Career Change?

(I'm hoping to change jobs.)

Hello, my dearest friends. I’m afraid that your humble narrator is a tad drunk due to a few Jack and Cokes. But I’ll do my best to be as coherent as possible. I once heard that the famous gunfighter Doc Holliday was a deadly shot when he was in the bag. So how hard could it be to write five hundred words while under the influence? We shall see.

Anyway, I bought a Hyundai Venue last Saturday, and I paid for the vehicle in cash in order to avoid a monthly nut. However, I couldn't pick it up until Monday. That’s old news. But I struck up a conversation with the finance guy as I crossed the t's and dotted the i's. His name is Doug, and he’s an Englishman who loves history.

He said, “I’m so damned tired. I’ve been working for fifteen straight days. The grind never ends.”

I said, “I’d love a job like this.”

“Really?”

“No kidding. I’ve been slaving at a bullshit gig with the Waffle House since I came back to America.”

“Are you planning to teach again in August?”

I sighed heavily. “I’d rather dive to my death off a luxury cruise ship than to step back into a classroom.”

He laughed out loud. “Well, I do make good money. In fact, I drive a Genesis.”

“How much did that run you? About seventy grand?”

He nodded. “That’s right. Seventy grand. You hit it right on the nose.”

“It must be nice.”

Doug frowned and shook his head. “I’d rather teach history on the high-school level. That was my dream. Sadly, it never worked out.”

“Man, you’re crazy. I taught high-school English for five years in America. It sucked giant ass. A lot of the kids were either crazy or on drugs.” I paused for dramatic effect. “You really need to count your blessings.”

“Why don’t you come to work here? Some of the top salesmen make $20,000 a month.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not. I’ve seen their salaries with my own eyes. Not saying that you would be at their level. It’s a complete grind, and if you don’t sell, then you starve. But even the weak members of the herd usually make about four grand a month.”

To make a long story short, he gave me an application and told me to bring it back whenever I passed his way in the future. So I drove home in my brand-new Venue and filled out the paperwork at my mom’s kitchen table. Then I threw the application into the drawer by my bed and forgot about it.

Fast forward to Friday. I drove down to the Hyundai dealership in the morning and gave Doug the application. He shook my hand and told me he’d give it to the sales manager. Will I hear from Hyundai in the future? Probably not. But it’s in God’s hands, right?

On my way home, I stopped at the Toyota dealership. I stepped into the showroom and talked to a young fat lady who was covered in tattoos.

I said, “I’d like to apply to for a job.”

“In sales?”

“Yes. In sales.”

She picked up the phone and talked to her boss for a brief moment. “One of the managers would like to speak to you. Have a seat, and he’ll call you when he’s ready.”

Well, I waited for an hour, but not a single soul came to speak to me. So I got up and walked out. If they’re going to treat me like a dog when I’m a civilian, imagine how bad they’d abuse me if I were actually an employee. Who needs that shit? 

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Rice-Boy and School

 

(Rice-Boy needs his education.)

Yesterday, I took Rice-Boy to the local high school in my snazzy new Hyundai Venue. He brought his transcripts, his birth certificate, and his vaccination records. They were stored in a large manila envelope.

We struck up a conversation during the drive.

I said, “They’re probably going to hold you back a year.”

“That sucks.”

“Well, it’s certainly not a good thing. But just remember that your life would have been delayed for two years if you had stayed in Korea.”

Which is true. The ROK has mandatory service, and all male citizens are required to join the army for eighteen months. But Larry is half-a-white guy, so there’s no way in hell that the-powers-that-be would have ever let him into the military. Therefore, he’d have been stuck working the post office or picking weeds at the side of the road. And that’s a full two years since it’s considered light duty.

I took a huge drag from my vaping machine and blew the mist toward the windshield. “Just remember that you can’t get into any fights.”

“What?”

“Fights! You have to avoid them. You still have a hole in your skull.”

When Rice-Boy was six months old, a deposit of fatty tissue was growing out of the back of his head. So he had to have surgery to remove it. The bone never grew back, and now he has a hole in his noggin that’s about the size of a quarter.

Rice-Boy said, “Why would I get into any fights?”

“You can’t tell with these Texas rednecks. They might try to test you.”

“So I’m supposed to back down like a pussy?”

I nodded my head up and down. “Damn skippy. And don’t try to impress the girls. Trust me. If you got to get your ass kicked simply to impress some young split-tail, then she’s not worth the effort.” I took another pull from my vaping machine. “Your dad might be a white man, but he isn’t speaking with a forked tongue.”

Anyway, we got to the school about ten minutes later, and it was hard to get into the front door. Everything was completely locked down. It took us about five minutes to figure out which button to push before we were eventually buzzed in.

Larry said, “Boy, what a pain the ass.”

I smiled. “Welcome to America.”

To make a long story short, I finally got to speak to the registrar. She was a cute little brunette with a nice smile. She was also very polite.

I said, “This is my son, and I want to get him enrolled. But everything is a little complicated.”

She said, “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

“He’s from South Korea, and stuff is different over there. They start the year in March and finish in December. He’s completed his junior year, and now—”

She cut me off mid-sentence. “I know all about South Korea. So basically you want him to begin his senior year in August.”

“Exactly.”

I handed her his transcripts and birth certificate. Then she disappeared, and we sat on a wooden bench as we waited for further instructions.

I looked at Larry. “She knows all about South Korea. Who would have guessed it?”

“Well, Koreans are pretty much all over the world.”

I nodded in agreement. “You’re right. They are certainly ubiquitous.”

“True. Wherever you go, you’ll run into a Korean.”

When the lady returned, she told me that everything was in order, but that I should call on Friday for more information. She also said that he might have to take a couple of bullshit courses over the summer. Good enough, right?

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My First Overnight Shift

(I had a good time.)

On Monday night, I felt very depressed. I was stricken with a bad case of the Waffle-House blues. My shift was only ninety minutes away, and I didn’t even know how to use the cash register. So I figured that I’d probably get fired.

Mom said, “Why don’t you just quit? This nation is flooded with bullshit jobs, and you’ll land another one in no-time flat.”

I shook my head. “I learned not to quit in Asia. Because the worm always turns.”

And this is true. When I landed my gig in South Korea, the principal hated my guts. He used to frequently call me into his office simply to ream me out for pretty much nothing. I was his favorite punching bag. But he got fired about a year later, and the guy who took over his position loved me to death.

And a similar situation occurred in China. New leadership was installed halfway through my tenure, and I was fired because I was middle management. However, the Chinese teachers really liked me, so I was rehired a few days later. The boss had to eat crow when he welcomed me back to the team.

Anyway, I arrived at the restaurant a little early, and not one person even spoke to me. They just nodded and smiled. And I’m not ashamed to admit it. I was a cunt hair from walking out the door. Who needs the aggravation, right?

Then like a vision from heaven, a tall pregnant girl came striding my way. She had blonde hair and a bright smile. And when I tell you she was tall, I ain’t lying. She was a six-footer with a round butt and a nice set of milk-heavy tits.

She said, “My name is Dallas, and you must be Jack. Marsha the Manager said that you’re new, so I should take it easy on you.”

“I’ve got to be honest. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. I can’t even use the cash register.”

“Who was your trainer?”

“Daphne Diamond.”

She smirked at me. “No wonder. That woman is a useless bitch. I hate her guts because she’s a racist.”

“Well, I really don’t know the woman. I’m not sure if she’s a racist or not.”

She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, trust me. She’s a racist. You should see the way she treats my boyfriend. He’s from Senegal. I’d like to punch her right in the fucking face, but I’m too much of a lady. I wasn’t raised that way.”

Then she started telling me some wild stories. One of the shift supervisors had recently got fired for kicking a drunk woman in the chest.

I said, “He kicked a woman in the chest?”

She shook her head. “Our supervisor was a female. But she doesn’t put up with any shit.”

“Kicking the customers probably isn’t a good thing.”

“The bitch deserved it. She was drunk and stupid.”

Then she told me about one of the cooks who got sent home for the day because he kept touching the waitresses. It suddenly occurred to me that many Waffle House workers had probably been  special-ed students back in high school.

Anyway, my shift was only five hours long, but I made fifty dollars in tips. Overall, I had a good time.

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Buying a Car

 

(I'm now the proud owner of a Hyundai Venue.)

On Saturday, Mom and I drove to the nearest Hyundai dealership. It was fifty minutes from our house. We stopped at a McDonald’s along the way for some coffee.

She said, “Are you sure you want a Venue? It seems kind of small.”

“Well, I’d rather have a Ferrari, but unfortunately I can’t swing it at the moment. It’s simply not possible on my waffle-boy salary.”

“Why don’t I give you five thousand dollars? You can add it to your money, and then can purchase a Tucson?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine with the Venue, and I can pay cash. That way I won’t have a monthly nut to cover.”

Anyway, when we finally arrived at the lot, we started looking at the automobiles. Mom turned out to be a huge fan of the Palisades. She liked all the space. It can comfortably hold up to six passengers. Yet you could probably squeeze in another two with some room to spare.

She said, “This thing is fantastic.”

I nodded in agreement. “Hyundai has a bad reputation, but they make some pretty good cars.”

A salesman named Don suddenly showed up on the scene. He was about my age with slouching shoulders, graying hair, and thick glasses.

He said, “Can I help you folks?”

I became defensive right away.

“We’re only looking.” Then I paused for a moment. “Why don’t you give me your card, and I’ll find you when we’re ready to make a decision.”

He smiled at me. “I tell you what. I’ll stand twenty feet away, and you holler if you need something.”

I soon realized that there was no need for playing cat-and-mouse games. After all, I now live in America, and I need a fucking car. So why all the intrigue, right?

I said, “I’m thinking of buying a Venue. Do you have any on the lot?”

He nodded. “We have five or six of them. Follow me.”

Don led us to the cars, and I found a white one priced at $24,000.

I said, “Do you think you could get me a deal on this?”

“Of course I can get you a deal. It’s Saturday, and that means it’s deal day. But don’t you want to take it for a spin first to see if you actually like it?”

“Sure. Take it for a spin. That sounds like a good idea.”

He walked back into the building to get the key.

Mom said, “Don’t do anything rash. There are lots of other dealerships in the area. You’ve also got Toyota and Ford and Subaru and Chevy and…”

“I’m going to stick with a Hyundai. I have faith in them.”

I lived in South Korea for about fifteen years, and I know how bad the driving conditions are over in that neck of the woods. Those people scoot about in their automobiles like maniacs—which means lots of sudden braking and the occasional traffic accident. So the good people at Hyundai have to make their product to last. If they put their product together in a slipshod fashion, then Koreans would be forced to ride horses to work.

Anyway, Don and I took the Venue for a spin around the block and struck up a conversation as I drove.

I said, “I’m currently looking for a job, and I’ve been thinking about car sales. Any tips?”

He sighed heavily. “Well, it’s not for everybody. But the good thing is that you’ll know after a month or two. We work strictly on a commission basis, so you have to sell or starve. It’s strictly survival of the fittest.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

“About twelve years.”

“And you like it?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not bad.”

Eventually, we pulled back into the dealership and walked to his office. He came down $1,000 on the asking price, and I bought the Venue with cash for $26,000—which includes tax, title, and license.

Did I get screwed? I don’t think so. But what’s a boy to do?

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Poisoning the Customers

(It's tough being a working man.)

On Friday, I almost poisoned the innocent Waffle-House customers. Daphne Diamond was sitting on her fat ass at the counter with a glass of Coke in her hands when she suddenly yelled at me.

“We need to refill the ice!”

“And how exactly do we do that?”

She shook her head with disgust. “Just get some freaking ice and fill up the container near the soda fountains.”

“Where is the ice machine?”

“It’s in the back of the store, genius. Put the ice in a bucket. What? They didn’t teach you that at college?”

Everybody laughed. In her defense, it was actually a good zinger.

The amount of abuse I take from this woman is off the charts. It’s almost as if the Dragon Lady is getting her revenge.

Anyway, there were a lot of orange buckets resting on the floor. So I filled one of them to the top and started walking back to the restaurant. That’s when I passed Marsha the Manager.

She said, “What are you doing?”

“I’m refilling the ice.”

“Not with that bucket! We use the orange ones when we clean the floors. They are filled with all kinds of nasty chemicals. Dump the ice in the sink.”

To make a long story short, I finally found the right bucket and accomplished my task. Yet I have to tell you the truth. It’s not easy working for Daphne. She hasn’t taught me a fucking thing. In fact, the only job I seem to do is her dirty work.

Later in the day, I stopped by a liquor store and bought a huge bottle of Evan Williams bourbon. Sadly, Jack Daniels is a little too pricey for a waffle boy. Then I went home and drank a couple of high balls.

My mother fussed at me. “I hope you’re not becoming an alcoholic.”

“Me, too. But the Waffle House is ripping me a new asshole, and the booze helps me cope.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Suddenly, I felt this surge of energy go through my body. It was almost like getting struck by a bolt of lightning. That’s when I checked my email. It turns out I got a message at that very moment from one of my banks in South Korea. Pretty spooky, huh? Anyway, the severance pay from my former employer finally came through. I thought the final tally would come to $10,000 dollars, but they actually gave me twelve.

I jumped in the air with joy.

Mom said, “What’s going on?”

“My fucking money came!”

Nurse Ken walked into the kitchen. “What the fuck are you yelling about?”

I patted him joyfully on the shoulder. “My money came. Now I can buy a car.”

He said, “Are you still going with the Hyundai Venue.”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“Well, you’re making a huge mistake. The Venue is a piece of shit. Plus it’s tiny. If you get hit by a dump truck, then you’re a dead man.” He took a huge hit from his vaping machine and blew the mist in my face. “Furthermore, a Hyundai? Really? Haven’t you had enough of South Korea? I think you need help.”

“Look. I’m trying to enjoy my life, and every small victory counts. So stop pissing in your poor old father’s face.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever.”

Then he walked upstairs to his room. The son of a bitch.

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More Fun with Daphne

 

(I get knocked down, but I get up again.)

Last night, I went to church with Rice-Boy Larry in a little out-of-the-way place which only uses the KJV bible. The pastor’s name is Ted, and he seems like a nice guy. It was Wednesday, so not many people actually showed up. We are currently studying the Book of Daniel.

I enjoyed the sermon a great deal. It was so unlike Korea. Nobody was speaking in tongues or jumping up and down like a maniac. Plus there was no overly zealous praise team belting out religious tunes at the volume of a Deep-Purple concert. The whole experience was very white and conservative. Which is pretty much the way I like it.

After the service, the pastor met me and Larry in the parking lot to shake our hands.

He said, “Thanks for coming out.”

I said, “It was our pleasure.”

“Hope to see you again.”

I nodded in the affirmative. “You definitely will. I’m going to do my best to make it once a week, but a lot will depend on my schedule. I have to find a job.”

I didn’t tell him that I was a waffle boy. To be quite frank, I’m a little ashamed of my current occupation.

He said, “Are you looking to teach again?”

I shook my head. “I’m pushing sixty, and I just can’t do it anymore. I’m hoping to find a deadhead job.”

He laughed out loud. “A deadhead job. That sounds fantastic.”

I’ve known many pastors throughout my lifetime. And trust me. It’s not an easy gig. Say one wrong word or have one bad night, then half your congregation will abandon you with self-righteous smiles on their faces and hymns in their hearts. Being a pastor is actually worse than being a teacher.

Rice-Boy scolded me when we got to the car. “You’re not sixty, Dad. You’re only fifty-six. You’re far too young to be giving up on yourself.”

“Yeah, but I feel like shit. I can’t see anymore. My teeth are falling out. My elbows hurt. My knees hurt. My back hurts.” I paused for dramatic effect. “I’m falling apart, son.”

“I think that a lot of your problems are in your head.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “You could be right. But I can’t afford a psychiatrist, so what’s a boy to do?”

We got home at 8 p.m., and I fixed myself a stiff Jack and Coke. I have a toddy on a nightly basis. It helps keep the demons away.

The next day, I woke up at 6 a.m. and prepared myself for another day at the Waffle House. I’m tired of training alongside Daphne Diamond. The old bag is a wicked witch.

Mom was in the kitchen sipping on her coffee.

I said, “I think I’m going to ditch this job in the summer and sell cars.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I’m not sure yet. Let’s give it a couple of months and see what happens.”

I arrived at the restaurant at 8 a.m. and said hi to everybody. Daphne was sitting at the counter with that perpetual frown on her face. Marsha the manager told her that she wanted me calling out the orders to the cook throughout the morning, and Daphne went completely apeshit.

“He’s not ready for that yet! And we have too many goddamn customers on the floor. He’ll slow us down.”

Marsha stayed calm and cool. “Jack’s got to be ready for Monday when he comes in for the nightshift. So train him up.”

I understand that teaching a new guy how to do a job is a gigantic pain in the balls. However, Daphne has atrocious manners. In fact, she’s an ignorant old ball of earwax.

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Daphne Diamond

 

(I'm going to have to hustle.)

I woke up this morning at 6 a.m. and checked my bank account. My previous employer still hasn’t sent me the $10,000 that they owe me.

I lifted both my fists in the air and screamed, “Fuck!”

My mother walked into the living room. “What’s the problem?”

“Those sons-of-bitches still haven’t sent the money.”

“Just be patient. It will come.”

I sighed heavily. “Patience has never been one of my strengths. I guess I’ll have to work on it.”

Anyway, I couldn’t use Mom’s car today because she had to take her husband to the doctor’s office. So the poor old lady dropped me off at work at 8 a.m. It’s not a huge deal. The Waffle House is only five or ten minutes up the road.

I was pretty excited because it was my first day on the floor. Marsha the manager called me into her office for a brief chat.

“You’re working with Daphne today. It’s actually a huge honor. She ranked as one of the top five hundred Waffle-House waitresses in the entire world. She’s served more than 30,000 customers during her long and illustrious career.”

It turns out that Daphne is a woman in her late sixties with the ass the size of Maine and a constant look of disgust on her wrinkled face. She spent the entire morning yelling at me about my rate of speed. I washed the dishes too slowly. I filled up the salt and pepper shakers like a worthless hobo. I didn’t restock the napkin dispensers quickly enough. The list of my shortcomings went on and on.

With that said, I had a wonderful time. At least I wasn’t teaching. I’m just sick and tired of being around teenagers all the time, and the change of pace was refreshing.

But I have to say this about Daphne Diamond. For an old lady, she sure can hustle. She sold nearly $1,000 worth of food during her shift and made $150 in tips. When you throw in her salary, the total comes to $230. And this energetic granny deserved every penny. I couldn’t keep up with her.

And one more thing. I have to throw out some love to Marsha, too. Even though she’s the manager, she pretty much does everything. Cooks. Cleans. Handles the paperwork. Makes the schedules. I’m really impressed by her work ethic.

Waffle House during the mornings is insane. The list of tasks never seems to end. So there’s really not enough time for pleasant small talk.

The crowd started tapering off about noon, and the cook began listening to music on the Waffle-House jukebox. Even though he’s a young guy, he really seems to enjoy the Beatles. I’ve always been more of a Pink Floyd guy. But to each their own, right?

Nurse Ken picked me up at 2 p.m. in his Lexus. Rice-Boy Larry was sitting in the front seat.

Ken said, “How are those vapes working out for you?”

I nodded. “Fine. I didn’t smoke a cigarette during the entire shift.”

“Maybe you should quit the cigs entirely. You’ve got a lot to live for.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Tonight, I’m going to church with Rice-Boy Larry. There’s an evening service on Wednesdays which might fit into my upcoming night-bird lifestyle.

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Training Day

 

(It's not as easy as it looks.)

I woke up this morning at five a.m., and I smoked some cigarettes while drinking Taster’s-Choice instant coffee. Then I took a shit and had a shower. After that, I drove my mother’s BMW to attend a Waffle-House training day.

My former employer still owes me $10,000 dollars in severance pay. I keep checking my bank account every twelve hours. But it’s been three weeks, and it still hasn’t come. I sent them an email, and the secretary told me to relax. She claims that there have been some rule changes, so I need to be patient. I don’t think they’ll screw me.

Anyway, when my money comes, I’ll have thirty grand in the bank. I’m planning to buy a Hyundai Venue with cash. I’m not interested in paying a monthly nut for an automobile.

Yet that’s neither here nor there. So let’s get on with the show, shall we?

I currently live in west Texas, and I had to catch Interstate 10 to find the restaurant. I pretty much had no idea where I was going…which is an awful feeling. The manager of my store instructed me to keep my eyes peeled for a Pilot truck stop. He said that the training center was right across the street.

To make a long story short, I found the joint. But I missed the fucking turn-off, so I had to back track.

I walked into the restaurant and talked to one of the waitresses.

I said, “Do you have a woman named Winona who works here?”

She nodded. “We certainly do. Are you coming for training?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She’s running a little late.” There was an awkward pause. “Why don’t you take a seat at the counter, and I’ll get you a coffee?”

Winona showed up about ten minutes later. She was a skinny woman in her sixties with long black hair and sparkling white teeth. I wasn’t the only dickhead who needed to be trained. There were three others who were learning how to serve hashbrowns the Waffle-House way.

Winona patted me on the shoulders. “Could you help me in the back. I need to set up a table and chairs, but my arthritis is killing me.”

I took a sip of coffee. “I’d be happy to.”

She led me to a large locker that contained all the supplies, and the next five minutes were devoted to getting everything in order.

And let me tell you motherfuckers something. I spent eight hours in that place, and I had no freaking idea that being a fucking waiter was so complicated. Waffle House has all kinds of codes, and it’s certainly not as easy as it looks. In fact, she handed us our own separate books which contain all the lingo. If the truth be known, my poor head is swimming as I sit here writing this drivel.

One of my fellow trainees was a young man in his early twenties. He had a nose ring and fancy dangling earrings. He certainly rubbed Winona the wrong way.

She said, “Boy, sit your ass up and pay attention. And button up that damn shirt. I don’t have time for your shit.”

He said, “What am I doing?”

“You know what you’re doing. You must think you’re cool or something. But your nonsense won’t fly at the Waffle House.”

“I can’t help myself. I have ADHD, and I forgot to take my medicine this morning.”

“Not my problem. Share your sorrow with your girlfriend.”

He smiled at her. “I don’t have a girlfriend. That’s not the way I roll. I have a Filipino boyfriend, and he’s my life partner.”

“Well, you can save your drama for him.”

All in all, I had a pretty fun day. I go back to work tomorrow at 8 a.m. I have to shadow an experienced waitress who will supposedly lead me to Waffle-House success.

What the hell, right? Life could always be worse. At least I’m not getting ass raped in the Congo by angry rebels.

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A Confusing Day

 

(I'm officially a waffle boy.)

Hello, my dearest friends. Before I start with this drivel, it’s only fair to let you know that your humble protagonist has been drinking some Jack and Cokes. Don’t get me wrong. I’m far from shitfaced. Yet I’m riding a healthy buzz, nevertheless. Anyway, on with the show.

I woke up at seven this morning, thinking that I had Waffle House training at 10 a.m. So I took a leisurely shower and smoked a few cigarettes without a care in the world. What the fuck, right? My new employer is only ten minutes up the road.

Well, at 8:30 I got a text from Marsha the manager asking where the hell I was.

This was my reply: “I thought that onboarding was at 10 a.m.”

Then I went to the back patio to enjoy another cigarette. And my mom soon joined me for some pleasant conversation.

I said, “I think I fucked up my chance of being a waffle boy.”

“Why?”

“For some reason, I got the times confused.”

Mom took a sip of coffee. “Why not contact her and explain the situation?”

“I did, but she hasn’t written back yet.”

Then I scrolled feverishly through my phone in search of answers to the colossal fuck up. And I soon found the problem. The people who wanted to see me at ten were actually the management team at a local storage facility. I had applied for the gig last Wednesday.

I sighed heavily. “My waffle dreams might be over, but it looks like I have another job lined up.”

To make a long story short, I drove to the place and met the powers that be at ten on the nose. Then they had me fill out all sorts of paperwork on one of the company computers. But shit got all screwed up again when they requested the account and routing numbers to my American bank. They needed this stuff to set up direct deposit. And sadly I couldn’t get the info off my smartphone because my old Samsung is a dinosaur and doesn’t support the Well Fargo app.

I looked at them sheepishly. “I apologize. I don’t have the information. Can I go home and get it? I'll bring you a voided check.”

A friendly guy named Marcus shot me a giant grin. “Don’t worry about it. Shit happens. Come back tomorrow at eleven, and we’ll get you all squared away. You’re going to love this place.”

But here’s the kicker. Marsha wrote me back after I got home and requested to see me at three. So I went to the Waffle House, and she gave me a shirt, a hat, and an apron. Tomorrow, I have to go to an all-day orientation which is being hosted at one of the Waffle-House restaurants about forty minutes away from my house.

She sternly warned me to be prompt.

Marsha is probably really desperate for people. Usually, if a guy misses his first day of work, he’s immediately terminated. She must like the cut of my jib.

Anyway, I drove to a liquor store after our meeting and bought a bottle of Jack Daniels. I’m not celebrating. The whiskey is more like medicine. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. It’s cheaper than a psychiatrist.

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The Interview

 

(Looks like I'm a waffle boy.)

On Tuesday, I had an interview with the manager at the local Waffle House. I waited for ten minutes because a truck was unloading supplies. So I sat at the counter and twiddled my thumbs with a goofy grin on my fat face.

The cook said, “Man, that sucks.”

I said, “What sucks?”

“The truck comes right during your interview time. Talk about bad luck.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “No big deal. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Do you want a cup of coffee? It’s on the house.”

“No thanks. I drank about a pot of that stuff before I came here.”

Anyway, it wasn’t long before a middle-aged woman named Marsha told me to take a seat in one of the booths. She had brown hair that was twisted into a bun, and she wore black horn-rimmed glasses. Yet her smile was very bright. Nice and friendly.

She said, “Tell me something about yourself, Jack.”

“Well, I’ve been in Asia for the last fifteen years, and I just got back into the country a few days ago. So I’m looking for a job.”

“That’s very exciting. Where in Asia?”

“South Korea and China.”

She wrote some stuff down on a piece of paper. “And what did you do over there?”

“I taught in Christian schools.”

“I used to be a schoolteacher, too. Maybe you should think about management. Would you consider a job as an assistant manager. The company will train you for six months or so. Then they’ll give you your very own store to run.”

“I’ll do whatever you say. I just want to get back to work.”

“Great!” She wrote some more stuff down on her sheet of paper. “I’m going to call a guy named Maurice. I’ll give him your information, and he’ll call you.”

My heart sank. When people tell me they’re going to call, I never believe them. Plus I wasn’t really interested in a management position. My fucking brain feels like Swiss cheese. I’m simply not the man I used to be.

I said, “What happens if Maurice doesn’t want me for management. I’m fifty-six years old. That might give him the jitters.”

More scribbling on the paper. “Well…I guess I could hire you. I’m desperate for servers. Especially for the nine to seven shift. Do you mind working at nights?”

I tapped the table with my index finger and smiled. “That would be perfect. In fact, that’s what I was hoping for in the first place. The night shift.”

“Let me get this straight. You don’t want to be management?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Marsha. If he offers me the job, then I certainly won’t turn it down. But if he decides to go in another direction…Well, I won’t get bent of shape.”

“Perfect. Let’s see what happens.”

We shook hands, and I drove home.

How did it all turn out? Just like I thought it would. I waited three days for Maurice to call, but my phone never rang. So I texted Marsha on Friday evening and asked her if the server position was still on the table. She wrote me back on Saturday and told me to come on Monday morning at 10 a.m. for training as the new nightshift waiter.

I’ll tell you the truth. I’m a little ashamed of myself. I’m a college-educated man accepting a job that anyone without a serious felony is qualified to do. Yet I view the situation as a new adventure. And if the truth be known, I’m really looking forward to it. What can I tell you? I’m tired of thinking. I might be a fucking retard, but what’s a boy to do?

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