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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