walked away.  Maybe he’ll tip next time.


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