The New Girl

(The new girl certainly speaks her mind.)

Tonight, I worked with Radio Head and a new girl. The new girl’s name is Trinity, and she talks with a funny accent because she’s from the Bahamas.

Anyway, I started putting away the plates and dishes as soon as I clocked in. Then I dropped a fork on the floor, so I had to bend over to pick it up.

She said, “Man, you is so old. Why you work? You should be relaxing at home?”

I smiled at her. “I’m fine. It’s just that I have problems with my knees.”

“How old is you?”

“Fifty-six.”

“I work with old man at da other store. He sixty-tree.”

“Do I look sixty-three?”

She shook her head. “Not you face. But da way you move. Plus you all hunched over. Why you not stand straight up in da air?”

“I’ve always been a slouch. I was born that way.”

Her words kind of made me feel self-conscious. But then I looked at her. She was a fat black girl with cornrows. Don’t get me wrong. I’m pretty fucking ugly, but I’m not as nearly ugly as her. I mean, where does she get the balls to talk about my appearance when she fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down? However, I let it go. Why rock the boat, right?

One of my tables featured a Hispanic man with his wife and daughter. They ordered T-bone steaks, eggs, and hashbrowns. I had served him before, so I knew I was in for a pretty good tip. But Radio Head jumped past me to the cash register and screwed everything up. The guy gave her 66 dollars on a 54-dollar ticket. And sadly she rang it up as if the bill itself was 66 bucks. In other words, she inadvertently screwed me out of a 12-dollar tip.

Yet it turned out OK. I went into the machine and voided the entire transaction. Then I simply entered it again.

However, here’s the deal. The manager hates it when waiters use the void function. And I’m already on the red board dedicated toward the losers. So I guess we’ll have to see how it all turns out.

My shift was only five hours long, but at Waffle House you have a lot of stuff you got to do on the side. For instance, it was my job to make the iced tea and mop the floor. Therefore, I struck a deal with Trinity when the clock struck midnight.

I said, “Most of the customers have been sitting on my side of the restaurant tonight. Why don’t you take over the floor while I do some of the other shit before my shift ends.”

Her face brightened up, and she shot me a broad smile. “Really? How you gonna pay you bills with no tip money?”

“I already made close to a hundred bucks, so I’m good to go.”

“A hundred dollars in tree hour?” She thought about it for a second. “You get good tip because you old man. Dey feel sorry for you.”

I shrugged my slouched shoulders. “I don’t know. But I usually do pretty well compared to the others.”

“It your age. Old folk always do better.”

But here’s something that young people don’t understand. They’re all addicted to their phones and their drugs. And the customers fucking hate it. In fact, third shift has had a myriad of complaints about the behavior of the servers since I joined the team. It’s very rude to watch videos and sit on your fat rump while people chomp on their grub. It’s akin to giving them the finger.

That’s why I was given fulltime hours even though I’m the shittiest waiter in the fucking world. The boss knows that I’m not gazing at YouTube or getting stoned out by the dumpster. This isn’t me bragging about myself. I suck giant ass, but what other choice does he have?

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Radio Head

 

(She just keeps talking to herself.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 7 p.m., and I had yet another case of the Waffle-House yips. I was scheduled to work with Toothless Bunny all by myself, and the thought of it made me sick to my stomach. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got nothing against Bunny, but she’s a hardcore Waffle Girl. So all the cleaning has to be done perfectly. Needless to say, it’s a real fucking drag.

I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. and clocked in for my shift. That’s when I heard that Bunny had been fired. Instead, the new grill operator was a woman named Radio Head. That’s not her actual name. I call her that because she constantly talks to herself. Something has obviously happened to the transistors in her brain.

The manager was in his office.

He said, “Jack, I looked at your most recent tickets. They look damn good. Thanks for heeding my instructions.”

I nodded and smiled. “No problem. You’re the boss.”

I soon noticed that he had set up a red and green board. All the good tickets were in the green section. And the red section was devoted to the deadbeats. Well, you can guess whose tickets were pinned up on the loser’s side. That’s right. Your humble protagonist.

However, I simply kept my mouth shut. I’m still new to the game, and there is definitely a learning curve. He’s giving me forty hours a week, so why rock the boat?

I looked at the manager. “I can hit the dish pit and get them out of the way.”

He shook his head. “I tell you what. I need you to sweep until 2^nd shift clears the tables.”

And that’s what I did. I got all the hashbrowns and used napkins off the floor, making the place look presentable. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. Even though I’m a peasant, I take pride in my work.

The manager was behind the counter, and he suddenly looked at Radio Head. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

Yet she was too busy chattering away to even notice his question.

I said, “She sorta has her own style.”

He shrugged his shoulders and went home.

As soon as he left the building, we were suddenly swamped with customers. I mean, there was barely a seat left in the entire restaurant. And I was the only server on duty. It was a real cocksucker. In fact, I was so busy that some of the customers left because they didn’t want to wait.

But here’s the kicker. Even though I’m a crap waiter, I always get tipped pretty well. I made over fifty bucks in less than 90 minutes. Why these people keep giving me their money is beyond my reasoning. Perhaps they feel sorry for me.

I ended up making 220 dollars for a ten-hour shift. And the place was completely dead between 2 a.m. till 5 a.m. I’m starting to get used to the lifestyle. It’s like being a kid again. Plus Rice-Boy Larry is now on Medicaid…which is a huge load off my back.

At 7 a.m., I drove to a nearby gas station and bought a vape machine. Its flavor is blueberry mixed with watermelon. And it tastes fantastic. It cost me twenty bucks.

My one big worry in life is getting enough sleep. So now I’m mixing Tylenol PM with Jack Daniel’s and Coke. It’s probably not a wise choice, but I need my shuteye.

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More with Dwayne

 

(The cook was under the weather.)

On Saturday, I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. A guy named Tommy was on the grill because Dwayne the Dwarf was late.

I said, “Dwayne takes a lot of pride in being a rock star. It’s not like him to be tardy.”

Tommy said, “He’s sick, but the manager wouldn’t give him a day off.”

“Why?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. Probably because nobody else wanted to cover the shift. I fucking know that I don’t want it. I’m dying to go to bed. I’m beat.”

“But he’s under the weather. It happens to all of us from time to time.”

He shrugged his shoulders again. “Oh well. Life’s tough.”

I served a few customers who were sitting at tables in my station. One was by himself, and the other two appeared to be friends. Their requests were easy because they ordered straight off the menu. Plus their tips were fantastic. I made twenty-five bucks in less than thirty minutes.

I showed the cash to Tommy. “I’m the worst waiter in the world, but they just keep giving me their money.”

“Trust me. You ain’t the worst. I’ve worked with some real fucking losers over the years. It’s goddamn depressing if you want to know the truth.”

“What’s depressing about that?”

He shook his head and frowned. “I thought I would have left a bigger mark in the world.” Then he let out a heavy sigh. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

Dwayne the Dwarf finally showed up at 10:30 p.m. I was out in the back smoking when he strode past me.

I said, “How you feeling?”

He turned around and shot me the stink eye. “How do I feel? Like fucking shit. I shouldn’t even fucking be here.”

“Well, look on the bright side. The shift’s almost over. You’ve only got another seven-and-a-half hours to go.”

“Fuck off.”

Ten minutes later, three SUVs pulled into the parking lot. There were six teenagers dressed in baseball uniforms, and they were accompanied by their mothers. I prayed to God that they would sit in Weepy Wanda’s section. But it wasn’t to be. They plopped their asses down in three booths on my side of the restaurant, and I got ready for war.

Dwayne called me over and waved his angry finger in my face. “One table at a time.”

“I think they’re all together.”

“I don’t give a fuck. One table at a time!”

The order was quite confusing due to the fact that the party requested three different checks. Yet I just took my time because I didn’t want the cook to have a heart attack. To make things worse, the kids were extremely rude. They kept waving their empty cups and demanding refills while I was waiting on other people.

Suddenly, I realized that my teaching days are over. I’m too old to deal with ignorant children. I’d probably get fired in no-time flat.

With that said, the moms actually left me thirty bucks. They also apologized for the poor behavior of their sons.

I walked outside after cleaning the booths. It was time for another cigarette. Meanwhile, Jamaal was smoking Mary Jane near the dumpster.

I said, “The tips are pretty good tonight.”

He took a toke from his joint. “I don’t want to be a waiter for the rest of my life.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“So I’m going to get my GED and attend Ohio State University.”

I nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

He took another pull from his joint and smiled. “This is great shit. You want a hit?”

I waved him away. “Thanks, but I’m going to pass. I’m too old to get high. I’ll just stick to alcohol.”

“You’re never too old for marijuana. Look at Willie Nelson.”

I walked back into the restaurant and drank a Coke while eating a piece of pecan pie.

Overall, it was a productive night. I made 250 dollars.

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Dwayne the Dwarf

(Dwayne is a rock star.)

First, let me apologize for taking a little break from the blog. I haven’t written in a week because life threw me a few curve balls. So let me do a quick recap. Mom went to the doctor, and they said that she has a UTI. But they gave her some medicine, and now her energy appears to have been restored.

I also had an interview for food stamps and Medicaid during the middle of last week. The lady on the phone was extremely pleasant and took all my information. Then she told me that I’d have to wait thirty days to get the final decision. I’m also trying to get Medicaid for Rice-Boy Larry, so I had to contact yet another agency.

This might seem easy enough. But shit gets hard when you’re a denizen of the night. It cuts into your sleep schedule, and you spend your days walking around like a zombie between catnaps. It’s especially hard on a guy my age. You have to remember that I’m almost sixty fucking years old.

And here’s the kicker. My gout returned. I haven’t had an episode in a couple of years, but it’s come back with a vengeance. Now my left tootsie is throbbing with pain. I sometimes wish that God would just kill me and bring me home. However, your humble protagonist does his best to remain positive no matter the slings or arrows hurled in his direction. I’m wonderful that way.

Anyway, on with the show…

Last night, I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. I’m currently on a full-time schedule of forty hours a week. I think the new manager likes me because I show up for my shift without smelling like weed. Yes. The bar is set pretty low at the Waffle House.

Weepy Wanda was just finishing the second shift, and she was in tears. Why? The grill operator had yelled at her for poor time-management skills. The operator’s name is Lucy, and she’s a tough old gal in her late thirties.

Well, when Dwayne the Dwarf heard the news, he went apeshit.

He turned in my direction. “Look at my fucking shirt!”

I nodded. “I’m looking. What am I supposed to see?”

“What does it fucking say?”

“Rock star.”

“Damn fucking right. You know how long it took me to achieve rock-star status?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

“Over a fucking year.”

For all you non-waffle people, let me give a quick explanation. Grill operators are ranked according to Waffle-House rules. And being a rock star is the highest honor bestowed upon the lucky few. Dwayne makes twenty-four dollars an hour due to his mad skills.

I gazed into Dwayne’s glassy eyes. “I’m missing your point?”

“My point is simple. Lucy is a fucking idiot, and she has no right yelling at anyone. Come over here and look at my grill. See how fucking black it is?”

“Yes. It’s very dark in certain places.”

“She left my poor grill in this kind of condition, but she still has the balls to point her fingers at the servers?” He paused for dramatic effect. “Not on my watch. Somebody needs to put that bitch in her place, and I’m the man to do it. Next time I see her, I’m gonna make her cry in front of all the customers. And let’s see how she like them apples.”

After getting that off his chest, he crawled into a booth and went to sleep.

I talked to the manager at 7 a.m. He mildly scolded me over the way I write tickets. I’m undercharging some of the customers when they order extra cheese and various toppings.

He said, “Don’t take it personally. You aren’t the only one. In fact, I thought your skills would be much worse since you’re still so new to the job.”

We shook hands, and I left. 

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Urinary Tract Infection

 

(Mom is under the weather.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 4 p.m. and stumbled to the kitchen. Mom was sitting at the counter looking glum.

I said, “Are you doing OK?”

She shook her head. “I’m sick.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

She took a sip of coffee. “I think I have another urinary tract infection.”

This might not sound like a big deal, but it’s huge for a stroke survivor. For some reason, a UTI can actually make your head explode. Why? I have no fucking idea. I’m simply a waffle boy.

I said, “Can I drive you to the emergency room?”

“I’m too tired. Plus you have to go to work tonight.”

“I’ll call in sick.”

“It’s not a huge deal. Nurse Ken can drive me there tomorrow.”

This is going to sound very selfish, and I’m afraid to write it down on paper. But one of the main reasons I came to America was that the old lady kept breaking my balls. So if she ends up dying, I’m going to be super pissed. I’ve told her that before. She must struggle with all her might before giving up the ghost.

I’m not proud of myself. Yet those are my true feelings, so take it or leave it.

I arrived at the Waffle House at 9 p.m., and my stomach felt queasy…like I  was going to shit my pants. But this isn’t unusual. The gig gives me a lot of stress for some reason. I don’t know why.

However, the news wasn’t all bad. I was working with Pork-Chop Jane and Dwayne the Dwarf. And I knew they’d be stoned out of their heads within a couple of hours.

We suddenly got a huge rush of customers. I mean, there wasn’t a seat left in the place, and we were too understaffed to deal with the bodies.

My first table was a bunch of high-school kids. There were six of them in all, and I had to write out separate checks for each person…which is always a pain in my balls. Plus they were a little crazy.

One of them looked at his friend. “You need to lick my asshole.”

They all started laughing and calling him a fag.

A pimply boy said, “We have to be careful, or they’ll throw us out.”

I said, “It’s pretty hard to get kicked out the Waffle House.”

Just then, Pork-Chop Jane decided to put her foot down. “Listen, you little assholes. There are young children in the restaurant, and if you can’t behave, then you need to leave.”

I smiled at the kids. “You retards might be the first to accomplish the task.”

Anyway, more and more people kept flooding through the doors. It was complete hell. Then on top of that, we had to deal with a shitload of to-go orders.

I saw a family sitting in my section as I was calling out an order.

I said, “I’ll be with you in a moment. We’re kind of slammed right now.”

However, they didn’t have the patience to wait. So they got up and walked out. But what can you do? I only have two fucking hands, and Dwayne the Dwarf was swamped.

Everything suddenly slowed down at 2 a.m. In fact, the place went pretty much dead.

Yet the work never stops at the Waffle House. We had to clean all those dirty dishes and do our side chores.

Overall, it wasn’t a horrible night. I made over $200.

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Angry Women

(Women can be real bitches.)

I woke up yesterday at 4 p.m. and checked my emails. I got one from Medicaid. It told me to set up a phone interview to see if I qualify for benefits. So that’s exactly what I did. They’re going to call me next Tuesday, and I’m shooting for the whole nine yards. I want my free healthcare and groceries.

In my current job, I only get thirty hours a week. Sadly, I notice this is a trend in my nation. Employers are loathe to hire full-time workers because they don’t want to be on the hook for benefits. Great country, right? Maybe for millionaires and billionaires. But the rest of us take it right up the ass.

However, I don’t want to complain too much because it gives my family stress. Yet I have to tell you motherfuckers the truth. I miss South Korea more and more every day. It was kind of cool to walk across the street to see a doctor.

Mom was on the patio drinking coffee.

She said, “Ken is so happy to see his brother again.”

“That’s good news.”

She smiled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this joyful. He’s eating better and gaining weight.”

I sighed. “I’m glad. But I’ve certainly taken a hit in my standard of living.”

I knew I fucked up the moment those words escaped my lips. I’ve been promising God that I’ll have a better attitude. Yet I simply can’t seem to contain myself.

“You can go back to Korea any time you wish. If I knew you were going to be this unhappy, I would have never asked you to come.”

“I’m not going back. I’m too old for that shit. Plus nobody would hire me at my age.”

Mom had a stroke a couple of years ago, so it’s completely unfair to give her my stress. What I need to do is smile and keep my mouth shut.

She changed the subject. “Trump says he’s going to end taxes on tips. That’s good news for you.”

I grinned at her. “Yes, I’m certain Orange Donald really cares about the working poor. It’s probably the first thing on his agenda.”

“You’re a real asshole.”

She stood up and walked back inside.

Later that night, I arrived at the Waffle House at 9 p.m. I was scheduled to work with Dwayne the Dwarf and Pork-Chop Jane. I knew the shift would be fun and relaxing. Hell, Pork-Chop rarely gets out of her chair. So you can’t get more relaxed than that. It would literally be impossible.

At 1 a.m., a wrinkled old woman came to eat. She sat in Jane’s section. I was busy with my side work—which included cleaning the bathrooms and dropping the sink. I noticed that the restrooms were low on toilet paper, so I took care of the problem.

As I walked back out onto the floor, the lady beckoned me from her booth.

I said, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

She pointed at Pork-Chop. Jane was in her favorite chair, playing with her smartphone.

“What exactly is her job?”

“Excuse me?”

“Her job?”

“She’s a waitress.”

“Is she on break or something?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I have no idea. Actually, it’s none of my business.”

“Every time I come into this shithole, she’s messing with that goddamn phone.”

“Well, she has her own style.”

The woman suddenly handed me five dollars. “I want you to give this money to Dwayne the Dwarf. At least he works for a living.”

I accepted the cash. “Not a problem.”

Then she paid her bill and left.

I told the story to Dwayne as I gave him the lady’s tip. And he explained to me that she comes in every now and then to purposely sit in Pork-Chop’s section in order to bust the poor girl’s balls.

People are strange. 

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Working with Dope Fiends

 

(Nurse Ken loves Orange Donald.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 4 p.m. and felt a little queasy. I had the Waffle-House yips. I knew I’d be working with Toothless Bunny, and the very thought of it filled me with trepidation. Don’t get me wrong. I like Bunny. It’s just that she’s a serious young woman. And I’m not a huge fan of her over-the-top cleaning methods.

I walked into the kitchen for coffee, and Nurse Ken was sitting at the counter.

He said, “Trump is going to start sending American inmates to prisons in El Salvador. Isn’t that great?”

Ken is a huge fan of Orange Donald. He thinks that Trump can walk on water.

I sneered at him. “You really think the Supreme Court is gonna let him do that? Those criminals are citizens of the United States.”

“No, they aren’t. They’re slaves. That’s why we’re allowed to make them do forced labor.”

“Slavery is illegal, son.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Where do you get all this stuff? Do you pull it from your ass?”

“It’s in the Constitution.”

“Bullshit.”

That’s when he showed me the 13^th Amendment. And do you assholes want to know something? The kid has a point. Slavery has been abolished except for the case of certain inmates who can legally be forced to work as punishment. So maybe you can send the motherfuckers to El Salvador. What do I know? I’m simply a lowly Waffle Boy.

I changed the subject. “Where’s your brother?”

“He’s still sleeping.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Larry’s behavior is starting to worry me. These days, he wakes up at eight p.m. and sits on the computer for fourteen hours. I need to teach him how to drive so that he can get out of the house from time to time.

Moving to America hasn’t been easy for either one of us. In fact, it’s been downright challenging. But we both have to start adapting to our new surroundings before we become mentally ill. I’m not kidding you. We’re like a couple of fish flopping around on the floor. It’s not healthy.

I got to the Waffle House at nine p.m. and entered through the back door. I immediately saw Dwayne the Dwarf and waved at him.

I said, “Are you on grill tonight?”

“Yup.”

“What happened to Bunny?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. But she’s not coming in.”

My heart leapt with joy. And the good news didn’t stop there. I’d also be working with Jamaal the dope fiend. I knew that both of them would be stoned out of their minds by eleven p.m. because of their deep passion for Mary Jane. Trust me. Being a Waffle-House coolie isn’t a walk in the park. But it’s even worse if your supervisor is a clean freak. I’ll take any stoner any day of the week.

An old dude walked into the store and sat in my section. He was as skinny as a stick and carrying a backpack. You should have seen his face. It was gray and gaunt and wrinkled. The angel of death was definitely hovering over this poor bastard.

I placed some silverware in front of him. “Can I get you something to drink?”

He chuckled. “I don’t have no money. I’m just trying to rest my feet for an hour or two.”

The restaurant was empty, so I didn’t put up a fight.

He suddenly exclaimed, “I had a great day! It don’t matter if I’m broke.”

I nodded. “That’s good.”

“Some asshole keeps vandalizing my RV. But the cops came and put him in jail. They charged him with elder abuse.”

“Wow. That’s a serious felony. He’ll have to do some time if he gets convicted.”

“Good. Serves him right, the son of a bitch.”

The geezer sat there for my entire shift. Not one single motherfucker came to pick him up. So I fed him bacon and chili on the house. I also gave him a few cups of coffee with whipped cream on the top.

I’m going to start treating my children better.

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Medicaid

 

(I'm too rich for Medicaid.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 10 a.m. and applied for Medicaid. Why the fuck not, right? I’m a member of the working poor. Hell, I’m an apron-wearing waffle boy, for the sake of Christ.

Anyway, I googled how to do it, and I clicked on the link at the top of the page. Sadly, it was not the right address. Instead, it belongs to capitalists and insurance agents who are trying to make a buck. I immediately started getting phone calls from every salesman in the known world. Fifty-eight phone calls in the span of four hours. I shit you not. It got so bad that I had to silence my phone.

I eventually found the right site, and I typed in all my information. But my chances of receiving benefits are pretty much zero. Don’t get me wrong. I’m poor enough if you go strictly by my paychecks. However, I have too much money in the bank. In the state of Texas, you’re only allowed up to two thousand dollars in your checking account. In other words, you have to be tits-up broke.

I walked into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Mom was sitting in her new chair. She bought it to celebrate her 78^th birthday.

I said, “I’m too rich for Medicaid.”

A look of shock spread over her face. “Too rich? But you’re a fucking Waffle Boy.”

“It’s my assets that are killing me.”

“Your assets?”

I nodded. “My bank account. The state of Texas only allows for up to two thousand dollars.”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll cover Larry. He’s a minor.”

“We’ll have to wait and see. The application takes roughly a month to process.”

Here’s my honest-to-God feelings about America. I love my country, but I truly hate living here. It’s too hard. In South Korea, I had first-rate coverage through my employer. Plus there were plenty of hospitals scattered throughout the city, so you never had to wait for an appointment. Moving back home has resulted in a significant decrease in my standard of living. Yet what’s done is done. There’s no use in pining for the bygone days.

Even this nonsense of getting fifty-eight phone calls in the span of four hours is uniquely American. To me, it’s torture. But everyone is scrambling to make a buck. It’s definitely sink or swim in the United States.

Later that night, I arrived at the Waffle House at 9 p.m. The grill operator is new to this location. She’s a recent transfer. Her name is Bunny, and she’s missing all her teeth even though she’s only in her late 30’s. Like me, Bunny has no dental insurance.

The way Waffle House works is that the grill operators often functions as shift supervisors for the overnight crew. Dwayne the Dwarf never busts my balls because he’s more interested in smoking dope out by the dumpsters. But Bunny is definitely by the book. In fact, she insisted on teaching me the proper way to drop the sink and mop the floors and wash the syrup dispensers.

With that said, she has no people skills. For instance, one of the customers didn’t like her eggs and bacon. She said that they were too well done. This drove the cook into a tizzy.

She looked at me. “Let me handle her.”

Bunny threw some bacon on the grill for about thirty seconds. Then she picked up the meat with her bare hands and tossed it on a plate before taking it over to the lady. Needless to say, it started a conflict.

The woman said, “This bacon is raw.”

Bunny said, “That’s how you ordered it, so that’s how you get it.”

“I’m not paying for this!”

“That’s up to you. I’m just giving you what you asked for.”

The lady stood up and walked out of the restaurant.

The toothless cook looked at me and smirked. “Fuck that bitch. She’s a Waffle-House Karen.”

I sighed heavily.

How we’re the number one country in the world is totally beyond me. I’m sorry for being unpatriotic. But we’re a land filled with retards and fuckheads. In my humble opinion.

Surly Cook

 

(Waffle House isn't always a happy place.)

On Saturday, I arrived at the Waffle House at 9 p.m. for my shift. As usual, the place was wild. I was teamed up with Weepy Wanda, and the grill operator was Dwayne the Dwarf. He isn’t an actual Dwarf, but he has to stand on his tippy toes in order to reach the plates and dishes.

Weepy Wanda put some money in the jukebox, and then she started singing at the top of her lungs. Meanwhile, the restaurant was filled to capacity. Yet nobody seemed to notice her strange behavior. They just kept shoveling hash browns into their fat faces.

Wanda said, “Do you know any of these tunes?”

I shook my head. “Not a single one.”

“It’s Taylor Swift. Everybody knows her. Have you been living under a rock?”

“Sort of. I’ve been out of the country for fifteen years. Most of the kids I knew listened to K-Pop.”

She suddenly changed the topic. “Do you have children?”

“Yes. One is twenty-four, and the other is seventeen.”

“Don’t they listen to contemporary music?”

I sighed heavily. “It’s different for me. My sons are half-Asian, so they only care about math and computer games. Plus, like many Korean males, they seem to love alcohol a little too much. It kind of worries me.”

“That’s racist!”

“Maybe. But true, nonetheless.”

The problem with Weepy Wanda is that she never stops talking or singing. And as she yaks and yaks, the dirty dishes tend to pile up. Furthermore, it’s tough to carry on a conversation while you’re passing out packets of mayo and refilling drinks.

With that said, I like her—even though she ripped me off for ten bucks. One of the customers left her a twenty with instructions to split the tip. She forgot to give me my half. But I’m not going to ruin a peaceful working relationship over chump change.

As usual, the cops showed up at around 2 a.m. I saw them out in the parking lot questioning one of our customers. They must have finally concluded that he was innocent because they let him get in his car and drive away.

Shit started slowing down around three, and Weepy Wanda and Dwayne the Dwarf went out back to smoke pot. I’m too old to get high, so I stayed inside and started washing piles and piles of dirty plates. It was really fucking gross, and I’m now thinking about bringing rubber gloves to work.

Suddenly, two hunters stepped into the restaurant. At least I think they were hunters. Both guys were dressed completely in camouflage.

I said, “Can I start you off with some coffee?”

“Yes. But we’re also ready to order.”

They wanted bacon, eggs, and hash browns. Yet Dwayne the Dwarf was nowhere to be found. He was still outside doing drugs. So I gave him a call on my smartphone and told him that I had a couple of live ones who wanted to eat.

Dwayne strode angrily back into the kitchen. Then he screamed, “Tell them that they’re going to have to fucking wait because I have to clean the floor first.”

Well, you guessed it. They heard him, and they were none too pleased.

One of them called me over. “We don’t have all morning to wait on this motherfucker. Just charge us for the coffee, and we’ll go.”

“Don’t worry about the coffee, sir. It’s on the house.”

He shook his head. “Son, we’re paying for the fucking coffee, and then we’re leaving.”

I felt very uncomfortable, but I stayed as polite as possible. In fact, I kept kissing their asses in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

Overall, it wasn’t a bad night financially. I ended up making $270 for the entire shift. That comes to $27 an hour.

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The Law

 

(Nurse Ken has a lead foot.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 4 p.m. because Nurse Ken was arguing with his grandmother out in the kitchen. My oldest son is very loud. You can hear him from a mile away. Rice-Boy Larry, on the other hand, is soft spoken. He rarely speaks a word, and I often wonder if he’s semi-autistic.

I said, “What’s all the screaming about?”

Nurse Ken said, “Screaming? Who’s screaming? That’s simply the way I talk.”

Mom said, “He got another speeding ticket. That makes four in the last eight years.”

“It wasn’t my fault. Blame it on that goddamn state trooper who was lurking in the weeds. The son of a bitch.”

I said, “You gotta be careful. Your car insurance might go up.”

Ken’s granny covers the nut for his monthly insurance bill. She also bought him a Lexus a few years back, and it’s a hell of a nice car for a kid his age. Mom has a special relationship with Nurse Ken. She feels he got the short end of the stick because of the Dragon Lady. In her mind, my wife loves Larry more than her first-born son.

Yet here’s the actual truth. Narcissistic mothers frequently have a golden child and a scapegoat. But being the golden child is by far the much heavier burden. Ken managed to escape when he was sixteen whereas Larry had to fight it out till the bitter end. For instance, when we were living in China, my wife drained the bank account and ran away. It was Larry who spent a penniless week on the mainland until payday rolled around. Not Ken.

Anyway, the issue got resolved when my son finally promised to stop driving like an asshole. He swore that he would now mend his ways and follow all the traffic rules. I don’t actually see that happening, but I will keep my fingers crossed.

Later that night, I arrived at the Waffle House at 9 p.m. And guess what. It was bedlam as usual.

One guy’s card got declined, and Pork-Chop Jane screamed it out so that the entire restaurant could hear that the dude was a deadbeat. However, it turns out that the man had accidentally locked himself out of his own account and Jamaal helped him with the technical issues. So in the end, he managed to pay his bill.

All’s well that ends well, right? Not true in this case. The poor man left the restaurant mortified, but when he came to his senses, he made a U-turn to hash is out with Pork-Chop.

I greeted him as he walked through the door. “Hello, sir. Is everything OK?”

He shook his head. “No, everything is certainly not OK. Where’s that little waitress who was serving me?”

I looked around, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight. In truth, she was probably smoking dope out back by the dumpster.

I said, “It appears that she’s on her break. Can I help you with something?”

He defiantly held up his smartphone. “I want you to look at my bank account.”

I did as he asked. He had $2,500 on deposit.

I smiled at him. “Sir, you don’t have to show me. It was all a big misunderstanding.”

“There’s no reason for her to embarrass me like that in front of everyone.”

“I understand completely, and let me apologize for her behavior. It won’t happen again.”

“That’s not good enough. I want to speak to the manager.”

So I walked to the back and got the boss’s phone number. He has it tacked up on one of the bulletin boards for situations such as this.

The guy sat in one of the booths and talked for about ten minutes, carefully explaining why Pork-Chop Jane acted like a giant cunt. Yet I doubt if there will be any consequences. You can’t fire everybody, or there will be no one left to serve the hash browns.

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My Wife

 

(The Dragon Lady reached out.)

Yesterday, the Dragon Lady got in touch with me via Facebook Messenger. The conversation wasn’t very long, and it was all in the form of text messages.

She typed, “How are you?”

I said, “OK.”

“Good.”

“So what’s your bottom line?”

“I just checking. You still go to the church?”

“Yes. On Wednesdays.”

“Great. Here a picture of my pastor and his wife.”

She sent me their photo. They were a couple of Koreans whom I didn’t recognize.

I typed, “How’s the dog?”

She sent me a picture of Dolly the Bichon. The beast looked damn good. I really miss that puppy.

My wife typed, “I must go now. I have class to teach.”

“OK.”

The Dragon Lady teaches Korean to children who can’t speak the language. The peninsula is currently teeming with lots and lots of foreign workers. And many of the rugrats need to improve their language skills. To that end, she works at a school in the city of Daejeon.

Anyway, most of you fucking morons probably aren’t familiar with borderline and narcissistic characteristic traits in females. And why should you be? It’s not like you married the devil. Anyway, these sinister women have a favorite person. He’s usually the poor son of a bitch who has to put up with all their evil mischief.

Right now, the Dragon Lady is splitting. That means she’s viewing me in black and white. She’s looking back on all her fond memories and concluding that I was the best thing since sliced bread. Therefore, in her diseased mind, she’s got to get me back in order to inflict more psychological damage on her best friend. Yet, when I’m trapped in her web once again, she’ll see me as the biggest piece of shit that ever lived.

There’s no gray area with borderlines and narcissists. You are either an angel sent from heaven or a demon from the pit of hell. Hence the term splitting.

I told Nurse Ken about my brief conversation, and he just about made doodie his pants.

“Why do you keep talking to that crazy bitch? You should ignore her.” He paused for dramatic effect. “You won’t be happy until she puts a knife in your heart, and we’re lowering you into a grave.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic?”

“Dramatic? She’s a dangerous woman.”

“I’m not good at giving people the silent treatment. It seems rather childish to me.”

Suddenly, my mom decided to put her two cents in. “She’ll never step foot through this door. I can promise you that much. I won’t have her near the boys. She’s caused enough chaos to last a lifetime.”

I sighed heavily. “Who the fuck says she’s coming?”

“I’m just telling you up front. This is my home, and I won’t have her here.”

“OK. I got the message. Let’s fucking drop it.”

Mom said, “You should be less cheeky and more grateful.”

“Grateful? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re the one who dragged me out of Asia telling me you were going to die soon.”

She smiled. “Well, maybe I am.”

And here’s the truth. I enjoyed being a resident of South Korea. I liked it a hell of a lot better than living in the USA. Everything was in walking distance, and I didn’t need a car. Plus I got free education for Rice-Boy Larry, and the school also gave me a free apartment.

But why look at the past? I’m here, and I’m a waffle boy. So that’s that.

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