Saturday Night

 

(There'll be war and rumors of war.)

I got up at 6 p.m. and walked to the kitchen for supper. My mother served me a hamburger, and it tasted damn good. Meanwhile, Nurse Ken was sitting at the counter.

I said, “I listened to Steve Bannon’s podcast the other day. He thinks that Orange Donald has come to his senses and isn’t going to attack Iran.”

Ken said, “Well, Bannon’s full of shit because we just bombed their nuclear sites.”

I shook my head in disdain. “No fucking kidding? Well, I guess Trump knows what he’s doing. The guy has great instincts.”

“Horseshit. Soon we won’t be able to afford gasoline.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “What are you going to do? It’s like Jesus said during the Olivette discourse. There will be wars and rumors of war. But these are merely birthing pangs.”

Ken was disgusted by my words and went into a huge tirade against the Jews. He believes that all our politicians are controlled by the Zionists. But he doesn’t understand white people. We love money and power, and no Jew is going to tell us what to do…unless we can cash in.

Gradually, his argument became more ridiculous. He told me that I was forced to work at the Waffle House because of the Jews.

I said, “Are you fucking crazy? You’re going to pin this on Bibi?”

“Bibi controls our shitty economy.”

I pointed at him with my index finger. “You’re the reason I work at the Waffle House. Bibi’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You iced me out for six months and wouldn’t speak to me until I returned from Korea.”

This left him speechless because he knew it was true.

Anyway, I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m., and the manager wanted to speak to me out by the dumpsters.

He said, “How did yesterday go?”

I nodded. “Pretty good. We did a lot of business.”

“I heard that there was some conflict between the staff. Lots of yelling and screaming.”

I shot him a big toothy grin. “Honestly, I never even noticed. When you have a big crowd, it can get a tad stressful. But it seemed just like every other shift.”

And I wasn’t lying. The overnight situation is perpetually fucked up. But what do I care? I just work there and collect my pay. Plus I have other fish to fry.

Benson was the main grill operator, and his cooking skills seem to degenerate on a daily basis. If possible, he was even slower than the night before. Plus he kept dropping eggs on the floor because he doesn’t know how to flip them in the pan.

I tried to remain positive. “That’s OK, my young friend. You’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

Then I helped him make the toast.

I’m not sure if Radiohead got fired. But as bad as that lunatic was, she looks like Julia Child next to this fucking moron.

Then the kid burned himself on the grill and ran screaming out the back door. So I had to wake up Dwayne the Dwarf, which is never a pleasant task.

He shot me the stink eye and climbed out of the booth. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

And like a hero in a movie, he strode into the kitchen and saved the day.

Dwayne has a ton of skill. He can prepare an order for four people faster than it takes me to grill a waffle. I shit you not.

I ended up making $230 for the shift. And I only had to write eighteen tickets. Good for me.

Friday Night

 

(Dwayne the Dwarf is driving me crazy.)

On Friday evening, I finally found out the results of Rice-Boy Larry’s SAT exam. He scored a 1440 which puts him at the 95 percentile of all the deadbeats applying for universities throughout the nation.

He looked at me with glee in his eyes. “I fucking told you!”

“Told me what?”

“That I’m smart. But you refused to believe me. Well, here’s the fucking proof.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “What’s the perfect score for an SAT exam?”

“1600.”

“Then what are you fucking smiling about?”

In all honesty, there’s no way on God’s green earth that I could pull a result like that. But Rice-Boy is a motivated student. Always has been. In Korea, he used to stay up all night to get good grades in school.

Nurse Ken, on the other hand, is more like me. I think he got a 1290 if my memory serves me correctly. However, he just rolled out of bed without any preparation whereas his younger brother really burnt the midnight oil. To each their own.

I’m hoping that Rice-Boy can get into the University of Texas at Austin. Yet that’s a real stretch. If not, he’ll just have to settle for Texas A and M.

I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. My partners in crime were Pork-Chop Jane, Georgia the Waffle Princess, and Dwayne the Dwarf. We also had a new grill operator named Benson. He’s only 20 years old. And let me tell you something. This guy can’t cook a fucking thing. He’s as green as grass.

As soon as the boss was gone, Dwayne crawled into one of the booths and fell asleep. He made the new kid handle all the orders. And it was fucking chaos. All the servers had to help him out. My contribution to the cause was toast.

I turned to Georgia the Waffle Princess. “Is that old rotten motherfucker going to sleep all night?”

“I’m not sure. But maybe he’s sick.”

“Sick? My ass. He’s probably on fucking drugs.”

“You don’t know that for sure. And there’s no point in starting rumors.”

Her advice was sound. And I really don’t care if he’s hopped up on narcotics. It’s just that he’s making everyone’s life harder. Sadly, he’s a talented cook…when he’s actually awake. In fact, he’s got mad short-order skills. Yet he’s pissed off about something, and like an infant, he insists on taking out his fury on the rest of us.

Benson left at 2 a.m., and I was the guy assigned with to the task of waking up Dwayne.

I kicked his feet. “Hey, you old cocksucker, we’ve got customers. So you going to cook for them or not?”

“Leave me alone. The kid can handle it.”

“He ain’t here anymore. It’s just you.”

The dwarf stormed out of the booth and threw some empty hash-brown containers across the kitchen. Then after many repeated expletives, he began grilling some sandwiches. Of course, the customers all witnessed his juvenile tirade. So I guess the manager will probably bring it up sometime in the near future.

Yet the night wasn’t a total loss. I managed to make $250.

Thursday Night

 

(Sometimes, I can get a little paranoid.)

Last night, I ate a single piece of steak before driving to work. Nurse Ken was sitting at the kitchen counter.

I said, “When will they mail you your college diploma?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe in a couple weeks.”

“It’s almost July. Are you sure you actually graduated?”

He let out a heavy sigh. “You’ve asked me that question a million times. Yes, I fucking graduated.”

“Then why didn’t you go to the graduation ceremony?”

“I’m not into all that bullshit. I didn’t go to my high school graduation, either.”

Like father like son. I skipped all my ceremonies, too. I had no urge to walk across a stage to shake hands with some asshole I’ve never met before. But that’s me. My attitude sucks giant ass.

I cleared my throat. “Did you apply to the police like I asked you?”

“No, I didn’t apply to the fucking police. The last thing I want to do is become a cop. I’m still thinking about joining the Airforce.”

“Well, I hope you like the taste of sand because they’re going to end up sending you to the Middle East. Have fun getting your nuts shot off for Bibi and Orange Donald. However, I’m sure they’ll pay for the funeral. Hell, they might even give us a brand-new flag to drape over your coffin.”

“Why are you so unpatriotic?”

“I’m not unpatriotic. In fact, I’ll be the first one to defend the homeland. But I’ll be damned if I’ll die for nothing”

Anyway, I let it go after that. No reason to stand on a soapbox. Trust me. Nobody’s going to listen to a clown who wears an apron and a baseball cap to his job site.

I eventually got to the restaurant at 8:45 p.m. My co-workers were Dwayne the Dwarf and Pork-Chop Jane. True to form, the first thing Jane did upon her arrival was sit on her big beautiful ass and scarf down a huge BLT. Yet it was no big deal. The place was pretty much dead, so I was able to keep up with the work.

But Pork-Chop said something that made me a little paranoid. She talked about one of her friends being two-faced, and then she walked out the door to take a few hits off her vape.

I immediately went outside to confront her.

I said, “What was that crack about me being two-faced?”

She laughed out loud. “I wasn’t talking about you, Jack. It was about my boyfriend.”

“Because I’m not two-faced. The only time I talk to the manager is to say hello and goodbye.”

“Like I said, it has nothing to do with you.”

Working with Jane and Dwayne can be a tad challenging. Why? They break all the fucking rules. They fall asleep during their shift. They get high by the dumpster even though customers have complained about their service. They don’t do a lot of the required side work. Sometimes, she’ll sit for hours and hours in her boyfriend’s car while I’m inside cleaning the fucking plates.

Yet the manager seems oblivious to their work ethic. Is he ignoring their behavior, or is he genuinely ignorant of the situation? I’m picking option one because my boss is actually pretty smart. He’s far from a brain-dead hillbilly. So when he does eventually call them out, I don’t want my co-workers to think that I squealed on them.

Anyway, business was pretty slow all night long, and I only made $180. That comes to $18 an hour. Pretty shabby, if you ask me.

Sunday Night

(Be careful. She's only seventeen.)

On Sunday night, I worked with Radiohead and Georgia the Waffle Princess. As I told you before, Georgia is only seventeen. Why they have her on the overnight shift is beyond my comprehension. But it is what it is.

Anyway, Radiohead was having another bad shift. She kept hopping up and down on one foot and grabbing her side.

She said, “I hate this fucking place. I’m either going to quit or transfer to another restaurant.”

I said, “Are you OK? Did you twist your ankle or something?”

She looked at me with hate in her eyes. “No, I’m not fucking OK. Do I look OK to you?”

I shrugged. “Are you having a bad night?”

“It’s the nerves in my leg and back. They’re flaring up.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I called my husband, but the bastard told me to be tough and finish the shift.”

“Why don’t you get in touch with the manager? Just tell him that you’re sick.”

Radiohead gave me another hateful look. “He’s not working tonight, you fucking dipshit. It’s the district manager who’s on duty.”

I raised my hands in a show of surrender. “OK, OK. No need for name calling.”

She then marched out the back door for a much-needed cigarette.

Anyway, to make a long story short, she eventually got in touch with the big boss, and he sent over a young guy named Davis who looked like a surfer from California. He had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a five-o’clock shadow. He must have been handsome because the Waffle Princess couldn’t take her eyes off the guy.

He began flirting with her, and I immediately told him the score. “She’s only seventeen, Davis. I’m simply letting you know.”

Georgia got pissed off. “I hate the way you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Tell everybody my age. It’s not like you guys are my guardian.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “The law’s the law. And it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

It turns out that the Waffle Princess doesn’t know how to drive. So when her shift ended at 2 a.m., her mother came to pick her up. The old lady bought herself a sandwich and admired Davis from the counter.

Suddenly, the conversation turned toward the subject of marijuana. The princess’s mother told the entire restaurant that she was a huge fan of weed and smoked it on a daily basis. Her words made me cringe. Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but admitting your drug use in front of your teenaged daughter seems a bit crass to me. But what do I know?

After Georgia and her stoner mom left the building, it was just me and Davis for the rest of the night. And I soon noticed that he had no idea what the fuck he was doing. For instance, three customers walked into one of the booths, and a fearful expression passed over his face.

He turned to me and said, “Do you know how to mark the plates?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea. Sorry. I’ve never cooked in my life.”

Then it took him a million years to prepare the orders.

I was worried that he’d drown by the time morning hit. Between 5:30 to 7 a.m., there’s usually a huge blitz of customers. But lucky for him, we remained dead.

It wasn’t a great night for me. I only made $200. 

The Police and a Gun

 

(It was an exciting night.)

Yesterday, my mom cooked me a huge T-bone steak. It tasted wonderful. I dipped the meat into A-1 sauce before gulping it down like a hungry heron. Yet I was still afraid that it might make me shit like a goose. I hate using public restrooms. It’s a real phobia with me.

Nurse Ken sat by my side at the kitchen counter. He kept badmouthing the Jews as I stuffed my face. My eldest son is an angry Asian white supremacist. Yes, the hits just keep coming. It’s great to be me.

I said, “Son, how many Jews have you actually met in your life?”

“None. But my friends say that they control all the banks.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “So what if they do? Somebody’s got to control them. Why not the Jews?”

“That gives them too much power.”

“Ken, we live in a world where the white men make the rules. What’s the old saying your dead grandfather used to quote all the time? ‘Black is beautiful. And tan is grand. But white is the color of the big boss man.’ Trust me. Bibi follows orders that come straight from the Washington D.C. He’s certainly not a wildcard.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

I plopped a big piece of steak into my mouth and chewed vigorously. “And let me tell you something else. If my car ever breaks down, I hope the person walking toward me looks a little more like Jerry Seinfeld and a little less like Denzel Washington. The Jews haven’t done a damn thing to me. And that’s all I have to say about the matter.”

I got to work at 9 p.m., and I had to hustle my butt to the bone. Why? Pork-Chop Jane has a new boyfriend, and she spent most of her shift outside in his car. He’s a homeless guy in his twenties who lives in his beater. I shit you not. Jane sure can pick them.

Around two in the morning, a couple of guys and their girlfriends sat in my section. They seemed very joyous. They kept telling me that I was the best waiter in the entire state of Texas. So naturally I was expecting a huge tip.

But fifteen minutes later, three cops entered the premises. I thought they were just coming to eat. Therefore, I waved and gave them a huge Waffle-House welcome. Yet they walked right past me to the corner booth with the happy customers.

One of the cops said, “Which one of you has a gun?”

“None of us, sir.”

“Stop giving me bullshit.”

Then the taller of the two started moving his hand toward his front pocket. That’s when the officer went apeshit.

He grabbed the man by his arms and slapped the cuffs on him. “Are you fucking stupid, son? That’s the worse thing you could do in a situation like this.”

The cop then fished a handgun from the perp’s waistband.

This immediately prompted another officer descended upon the booth and cuff the other guy.

“Why the fuck are you arresting me? I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re not being arrested. You’re being detained.”

Anyway, the gentlemen were led out into the parking lot and questioned for a good thirty minutes. But I guess they passed muster because they were eventually released. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. They stiffed me on fifty dollars’ worth of food. The fucking bastards.

Be that as it may, I still did pretty well. I made $260 for the entire ten-hour shift.

The Waffle Princess

 

(You should see her move.)

Yesterday, I ate a couple of pork chops for dinner. They were made by my mother, and they tasted slightly undercooked. Needless to say, it wasn’t long until I was running to the bathroom to squirt nasty diarrhea into the toilet bowl. You should have smelled it. Absolutely ghastly.

When I emerged from my ordeal, I walked back to the kitchen.

Mom said, “Can I get you a slice of pie?”

I placed my hand on my stomach. “I don’t think so. Your last attempt at cooking nearly cost me my life.”

“Those chops weren’t undercooked. I don’t care what you say.”

“Maybe you’re right. It could be stress that’s messing up my bowels.”

She scoffed at me. “Stress? What kind of stress could you possibly have?”

“I’m a fifty-six-year-old waffle boy.” I paused for dramatic effect. “It’s not as easy as it looks. Imagine being surrounded by drunks who keep calling out for more ketchup? Plus I have nightmares about the dish pit.”

“So get another job already.”

“But it’s only five minutes from the house.”

Suddenly, I was forced to run back to the restroom to squirt more shit into the bowl. This time, it scorched my anus as it slid out of my intestines. I groaned in discomfort. But I’m a big boy, so I was able to carry on like a true soldier after the fifteen-minute nightmare.

I got to the restaurant at 8:45 p.m. and stopped for a smoke near the dumpster. Then I clocked in ten minutes early.

Once again, my sidekicks were Pork-Chop Jane and Georgia the Waffle Princess while Dwayne the Dwarf and Radiohead were manning the grill. Georgia is only seventeen, but she works with amazing speed. You should see her go.

There was a foul expression on Jane’s face. She had left her pens at home, and I gave her a couple of mine. I always come well-stocked.

I said, “You seem like you’re in a bad mood.”

She sighed heavily. “I’m feeling overwhelmed today. Plus I’m about to start my period.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That’s a little too much information.”

“Well, you asked.”

I nodded. “That’s true. I did ask. But now I take it back.”

Georgia left the work area to go smoke pot with Dwayne the Dwarf. And I felt a chill go up my spine. She’s a minor, and I’m pretty sure that the law would come down hard on grown men giving her drugs. But I kept my mouth shut. I’m not slinging hash in order to be somebody’s daddy. So let the chips fall where they may.

It was Friday, and the usual assortment of drunks showed up sporadically. I had this one table of five guys who were whooping it up in the corner booth.

One of them looked at me with a big dopey grin on his face. “Do you get a lot of people like us here at the Waffle Home?”

“Almost every night.”

“Then you don’t mind if we make some noise?”

“If it’s OK with the customers, then it’s OK with me.”

They ended up leaving a twenty-dollar tip.

Another drunk son of a bitch named Butch came at 2 a.m. He was very inebriated and kept asking people for hugs.

I pointed at Georgia. “Be careful, Butch. She’s still a minor.”

He immediately held up both hands in a sign of surrender. Smart man.

Overall, the night was pretty good. I only wrote 23 tickets, but I came home with $260.

Othello the Spaniard

 

(Othello got fired.)

Yesterday, I talked to my sons before going to work. The first item on the agenda was Rice-Boy Larry and school. He’s going into the 12^th grade come August, and the guidance team told him to pick three electives.

Nurse Ken said, “You should go STEM.”

I wrinkled my nose. “STEM? Are you fucking crazy? The poor kid is coming from Korea.”

Ken said, “So?”

“So, he’s been slaving in the academic salt mines all his life, and your brother could use a well-deserved break.”

Rice-Boy Larry said, “Then what would you suggest, Dad?”

I smiled at him. “How about criminal justice, culinary arts, and outdoor education…whatever the fuck that is? It doesn’t get any easier than that.”

Larry said, “Culinary arts? Is that where they let me cook?”

I nodded. “That’s right, son. It’s a cooking class, and if things don’t work out for you at Harvard, you’ll be well prepared to join me at the Waffle House.”

After that, I turned my attention to Nurse Ken. He’s been talking about joining the Air Force, and I think it’s a horrible idea. Why? The only reason I came back from Korea was because he had stopped talking to me. The kid desperately wanted me and Larry back in the States, and our absence was clearly grating on his nerves. And now that we’re all living under the same roof, he suddenly has the urge to fly off into the wide blue yonder. I mean, what kind of bullshit is that?

I said, “Tonight, you should apply for the county police. They make decent money, and your health insurance will be first-rate. On your application, make sure to tell them that you’re Asian.”

“But I don’t consider myself Asian. I feel more like a white man.”

“Son, you look like Professor Tanaka from the old WWF. Trust me. You ain’t passing for white, and your color might help you to land a job. There’s no Asian’s on the force in this part of the world.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m only half Asian.”

“Well, let’s put it this way. If we were to hold a contest to see who looked the most like Charlie Chan, then you’d definitely win.”

Mom got pissed. “Leave him alone! If he says he’s white, then he’s white.”

I sighed heavily. “I’m just trying to get him a solid career, old lady. That way we can all be together as a family.”

I eventually arrived at the Waffle House at the stroke of 9 p.m. and noticed that Othello the Spaniard wasn’t there. Instead, I was working with Weepy Wanda and a new girl named Georgia.

I said, “Where’s Othello?”

Wanda said, “He got fired.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “He got fired? But he’s the only motherfucker who actually hustles during the overnight shift. The rest of you people smoke dope, catch naps, and sit on your asses.”

Wanda said, “They think he was stealing from the company.”

I was flabbergasted. “Stealing? Othello? I find that hard to believe.”

“Too many of his tickets went missing, and he was suspected of pocketing the cash.”

“Goddamn. There is no balm in Gilead.”

A puzzled expression passed over Wanda’s face. “What?”

I clapped my hands and rubbed them together. “It’s a line from Poe’s The Raven.”

“Does it mean anything?”

“Probably not.”

I’m going to miss that kid. He always had my back.

But the night wasn’t a total loss. I ended up making $250.