Pee

My first customer that Wednesday was running his hand up and down my back like he was stroking a cat. I had asked for his reservation and as I checked the iPad for his dumb last name (sorry, Gleck just sounds dumb to me), he dragged his fingers from my back across my ribs toward my boobs so I kept my arms pinned to my sides as a barrier. It worked. There would be no boob grazing for you, Mr. Gleck. He clutched my arm as if that’s where his hand had meant to land or out of a deep subconscious hope that an earthquake might jolt us and his hand could “innocently” touch some tit. 

I would soon see, though, that Gleck was actually the tamest of the bunch. The arrival of his buddies as they approached the restaurant sounded something like human bumper cars colliding. Right before they entered I could make out, BOOM MUTHAFUCKA YOU SUCK! LOOK AT THAT SHIT I LOVE IT!  There was a look on Gleck’s face like he wanted to apologize or at least warn me that I should escape. Six massive men in their late 20’s came in. I would say they looked like they took steroids but actually their freakish size was more in a comic book vein. Like they had been bitten by a supernatural bug that gave them necks like tractor tires and chests as wide as coffee tables. My mind raced with all the ways I might be harmed that evening. No longer did I fear the standard ass grab or grope, because I now I pictured myself being crushed, a Princess Leia to their Jabba the Hutt. I imagined any one of them after too many shots wanting to see how high I could be thrown in the air and my head splitting open against a ceiling beam. 

I work at Seki Sushi in the West Village which everyone calls Sexy Sushi. The owner, Seki, a Japanese chef in his late 60’s, came to New York in the early 80’s when Times Square was all peep shows and porn shops and decided America was all about the T&A and he wasn’t entirely wrong. The obvious description that everyone makes even in Yelp reviews is that Seki’s is like Hooters but with sushi. But this comparison is lazy. You can take kids to Hooters. You can’t take kids to Seki’s. Picture your city’s institutional dive bar or strip club whose heyday was 25 years prior and throw in some salmon cream cheese maki rolls and you start to get the picture. The running joke is that if you run your finger along the top of the toilet you can collect enough cocaine residue to numb your mouth. We don’t have any actual stripping here but it’s not for Seki’s lack of prodding. There’s a tiny platform where the DJ is and throughout the night Seki will take a waitress by the hand and lead her around the restaurant like he’s showing off a prized stallion and drop her off at the platform. Once there the girl will stare at the DJ’s equipment and act really into whatever song is being played for about 30 seconds and then run back to her drunk customers who want more sake or Sapporos. 

Gleck and his crew had come in around 5pm that day. It’s fairly standard to have an early rush at the restaurant usually around 6 or 7 because Seki’s isn’t really a place you want to spend your night, more your pre-game, but 5 was surprisingly early, it was still light out. I could only pray they wanted some quick drinks before terrorizing a more decent place but they started shouting numerous food and drink orders while being seated so I could tell they were going to settle in. Gleck, his first name was Jonathan per his credit card, was the employer of some sort for these giants or at least they kept calling him “bawss.” He was normal sized, around 5’10” with a slight dad bod and wearing an oxford dress shirt and beige dress pants. There was such a juxtaposition in appearance and manner between Gleck and the enormous men with him that it was like they were his dogs that he had to take out for feeding or they might devour someone.

The DJ must’ve been in the bathroom when this group came in so Seki jumped behind the equipment and cranked up the tunes to which one of the men responded with a loud YES! Another slapped the table three times with his palm like he wanted to see if he could break it. For such being such big men they seemed to have boundless energy. Gleck stayed staring at his phone, but his guys were in a constant state of motion. One would stand up, pick up a piece of sushi, drop it in his mouth and do pelvic thrusts. Another would get up and signal for a round of shots and pump his fist as if he had accomplished something. Life was great for them and honestly I wish I could experience such a simple state of joy. Things soon turned dark though, as they were bound to -- there’s only so much alcohol one can consume, no matter how gigantic your liver, before the glimmer of “fun” fades. It started, of all things, with selfies. One of the bros, his name Eric, wanted to take epic selfies, almost like he was channeling his forefathers piling themselves into telephone booths 50 years earlier. Eric yanked a waitress onto his lap and yelled out to no one or everyone, take a picture take a picture. No one did, so Eric pulled out his own phone and started taking selfie after selfie with the waitress. Each time he’d up the ante, giving her a kiss on the cheek, then holding her up in the air, a stuffed animal he’d won at the country fair. 

The waitress wasn’t one of the Asian girls, fortunately, so I knew she would be less frightened but the sheer size of these men and the amount of alcohol in their systems made them dangerous. I went up and stood in front of Eric as he held the waitress aloft. I felt like a parent waiting for their child to put down an object he shouldn’t be holding, a glass vase, or in this case, a twenty-six-year-old Peruvian pharmacy student from Queens. Here her name is Monica but in real life it’s Yeslin. In the era of social media all the waitresses at Seki’s have to have work names because the stalking is real. Eric gave me the phone and said take a picture take a picture. Then he threw Monica/Yeslin over his shoulder and flexed his biceps and let out a growl like he was taping a promo for the WWE. His table cheered. One of the brutes had asked for a champagne bottle with the cork still in it and then proceeded to sabre it with his watch as if he was on the bow of a yacht in the Med. Chunks of glass flew and the yachtsman sprayed everyone with champagne, holding the bottle in front of his crotch as if he was pleasuring cum-hungry nymphs in the final seconds of a porno. I snapped several pictures of Eric with Monica/Yeslin, making pronounced gestures of my finger pointing and pressing the phone’s screen and then exclaimed “great!” with enough emphasis to indicate the photo shoot was done and he should put her down. He did so while cupping her butt in his hands. 

I handed Eric the phone and whipped around to go comfort Monica/Yeslin but Eric placed a paw on my shoulder and pulled me into him. Uh uh, our turn! He draped his arm across my chest, his hand on my right boob and thrust his crotch into my butt while holding his phone out in front. I was no longer faking a smile. In the smartphone screen I could see my eyes were wide with both rage and fear and my nostrils were flared like a bull’s. I wanted to kick my foot back into his balls and race away but even in that fantasy I doubt my foot would have done anything against this cement-like physique. Perhaps sensing my disgust Eric put his lips to my ear and said, you’re so fucking sexy. I got calm and went nuclear. It had been a long time since I resorted to this, the last time was 3 months ago on July 4 in Coney Island for the hot dog eating contest. I was smashed in with thousands in front of the stage when I felt a hand between my legs. I had on a short skirt that day so I feared whoever this was would enter me. I made him, the Coney Island creep, shit himself. I heard his groan and then mumblings of revulsion at the stench by those around him. The hand instantly retracted and the creep left, the crowd quickly swallowing the space he had occupied. 

With Eric I wouldn’t make him poop just pee. I got calm and leaned back into his chest and closed my eyes and smiled. Eric began sucking on my neck when he stood up straight and backed away from me and said WHAT THE FUCK? DID YOU SPILL SOME SHIT? He could see I had no drinks in my hand so his eyes darted around to see if one of his boys had played a fraternity prank. I focused on his crotch and made the pee continue, emptying his bladder completely so that not only did he soil his jeans but a pool formed on the floor around his Gucci sneakers. I wanted him to experience urinating on himself uncontrollably in front of another human, me. We locked eyes and he pushed me out of the way and bolted. I went over to Gleck and told him Eric and peed himself and that we would have to charge a clean-up fee. He looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language at first and then nodded softly like it made sense. For a moment I pondered making Gleck and the other five beasts piss themselves just to clear them out in one fell swoop. But Gleck quickly handed me a black credit card and said to charge him as I saw fit. 

Their tab was a little over $700, so I made it a clean $1000 with a twenty percent tip on top. The news had spread among them. Eric pissed himself yo! For real? Damn! That kid’s crazy. They trooped out, well-buzzed and well-fed. Seki went to turn down the music then brought out a mop. I started to sop up Eric’s pee, it was a small but special puddle, and heard the music go back up. Monica/Yeslin was on the tiny DJ platform, a broken champagne bottle in hand, staring intently at the DJ equipment and bobbing her head.