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.
Yesterday, I got to the restaurant at 8:45 p.m. and
had a cig at the dumpsters with Weepy Wanda. These days, she mainly works 2nd
shift. However, she enjoys hanging around after she clocks out to get high with
Pork-Chop Jane. They toke their weed and discuss their boyfriends. Sometimes,
they do drugs and gossip for two to three hours. I shit you not.
Anyway, Wanda was all smiles.
I said, “What are you so happy about?”
“Cindy got fired.”
Cindy is a rough-edged waitress who also works the 2nd
shift. She has a ton of tats and has been warned several times for vaping
inside the establishment.
I said, “What did she do?”
“The manager doesn’t like her attitude.”
“That’s it? There must be more to the story than that.”
“Cindy’s been on her last warning for several months
now. But the manager was cool about it. He said that she’s free to work at any
Waffle House in the entire state of Texas. Just not at this one.”
Well, my friends, what can I tell you. They come and
they go. It’s the Waffle-House way.
The night was extremely busy, but unfortunately the
grill operator was Slow-Poke Benson. The kid still doesn’t know how to cook a
fucking egg, and Dwayne the Dwarf refuses to teach him. Dwayne says that he’s
too fucking old to be an instructor.
One of my orders took nearly 30 minutes to complete. I
was afraid that my customers were all going to stand up and walk out. But most
of them turned out to be jovial souls, and they waited patiently without
protesting.
Slow-Poke Benson finally left at 2 a.m. And let me
tell you motherfuckers something. I wasn’t sad to see him go. Waiting for that
kid to finish an order is an exercise in frustration.
Then this greasy old biker limped into the restaurant and
sat at the hi-bar.
I said, “Is that a Harley?”
He nodded grimly. “Damn straight, it’s a Harley. I
wouldn’t ride nothing else.”
“I’ve always been afraid of motorcycles. They seem
kind of dangerous.”
He nodded again. “I lost my fucking foot about a year
ago after dumping my bike in the street. But I swore that I’d get back on the
horse and ride again. And here I am, my friend.” He paused for dramatic effect.
“Nothing in the world is going to keep me off my Harley.”
After he finished shoving the rest of his hash browns
into his mouth, he left me a five-dollar tip.
At 3 a.m., a drunk guy staggered into the parking lot
and took a nap right by our front door. Somebody must have called the police
because three squad cars came rolling in a couple of minutes later. The man was
arrested for public intoxication, and Pork-Chop Jane was asked to write a
witness statement describing everything she’d seen.
This filled her with joy, and her boyfriend helped her
spell the difficult words.
Of course, I was mopping and sweeping while she had
all the fun. Jane is by far the laziest person I’ve ever met. Sometimes, I just
want to smack her in the head with the mop. Yet she’s only nineteen, so I do my
best to remain patient.
Overall, it wasn’t a bad night. I ended up with $260
dollars for the ten-hour shift.
Yesterday, a new grill operator showed up for the
overnight shift. His name is Bruce. The kid isn’t new to the Waffle House. In
fact, he’s been with the company for many years. But he’s usually a morning
guy. That’s where all the action is. The mornings.
I said, “How old are you, Bruce?”
He said, “Twenty-six.”
“Wow. You’re young enough to be my son.”
“I might look young. But there’s a lot of tread on my
tires.”
I smiled at him. “Really? You’re still a child. How
can there be tread on your tires?”
“I was homeless for almost two years. I was also
addicted to crack.”
I shot him a puzzled expression. “Crack?”
He nodded. “I’d do anything for drugs. In fact, I used
to beat up other homeless people just to steal their money. I’m not proud of
myself. Yet the truth is the truth.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“You can say that again. He helped me out of the
gutter.”
Waffle House is a rough crew. I can’t imagine
assaulting hobos for drug money. It makes no sense to me. Besides, how much
money does a bum usually carry? But I guess substance abusers aren’t the most
logical people in the world.
Then he told me about another morning grill operator who’s
in trouble with the manager. The cook’s name is Butch Li. He’s originally from Cambodia.
I know the dude in passing. I see him from time to time at 7 a.m.
I said, “What the fuck did Butch do?”
“He keeps sassing the boss.”
I shrugged my shoulders while turning my palms to the
sky. “Why would he sass the boss?”
“Butch has a problem with authority. He just can’t
keep his fucking mouth shut.”
“But he barely speaks a word of English.”
“It’s all about the attitude.”
Waffle House has a huge turnover rate. I’ve only been
working here for a few months, yet I’ve already seen four or five people get
the axe. And you can’t blame the management. These folk are fucking batshit
crazy. I shit you not.
Pork-Chop Jane was also working the shift. She was her
usual self. Her entire family showed up at the restaurant, and she spent a good
hour outside in the parking lot talking to them. Then they came inside to sit
in a booth, and she gave them all free food.
After they left, her boyfriend visited, and she spent
another hour by the dumpster smoking dope and sucking face with her latest
flame.
I really should get a job selling cars. I think I
could sell the crap out of them, and I wouldn’t have to spend any time washing
pots and pans in the dish pit. Sadly, I’m fucking lazy. As I’ve said many
times, the restaurant is only a five-minute drive from my humble abode.
The shift wasn’t very busy, and I only wrote nineteen
tickets. Yet I still managed to make $200. Most of the customers were extremely
nice. However, I did have a couple of Mexicans in the corner who ran up a $42
bill and completely stiffed me on the tip. I don’t know where these
motherfuckers get the balls.
On Sunday, I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. I was the
only server on the floor for about an hour, and the joint was pretty full. I
had to handle seven tables on my own…which might not seem like much to a
regular waiter. But you have to remember that this is the Waffle House. So I’m
also the busser and the dishwasher.
With that said, I handled the situation pretty well. I’ve
been at the gig for a few months now, and I’ve pretty much got the hang of it.
Dwayne the Dwarf yelled at me in front of the manager.
He didn’t like the way I was making my calls. Yet my boss never said a word.
The employees often scream at one another. I guess everybody is used to it.
At 10:30 p.m., a cop car pulled into the parking lot
and a woman got out carrying a shitload of her belongings. A purse. An
overstuffed backpack. A small suitcase. And a blanket which was draped around
her shoulders.
She walked inside and took a seat in one of the
booths. The girl was in her twenties. She wasn’t ugly, but a caution sign might
as well have been flashing above her head. Hard bitten. That’s the best
way to describe her. She was covered in
tats and was sporting a pair of denim shorty shorts.
I smiled at her. “Can I get you something to drink?”
She smiled back. “No. I don’t need nothing except to
charge my phone.”
“Want to rest your feet for a while, huh?”
“Yes, sir. I just got out of jail. I was in there for
three weeks.”
“What the hell did you do?”
She smirked in a snotty fashion. “Those stupid cops
said that I beat up my boyfriend.”
“Did you?”
“Fuck right I hit him. But he hit me, too.”
“Did they arrest him?”
“No, he didn’t leave any marks.”
I decided to completely ignore her. I was
involved in an abusive relationship for years and years. In fact, the Dragon
Lady would often get physical with me. I’ve even been kicked in the nuts a
couple of times. Plus she would hurl plates and dishes at my head. It sounds funny, but it really isn’t. Because
there isn’t a damn thing you can do. If you fight back, you get labeled as a wife
beater. It’s really nice to have a little peace in my life.
At midnight, a huge to-go order came in through the
internet. I spent a lot of time putting the food into all types of plastic
containers and bagging them up in an orderly fashion. Then I had to throw in
all the syrup and butter and plastic cutlery.
About fifteen minutes later, the guy came to pick up
his vittles. The Waffle Princess handed him his order, and the man handed her a
ten-dollar tip. She quickly put the money in her pocket without saying a word
to me.
Needless to say, her actions grated on my nerves. She
pretty much stole my money. Yet I managed to control my anger and remained
silent. It was my best option.
The Waffle Princess is only seventeen. So it would be
a bad visual if an old man bullied her for such a small amount of cash.
However, I have to say this. When you work at the
Waffle House, you really have to keep an eye on the other servers. Many of them
have criminal records.
At 6 a.m., the lady who had just got out of jail found
a ride to West Virginia with a complete stranger. Many of the customers were
worried, fearing that she was putting herself in danger. Yet I felt bad for the
dude. He had no idea what he was getting into.
Overall, I made $210 for the shift.
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.
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.
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.
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.
