There were only four of us on this particular excursion. We were on our way to Bathurst and the motor-bike races. We ride bikes. Very nice ones, too, but that doesn't make us Hell's Angels or similar. People tend to see bike riders and think, "No good bikies," watching us suspiciously.
We wear helmets and you can't see our faces? Ah, there is this little matter of road laws that we have to follow, and they include one specifying helmets. What, we're dressed in black leather? If you hit the road, leather is a wonderful thing to be wearing. Are you suggesting we should wear white? Just how long do you think our leathers would stay white? It's discrimination, is what it is. My day job? I'm a lawyer. Funny, isn't it. A profession that gets even more wisecracks than bikies. I guess I'm just a glutton for punishment.
Seeing it was fairly late we pulled up at a diner, wanting a break and a meal before we found a motel to spend the night. We took a table and politely waited for the waitress. And waited. She wasn't coming.
When I went to inquire as to what the problem was the waitress bluntly told me that she had no intention of serving us.
"Why the hell not?" I demanded.
"Bikies are trouble makers," she flatly stated. "I suggest you go elsewhere. I'm not serving you."
I demanded to see someone from management and the cook came strolling out. I demanded to know why we couldn't get service. We were just sitting quietly, not making any trouble, and expected the same service any other member of the public would get.
"Um, yeah, mate, I get your point, but Tina don't like bikies. I guess you'd better move on," I was told.
"There again, you can over-rule her, tell her to pull her finger out, and start serving customers."
The cook was slowly shaking his head, so I continued.
"Alternatively, I and my friends can step outside and set up a legal picket line, explaining to all potential customers that this place is discriminatory and they might get better service elsewhere. How many customers, do you think, will cross a picket line of bikies? And the police won't help as long as we confine our activities to public property."
I smiled gently while the cook considered this. We could totally destroy his night's takings and, if the media got onto the story, possibly his reputation.
"OK," Cookie said, "but any nonsense and I'll call the cops and have you run off. Tina, serve the gentlemen. They're just standard customers."
Tina served us, but with a very bad grace. She was rude and abrupt. Still, she managed to get the orders correct, though this was offset to a certain extent by the way she almost threw the meals onto the table.
Despite her hostility I enjoyed the meal. The cook was quite good and the meal was tasty, nourishing, and plentiful. This still didn't really lower my resentment at the way the waitress was acting. That came to a head when we asked for coffee.
You can toss a plate with a meal down onto the table and unless you're really careless all that happens is that the food bounces about a bit. You try the same trick with a cup of coffee and see what happens. Tina slapped my coffee forcefully down in front of me and at least half the contents splashed out onto the saucer and the table. Not on me, as I scooted backwards, fast.
"Clever girl," I said. "Now I suggest you wipe up the damn mess, take away that cup and come back with another cup of coffee, placing it on the table properly."
"Fuck you," she snarled. "You know what you can do with your coffee and your suggestion."
As far as I was concerned she was just going that little bit too far. I didn't know what her problem was and I didn't greatly care. It was her problem, not ours, and she had no right to subject us to her bad attitude. I guess it was just a trifle unfortunate that when I jumped back out of the road of the splashing coffee I also stood up. Unfortunate for Tina, that is, because she was standing there in easy reach.
I reached out and caught her arm and jerked on it, forcing her to suddenly bend over the table. I used one hand to lift up the back of her skirt and hold it against her back, pinning her in place with the same movement. I wasn't intending to molest her so I didn't try to pull down her panties, tempting though it was. There again, her panties were so abbreviated that most of her bottom was on display.
I smacked her bottom, hard. Not just a single slap but half a dozen firm spanks, then I was jerking her upright again while I sat down. The diner wasn't very busy and we were seated to one side, reasonably secluded. I don't think that anyone else in the diner even knew what happened.
"Now, dear girl, I suggest you get on and do your damn job, and do it politely. You can start by replacing my coffee."
She looked furious, but then again, she'd already been angry with us. She looked daggers at me, turned, and went for more coffee. I didn't think she'd complain to the cook. Altogether too embarrassing to admit what had happened, especially as she was largely at fault. She finished up serving the rest of the meal politely, although I could feel the metaphoric daggers in my back every time she looked my way.
We departed with no more problems, and were lucky enough to find a motel with vacancies a little further down the road. We clowned around for a while at the motel and I finally retired to my room. Apart from slinging my things into it I hadn't really paid much attention to it. Now I found something missing. For some reason there were no pillows on the bed.
I did a quick check of the cupboards but nary a pillow to be found. A nuisance, but not a disaster. I just rang through to the reception and suggested that a pillow or two might be a good idea. They seemed to think this was quite reasonable and said they'd send a couple over.
Shortly after that there was a knock on the door and Tina, of all people, walked in, carrying a pair of pillows.
"Oh, you again," I grunted, "Just leave the pillows on the table. Good night."
She looked rather startled. Despite the attitude, she was a very good-looking young woman, and she wouldn't have many men address her so abruptly.
"Ah, excuse me. Is there a problem?" she asked.
"Just your attitude," I pointed out. "Why you choose to work as a waitress when you treat your customers like that is beyond me."
"I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about," she said indignantly. "It wasn't my fault the pillows were missing and I have fetched you some."
"I meant your attitude at the diner," I pointed out. "Not exactly an example of positive customer relations."
