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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