Here We Come A-Karening
I am conflicted with the bastardization of ‘Karen’ in the new general lexicon of slur slang. I know a couple Karens. One of which is of my most favorite people. My aunt and concert cohort.
And yet, here I am writing about women who totally, and stereotypically, fit the description of … a wild pack Karens.
But first I have to put in you the right frame of mind preceding our Karening. I have to tell you about our friends from across the Atlantic.
A young man from West Africa, specific country not important as this isn’t about making generalizations, comes up to the entrance and checks his pockets for his ID. Moves some money from pocket to pocket before settling in on the right amount of cash-to-wallet ratio, finds the card and heads inside.
Minutes later, two black men show up. Resemblance isn’t quite there until the older of the two men motions to the door saying “My son.” OK. So, his son is the man I let in a few minutes ago. I presume the other man with him is another son, later confirmed. The older man is in his mid 60s and the other is my age. The man inside the bar is 23.
The elder is wearing a blue shirt and jeans, carrying a large red backpack and another white bag filled with light blue plastic bags. The grocery store kind. Filled. To the brim. No idea why. It’s never explained.
The elder sits and keeps motioning to the door, “My son! Peace. Peace. My son! Peace. My son!”
It’s strange.
What’s more strange is the man my age attempting to stumble past me. Light blue button up shirt, latex gloved right hand, left hand holding a Steele Reserve.
Steele Reserve os basically malt liquor meets lager you find in gas stations that receive the majority of their sales from people with Skoal rings on their jeans.
The Michael Jackson of PPE takes enough of a hint to go outside the gate and set his Steele Reserve down. Granted, he’s still not getting in because he’s hammered, but he gets a point in his favor as the gesture is the only bit of common courtesy this family showed the bar during their short visit.
I ask the elder if he wants me to go and get his son.
I walk inside and ask the younger man if he wants to go to his father outside. He isn’t warm to the idea. I relay the information to the elder before I spot our gloved friend drinking some water on a neighboring patio.
Oh, good. He’s sobering up.
Oh no.
No.
No, no, no.
That water was not meant for him.
Because it’s water placed in a bowl on the pavement.
For dogs.
He was drinking dog water.
And then he vomited profusely.
Around the second wave of gastrointestinal undulations, I hear the call from inside. The young one needs to go. Apparently he was rapping to the wall and invading people’s space. But by the time I escort him outside, the elder and his other son are gone. Disappeared.
Or, so I thought.
Peanut arrived a couple hours after this event and was talking with Big Mac about what happened inside. I try to tell them both that what happened outside was much worse. As I’m doing this, the elder walks up to all three of us.
Wearing a full charcoal grey suit.
No more white bag, still with a red backpack, though, and his were pants unzipped and unbuckled. He threw his debit card on the ground while trying to fish out his ID. Then he accused us of illegally harboring his son — who we already kicked out.
This was a shock and awe campaign not witnessed since the 2003 bombing of Baghdad.
Soon after the sun fell and people started filling up tables
Working at bars and restaurants during COVID have two modes — abject tedium and the rapid acceleration of service until a merciful end.
We were already in the middle of our acceleration when eight women requested a table. Five in their late 40s and early 50s. The other three were post-graduate age. Our indoor tables seat six. Outside it was.
I had to maneuver some tables and chairs to get the right setting before I told them one of our bartender’s was going to be in charge of serving their table. And to wait patiently.
After limiting our table availability, our place is now full. We have a group of two and and group of three waiting in line (a far cry from the lines of old) but everyone is amenable.
Our bartender, Electro, is heading toward the patio.
He has a paper and pen handy to take everyone’s order.
“Let’s start with the head of the table and go around,” he said to the group.
The first sign of Karening isn’t hard to miss. It’s essentially deftly defying the simplest of orders that doesn’t suit your world view. The table starts talking over each other, loudly.
“Alright, ladies, one at a time, please,” Electro said.
The battle was lost before he even knew how to defend himself.
After taking their orders, on separate tabs no less, he spends a few minutes making drinks, walks back outside, passes them around. He’s surprised that half the table is ready to cash out.
Electro obliges and heads back inside.
MegaKaren motions for me to come over to the table. She asks me why their server is so rude.
“Well, miss, I don’t believe he’s trying to be,” I said. “It’s a busy night. Are the drinks bad?”
“No, the drinks are fine, but it’s his attitude,” chimes StarsKaren. “It’s really off-putting because he’s basically yelling at us every time he walks out here.”
Electro has been outside twice. When he wants to get my attention he’ll usually use a flashlight instead of raising his voice. Big Mac is our yeller.
GalvaKaren now wants her say in the matter.
“Don’t leave him a tip,” she tells the younger women. “He gets zero because this has been the worst experience by far.”
Seriously? You’re going to leave the only person serving you, outside, in 85+ degree heat no tip because you think he was rude after he just wanted you to tell him drink orders for eight people — which were all correct and tasted as they should — in an orderly fashion?
One of the DeceptiKarens needed a cigarette as Electro came back and handled tabs, now for all people at the table. As soon as the door shuts, it’s back to the Karening.
“He was terrible!” ShocKaren proclaims to anyone in earshot. “I’m recently divorced with three kids and I don’t deserve to be treated like this!”
“He was our bartender and I thought he was nice,” said a woman sitting with her friend at the only other table on the patio. “He did a good job.”
ShocKaren responded in the most dignified manner. Just kidding, she went full tilt.
Putting her mask in chinstrap mode, she took a puff of a Virginia Slim, leaned toward the young woman and exclaimed, “Quit giving me the stink eye, BITCH!”
Like an umpire ejecting an unruly manager, I took my left hand and swung it high and tight, motioning for the group to GTFO.
Calling our bartender rude, an opinion. Yelling at me about general distaste, a common occurrence. Calling another customer a bitch because you weren’t treated like Queen of the Dive Bar? Unacceptable.
Shouting ensued. I may have said there was a reason she was divorced. More shouting followed. The AutoKarens left a tip for Electro and an apology note on the back of their receipt.
Tables were reset. A woman had an anecdote to share for the rest of her life. Eight women had a few more hours to wreck someone else’s good spirits.
One night, accelerating until a merciful end.
