British Power Tool

Who: Me, Mr. Power Tool (a bar patron), and indirectly another patron
What: Le Incident with a Power Tool
Where: Verlaine on the Lower East Side
When: Saturday Night
How: Words Were Exhanged, and I Held My Ground
Why: I Had British Power Tool to Crush and an Empty Table To Absorb

My peeps and I were rolled in 11 deep to this lounge called Verlaine on the Lower East Side. Not particularly my type of place because it's considered "hip" and I hate anything that attracts a huge crowd on this basis. Why? Because I simply have a low tolerance for people. Particularly, people who are tools. It was cold out, and a little bit inside by the door, and as a personal protest against the idea of beautiful people wanting to be seen, I left on my hideous fleece blue Old Navy ski hat with pon pom on top (I say pom pom but the word is technically "pon pom" whatevs). It's a stupid hat and I look dumb in it.

Protest.

Our party of eleven had to stand around for awhile waiting for a place to land, as Verlaine was quite crowded at the tables and the bar. With the exception of the large space in the front that had a few "beautiful people" and less people than signs on the table with "Reserved" on them. Since it was close to impossible to get close enough to the bar to order a drink, we figured we'd hover next to the tables, glancing like vultures do at a dying man in the desert, waiting to pounce. Five of us snagged a table for four along the wall which had a banquette (not to be confused with "baguette" which is a piece of bread. I did have a man ask to be seated at the "baguette" one time when I worked in a restaurant), and we sat down.

My friend is cozy with the owner of this joint, and since the table to our left appeared to be paying their check, she asked if we could have that table, to seat another portion of our party. The waitress agreed; she could tell we weren't teetotalers. As this two top (two men, two glasses of red) was dealing with their check, a woman was doing the Vulture Hover behind the man who was sitting in the chair with his back to her. They had a conversation about the table. I overheard her ask him if she could have it, as she was waiting on a friend. Our table began to panic.

"Tell her she can't have it," my friends said, "It's our table. The waitress said so. We're taking it." I'm not one for conflict, but I took a deep breath, and got involved.

Mr. Check Payer, aka British Power Tool, was now signing his tab. He looked up to the woman behind him and said a few words about how he'd let her sit. From the banquette, I said to the two of them, "Hi, yeah, um, I'm sorry, but that's our table."

British Power Tool: Excuse me?
Anne: We have a large party and the waitress told us we could have your table. Sorry. (I gave a sorry impish glance up to the woman with no seat)
British Power Tool: No, (in a phony British accent), I'm sorry, but you can't have this table.
Anne: But you don't work here.
British Power Tool: Well, maybe I don't, but it's still my seat, and I'm not giving it to you. I'm giving it to her.
Anne: But it's not yours to give. The waitress wants to make money, and her (gesturing to the woman) party hasn't even arrived yet. Sorry. (another impish glance with big sad eyes. pretty fake, however.)
British Power Tool: Then I'll stay until her guest arrives.
Anne: Knock yourself out. (at that point, his guest leaves my side of the banquette, and I slid over, facing Mr. British Power Tool, leaving no room for his new friend, whose honor and prospective table he was determined to defend.

Then he got up. We moved in. He left the building.

End of story.

They say that when you're a mother with a child who has somehow slipped under the tire of a parked car, you'll gather enough strength to flip over the car with your bare hands. I guess I found this deep down strength to battle the Britsh Power Tool to secure a table for eleven. I wonder if I gathered the strength for the love of my friends or because of the hate for this stranger. Probably a combination. Who the hell knows why he picked this fight on his end. Tool.

Post script: Incidentally, minutes later, the table for two at the end got up, and the broad sat down there. As soon as she did, her friend arrived.