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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