It's been a while, my friends. I quit Waffle House about eight or nine days ago, and I currently work overnights at a local gas station. My old body simply couldn't handle the grind of ten-hour shifts.
I've decided to stop writing for now in order to concentrate on making videos. You can find me on Twitter. My handle is @wafflebaconboy. Stop by and say hello. God bless.
Yesterday, my mom had to go to the hospital for various geriatric tests. So my job was to stay at home to babysit her dogs. They are both stubborn…especially Julius. If you call him, he refuses to come. If you try to take him outside for a piss, he will growl and snap at you. And if you attempt to coax him with a tasty treat, he’ll simply turn up his nose like there’s a pile of shit in your hand.
But he’s an intelligent beast. Make no mistake about
it.
For instance, he was sitting on one of the chairs in
the den when I poked my head in.
I said, “Fuck you, Julius.”
And he barked at me. It’s almost like he could
understand what I said. I shit you not. Spooky, right?
I walked to the patio to smoke cigarettes and watch
YouTube videos. Lately, I’ve been very interested in the differences between
New Covenant theology and dispensationalism. New Covenant folk don’t believe in
the rapture or the necessity for the construction of a third temple whereas dispensationalists
think that the Jews are still God’s chosen people and play a vital role in the
return of Jesus Christ.
To that end, I watched several sermons by Chuck
Baldwin. They were very entertaining, and I highly recommend them. Do I agree
with the pastor? Well, that’s the wrong question. I’m an extremely pointy
five-point Calvinist who believes that the Lord holds complete sovereignty over
the entire universe. Therefore, God’s going to do what God’s going to do, so
why sweat the bullshit?
Mom returned at 3 p.m. with all kinds of punctures on
her arm.
I said, “Wow. They really used you as a pin cushion.”
“Well, it had to be done.”
“Is it good news or bad news?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Neither, really. I won’t
find out the results for a few days.”
“What were they checking for?”
She shrugged again. “Pretty much everything.”
Mom has great medical insurance. Therefore, she might
just live forever. Me, on the other hand? I’ve got nothing. But I don’t care.
It is what it is.
I looked at the old lady. “Do you want to go to
Walmart to spend my EBT money? We could buy some nice steaks and dedicate the
meal to Uncle Sam.”
She shook her head. “I’m too tired. Maybe tomorrow.”
Later that night, I drove to church by myself. Both of
my sons are a couple of pagans, and they now avoid Wednesday-night service like
the plague.
Anyway, the pastor talked about Daniel 11 and
the coming of the anti-Christ. This enemy of Jesus will have no interest in
women, and he’ll spend all his energy trying to accumulate global power. I
immediately thought of Hitler. In World War I, Adolf’s buddies used to call him
the woman-hater because he never had pussy on his mind.
On the way home, I stopped at the Dollar Store. I bought all kinds of sugary goodies and several bottles of Coke. It came to 41 bucks.
On Sunday night, I worked with a sixteen-year-old girl
named Mona. She told me some real disturbing facts about her life. Mom is a
bipolar alcoholic, and Dad is addicted to both crack cocaine and heroin. She’s
now an emancipated minor who lives in a trailer with one of her girlfriends.
I said, “Wow. That’s rough.”
“But I’m not going to let it hold me back. In fact, I
attend high school online, and I graduate next year.”
I nodded. “That’s great. Education is important.”
“I couldn’t make it in a traditional school. I kept
getting into fights with the teachers.”
A red flag immediately sprang up. “Fights? Do you mean
with your fists?”
She smiled at me. “Of course not. The most I ever did
was curse at them.”
“Why did you curse at your teachers?”
“Some of them would read my file aloud to the rest of
the students in the class. Just to humiliate me. Real freaky shit. They should
have been fired.”
Then another red flag popped up. I was a teacher in an
American high school for five years. And I just can’t see my former colleagues pulling
such a stunt. First of all, we never had access to the type of files she was
talking about. Secondly, you would have been terminated on the spot for such
poor behavior.
Then Mona discussed her future plans. “As soon as I get
my diploma, I’m joining the Marine Corp. My boyfriend is a Marine. He’s in
North Carolina.”
“The Marines. That’s great. They will certainly get you
into top physical shape.”
“I’m already in great shape. I run and lift weights
every day.”
I smiled at her. “That’s wonderful. It’s important to
be healthy. In fact, it might be the most important thing in the world.”
“Plus I don’t do drugs. I only smoke weed and drop
magic mushrooms. Oh, and I also vape. But that’s cool with the Marines. They
don’t test for mushrooms or weed. And they let you vape during boot
camp.”
For a moment, I thought about disabusing her of these
false notions. But I figured that there really wasn’t much of a point. After all, it’s her life, and she’ll have to
find this shit out on her own. However, I did warn her about psychedelic drugs.
I said, “They are very powerful, psychedelics. When I
was growing up, I knew a guy who thought he could fly. Then he jumped to his
death. He was on LSD at the time.”
Mona laughed out loud. “I never in a million years
thought I could fly. But one time I did feel like I was melting.”
“Melting’s not good.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m still alive. So fuck
it.”
Then a young man and his father walked into the
restaurant. They sat in my section, but Mona took them from me. Why? She could
sense that flirting with these two gentlemen might garner her a big tip. However,
I didn’t protest. I was too tired to care.
She served their food and talked with them for a good
thirty minutes. She did her best to be charming. She laughed at their jokes and
playfully swatted them on the arm when they became too cheeky. All this feminine
attention garnered her a whopping ten dollars.
When they left, she turned to me with a scowl on her
face. “Man, what a couple of losers. The old guy was trying to set me up with
his son. They even invited me to come over and swim at their pool.”
And that’s the thing about survivors of abuse and
neglect. Many of them seem cynical and predatory. They have a tendency to turn everybody
into a mark. And when they experience kindness, they view it as weakness. But
what do I know? I’m just a waffle boy.
Even though I’m a failed novelist, I still try to
write seven to eight thousand words a month so that my limited skills don’t
grow blunt. Lately, however, I’ve been suffering from this peculiar state of
extreme physical exhaustion. For instance, I often sleep up to fifteen hours a
day during my days off. I’m so tired that I don’t even jerkoff anymore. In
fact, I can’t remember the last time I watched porn. That’s how bad it’s
getting.
Anyway, I talked to my mom on Saturday evening.
She said, “You look terrible.”
“I feel terrible.”
“What’s the problem? Are you depressed?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I’m simply washed
out all the time.”
“Well, no fucking shit.”
“How do you mean?”
She sighed heavily. “You let that little slut
Pork-Chop Jane shit all over you, and now you’re doing the job of two people.
At your age!”
“What can I do?”
“Quit the fucking gig, or talk to the manager.”
“Well, I haven’t seen the manager in days, and when we
do cross paths, he’s usually too busy to have a conversation.”
Mom took a long swallow from her can of Coke. “Here’s my
strategy. Concentrate on your own responsibilities, and don’t lift a finger to
assist that rotten whore.”
“But you don’t get the full picture. The little slut lets
garbage pile up on her tables, and she rarely does a single dish. You should
see the state of the restaurant. It’s almost a health hazard.”
“That’s not your fucking problem. You do your job, and
she does hers.”
“What’s the manager going to say?”
“Fuck the manager, and fuck the horse he rode in on.”
So I decided to follow Mom’s advice. When I got to the
restaurant, I separated all the dirty plates and bowls into two separate piles—Jane’s
and mine. And then I let the filth accumulate in the little whore’s station
without lifting a hand.
Let me tell you something, my friends. It wasn’t easy.
One side of the establishment was so filthy that it could have gagged a maggot.
Yet I never lifted a finger to help. This allowed me to concentrate on the side
work. My side work, not hers. And I knocked it out in no time flat. So I
sat on my flabby ass for twenty minutes and wolfed down bacon and hash browns. The
experience was fantastic.
Meanwhile, Jane was out by the dumpsters smoking dope
with her friends. And the shit just kept piling up and up and up. The place
even began to smell. But perhaps that was my imagination. I’ve never enjoyed
being in a dirty environment. It’s always scunnered me. Messy is fine. But
unsanitary is a different matter.
The little slut eventually returned to the store and
looked in the dish pit.
She said, “You better get to work.”
There was fury in my eyes. “Girl, I’ve been counting
every plate and bowl since I’ve been here. And these belong to you.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “OK, I’ll do them. No big
fucking deal.”
I popped more bacon in my mouth. “Good girl.”
She gave me a dirty look. But that didn’t stop her
from finishing her duties. All of them. She made the tea. She cleaned the
bathroom. She dropped the sink. She cleared the dish pit.
And let me tell you something, my friends. Usually, I
feel like I’ve been crucified when the sun pops up. But today was different. I
actually had a little energy left in my body. It was glorious.
Yesterday, I had a weird dream in which I was dead. I
was standing on the side of the road under a streetlamp. A complete stranger
stood next to me. However, I couldn’t really see his face. All that I remember
is that he was extremely tall and skinny. He towered way above me.
I looked up at him. “Are we really dead?”
“Yes.”
“So what are we doing here?”
“Waiting.”
Soon, an ambulance came screaming down the boulevard
and stopped in front of us. Then an angry lesbian got out of the vehicle and
scowled at me.
She screamed, “Get in the back of the fucking
ambulance!”
I said, “Where are we going?”
She said, “Don’t worry about where you’re going. Just
get in the fucking back like I told you.”
And that’s what I did.
Now I was sitting next to the stranger, and a feeling
of joy came over me.
“I can’t believe we’re dead.” I grabbed his arm
affectionately. “No more fucking bullshit. We’re finally completely free.”
My alarm went off. It was seven p.m. This great wave
of disappointment spread throughout my body. I’d have to make it through
another day whether I wanted to or not.
Anyway, I don’t put too much stock into dreams. They’re
always a bunch of crap.
So moving on…
I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m., and my partners in
crime were Weepy Wanda and Pork-Chop Jane. The unit was packed to the
rafters, and many of my customers were teenagers. It was like teaching high
school again.
But I have to say that the kids were very respectful.
They kept calling me sir and Mr. Jack. Good for them. Yet young folk
aren’t greatest of tippers. However, I did my best to treat them with proper
respect. To that end, I brought them their waffles with a big stupid smile spread across my wrinkled visage and
told the children that it was a pleasure to serve them.
What the fuck else could I do? Throw the waffles at their
faces? Yes, my options were limited.
Needless to say, Wanda and Jane went outside to do
drugs. So grandpa was left to mind the fort and scrub the dirty dishes.
They both returned stoned out of their gourd. Jane sat
on her big ass and stuffed herself to the brim with hash browns and bacon.
Meanwhile, Wanda tried to help me out, but she was far too compromised to be of
much use. Instead, she played songs on the jukebox and sang along at the top of
her lungs. The customers got a real charge out of her antics. But I only felt
pity for her. The poor girl can be a real horse’s ass at times.
Wanda looked at me. “I know I’m very pretty. But I’m
actually extremely shy.”
I nodded in agreement. “Yes, you are the most
beautiful girl in Texas. I shit you not.”
“Well, I’m not that pretty. But I have no
problems attracting men.”
“I agree. I imagine that they never leave you alone.”
I went to the dumpster for a cigarette, and Jane’s
creepy boyfriend was sitting on a milkcrate waiting for his nightly free
dinner. The mere sight of him filled me with hateful bile.
And that’s when I decided that enough is enough. I’m
no longer going to protect Jane or Wanda. When the manager asks about their behavior,--which
he does from time to time—I’m simply going to tell him the truth. They’re a
couple of stoners who refuse to work.
Am I a snitch? Who fucking cares? It’s not really
about that. I’m simply tired of getting played for a fool.
I ended up making $270 for the shift. Yet it wasn’t
worth the work I had to put in for the cash. I spent hours over that dish pit
like a dimwitted coolie in a mining camp while those two hoochie mamas had the
times of their lives. Well, the bullshit stops now.
I got to the Waffle House at 9 p.m. Weepy Wanda was
standing over the sink and on the verge of tears. She tried to hold them back,
but it wasn’t long till she burst like a damn.
I patted her on the shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I was busy during
my shift, and now I have to drive home. It takes me almost forty minutes.”
“So it’s the commute that’s got you down?”
“I’m not sure. I just get this way sometimes.”
After the manager left, she walked to her SUV to smoke
pot. Dwayne the Dwarf and Pork-Chop Jane went with her. They burned dope for
the next twenty minutes.
But Wanda’s mood swings didn’t keep the customers
away. On the contrary. They kept coming and coming and coming. You assholes
have to remember one thing. This is the 4th of July weekend, and all
the white trash love their hash browns. So we were fucking slammed.
Benson, the slowest cook in the world, was the only
guy at the grill. And he was going nuts.
“Where the fuck is Dwayne?”
I said, “He’s outside getting high.”
“That’s just fucking great.”
I tried to call out an order, but he told me to hold
my fucking horses. That’s when I thought about punching the little punk right
in the mouth. However, I suddenly remembered that I’m quickly approaching sixty
years of age. And there’s no fucking way I’d be able to take a kid in his early
twenties. Therefore, I decided to cool my engines.
I said, “OK, Benson. No need to get your panties in a
bunch. Just tell me when you’re ready.”
He shot me the stink eye. “My panties aren’t in a
bunch.” Then he paused for dramatic effect. “Man, I hate this fucking job.”
Unlike Benson, I don’t hate working at Waffle House. I
find it to be great exercise. I’m constantly running around to get all my tasks
completed. And I think that it might actually improve my health. Plus the money
isn’t terrible. I look at it this way. At least I’m not slinging hash in
Djibouti. Things could always be worse.
Later that night, I had two booths filled with
Mexicans. They ran up a bill of $110 dollars and paid in cash. The guy handed
five bucks. Needless to say, I was crestfallen after looking at the mess they
left behind. I didn’t even say goodbye when they departed.
But as I was cleaning up their slop, I noticed a crisp
twenty-dollar bill pinned under the salt-and-pepper shakers. It made me feel a
little guilty. I thought they had screwed me, but it turned out that they had
followed the social convention of 20 percent.
This gig tends to make a guy a little greedy.
Tomorrow, I’ll do my best to be friendly to everyone. Even the deadbeats.
Yet the biggest surprise that happened during my shift
was Pork-Chop Jane. She actually spent most of her time inside the
building, and she kept up with the majority of her tasks. You could have
knocked me over with a feather. It was nice not having to do everything…which
is usually the case when she’s my partner in crime.
Overall, the night went OK. I made $270 for ten hours
of work.
I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m., and the place was
crowded. So I hit the floor right away, taking an order for a pain-in-the-ass
family of three. Trust me. These were some off-the-menu motherfuckers. Dad
wanted his hash browns light. And Mom wanted her waffle light. And the boy said
he didn’t want eggs even though he ordered an All-Star Breakfast.
But I gave them a joyful smile and patiently explained
their instructions to Dwayne the Dwarf. And, to his credit, he did what I told
him to do without handing me any sass. So all’s well that ends well. Plus they
left me a fifteen-dollar tip…which is pretty nice. However, I had to hustle for
every last penny. Being a waiter isn’t a job which allows you to keep your
dignity. I’m one tiny step above a stripper.
With that said, the money kept falling from the trees.
People were passing out twenty-dollar bills like they were candy. In fact, my
biggest tip of the night was forty bucks, and I barely did a thing for the
table. I guess it all comes down to luck.
Yet money isn’t free. When you have a shitload of
customers, the dishes start piling up in the sink. And you don’t have the time
to knock them out because you’re too busy waiting on tables.
At one a.m., I took some trash back to the dumpster.
And you should have witnessed what I saw. A group of ten teenagers were huddled
in a circle smoking dope and swapping stories. And who was their ringleader?
You guessed it. Pork-Chop Jane.
Needless to say, I was filled with fury. And when she
came back inside, I gave her a piece of my mind.
She said, “Are you doing OK, Jack?”
I shot her the stink eye. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I’ve
been tied to this wonderful dish pit for the last two hours. And meanwhile you
and your friends have created your very own private opium den. What could be
better?”
“Then take yourself a break. Jesus, man, what’s your
fucking problem. Do have hemorrhoids or something?”
“No, I don’t have hemorrhoids, and you are free to do
all the drugs you want. As long as it’s on your time.”
“You need a chill pill. You’re getting old, Jack.
Getting old.”
“Look, I might be a geezer. But it doesn’t take a
genius to figure out that you’re playing me for a fool. I’m in here slaving
away while you’re outside getting high.”
And for the first time in my brief Waffle-House career,
I thought about going to the manager. Working with potheads isn’t the easiest
thing in the world. They break shit. They forget stuff. They never keep up with
their work. And all their responsibilities land squarely on the uptight sober
assholes.
But I’m not a squealer. It simply isn’t in my DNA.
Plus Pork-Chop told me about her rotten life, and it broke my heart. Her
parents are dirt poor. She dropped out of school during Covid. She can’t afford
a car, so she has to ride everywhere on a bike. And the kid is only nineteen
years old.
Anyway, our conversation left me with a lot of guilt
pangs. I’m certainly not going to drop a dime on a child. Heaven forbid. But I
will continue to ride her ass until I get adequate work-place production. I’ll
be damned if I’ll grind my fingers to the bone to keep her in cupcakes. Fuck
that shit.
In spite of the drama, the night was a financial
success. I ended up making $280.
