Dirty Jack

 

(You can't please everybody.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 11 a.m. because I had a lot of work to do. My mom is currently selling her house, so I had to clean the bathrooms before a showing which was scheduled for later in the afternoon. I was grouchy as fuck. That’s the way I get when I don’t have any sleep.

Mom said, “Hurry up and get your chores done. We don’t have much time. They’re going to be here in a couple of hours.”

“Leave me alone, old lady. I’ll get to them when I get to them.”

“Why are you so miserable all the time? Maybe you should have stayed in Korea.”

I wagged my finger in her face. “Don’t start with that shit. The only reason I’m here is because you and Nurse Ken strongarmed me.”

“That’s not true! It was your decision.”

Both of us are half right. When I lived in the ROK, Mom would always call and tell me how she was going to die soon. And Nurse Ken refused to speak to me until both my feet were on American soil. Yet I was getting tired of being a foreigner living abroad. Plus my life was becoming a bit chaotic after the Dragon Lady packed her bags and left.

The simple truth is this: I’m a miserable son of a bitch when I’m tired. Sleep deprivation is a young man’s game.

Anyway, I took my sons to a Chinese restaurant after my tasks were completed. We drove to the joint in my brand-new Hyundai Venue. Rice-Boy Larry had to squeeze in the back seat…which wasn’t easy to do. The kid is almost six and a half feet tall, and the Venue isn’t known for being roomy and spacious.

Nurse Ken said, “Isn’t America fantastic?”

I said, “Fantastic? You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“First of all, you’ve got to drive a million miles just to buy bread. Then the health insurance sucks. Hell, even getting a fulltime job is a pain in the ass.”

“You worked forty hours this week, so what are you complaining about?” He paused for dramatic effect. “You need to go back to teaching. That’s what you’re trained for. There’s no point in wasting your college degree.”

“I’ll run a hot bath and slit my wrists before that ever happens. I simply can’t do it, son.”

Later that night, I arrived at the Waffle House at 9 p.m. for my ten-hour shift. It was bedlam. The place was filled with teenagers because of the prom. They were decked out in suits and fancy dresses.

I was shocked to see them. I mean, who the fuck brings their prom date to the goddamn Waffle House? And you should see how these little pigs left the tables. Knives and forks on the floor. Hashbrowns scattered all over the place. Syrup stains on the counters. It was enough to make me want to puke.

Then something strange happened around two in the morning. A big black guy made a to-go order for about fifty dollars’ worth of food. I boxed it up for him and placed it in a bag.

I shot him a big smile. “Here you go, sir. Have a nice evening.”

“I ain’t eating that fucking food.”

“What?”

“You’re fucking hands have been all over it.”

“I never touched the stuff. The only things I handled were the plastic containers.”

“Remake the entire order, and I don’t want you as my server. You dirty. Touching your ears and rubbing the back of your neck.”

The cook was very patient. He did what the guy requested.

When the customer left the building, the cook pulled me over to the side. “Don’t take it personally. It’s happened to me a million times…especially with African Americans. They can be somewhat difficult to deal with. But it’s not a complete waste. I’m going to bring the original order home and eat it for breakfast.”

The night wasn’t a complete washout. I ended up making $260. That’s what I usually get on a Saturday shift. So it came to 26 dollars an hour.

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