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?

If you liked this post, give my message board a try. God bless.