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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