“I’m not legally obligated to pay you,” a customer tells me in the VIP room after I’ve spent about twenty minutes to a half hour with him. He is right. I think. I’m already so pissed and tremendously irritated but don’t show it. “Of course not!” I say, “but we agreed that you would and it would be very nice if you did.” He has the money in his hand and he says something like, “You want this money to be yours but I’m not going to make that happen,” and goes on about how “legally” he doesn’t have to pay.
I’m so angry, understanding that I’m not getting a cent. I stand up from the couch we’re both sitting on and he stands up too. He is in front of me and my back is to the wall. He keeps telling me how much he likes me. I hate him. I’m not only slightly drunk, I’m ready to punch him. I’m sober enough to contemplate the repercussions of an outburst of violence and my face feels like it’s burning. “Just get the f**k out of here” I tell him. As he starts walking out, I stick my foot out to trip him. I feel his shin hit my leg through my black knee high boots. And maybe I shouldn’t trip people but there are so many times I wish I would have done much worse. And I’m so proud of myself.
He doesn’t hit the floor because he lacked the momentum. He stumbles some and then calls me out. “You just tried to trip me!” I deny it. “You’re drunk,” I tell him. He gets in my face and I’m still just happy that I tried. I am on my way out of the dark room and he follows me. At the door, he tells the bouncer what happened. The bouncer says he didn’t see it happen. “He’s drunk,” I tell the bouncer. My friend, the bouncer, agrees. The customer (Is he really a customer if he didn’t spend any money?) makes a stink about it. In a very, I’m-owed this-and-I’m-owed-that tone he keeps complaining to the bouncer, who cares less and less about what the guy says. “Go f**k yourself” I tell the customer before I walk away.
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