Taxes and Hillbillies

(Marsha the Manager got fired.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 11 a.m. because the goddamn dogs were barking again. Maybe they saw a squirrel out the window. Who knows? This vampire work schedule is tearing my body a new asshole. It’s not easy being a creature of the night.

I took a quick shower and drove to a neighboring town in order to do my taxes at H&R Block. The guy behind the desk was a dude named Larry. Like me, he sported old-man glasses and an old-man pot belly.

I held up a USB. “I’ve been living in South Korea for all of 2024, and all my tax information is on this drive.”

He shook his head vehemently. “We aren’t allowed to put that in the computer.”

“You’re shitting me?”

He shook his head again. “It’s company policy.”

I nodded. “OK. I can tell you how much I made in Korean Won and maybe you could do a conversion.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable. What I really need is a paper copy of your previous taxes. That would help things out. Why don’t you go home and print it out. Then you can bring it back to me. In fact, there’s a print shop right up the road not five minutes from here.”

To make a long story short, I found the shop and did as he asked. Now I’m scheduled to return next week for another consultation. But here’s the deal. Since coming back to America, I feel as if I’m surrounded by ignorant troglodytes. Even my new pastor isn’t excluded from this statement…although I really like the guy. Last Wednesday, he said that we should be grateful to America because people from other countries often smell bad due to the lack of hygiene.

His words certainly rubbed Rice-Boy Larry the wrong way. “What a nerve on that guy. Have you smelt some of these fucking Americans?”

Anyway, I went to Waffle House that night at 9 p.m. for a five-hour shift. I worked with Jamaal and Pork-chop Jane. Three district managers were in the restaurant. They yelled at Jamaal because he wasn’t wearing his apron in the proper Waffle-House fashion.

I turned to Jane. “What’s going on tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“All the bigshots are here. Did somebody try to burn the place down?”

“No. Marsha the Manager got fired.”

“Really? What the hell did she do?”

“She was having a tough time controlling the behavior of the workers. At least, that’s what I heard.”

“Controlling the workers? Is that part of the job description?”

Pork-chop simply shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I only work here.”

We’ve had quite a turnover in the last week. One waiter and one cook got the axe a few days ago. And now the manager is gone, too. Her replacement seems to be some kid in his twenties. His name is Marcus. I wonder if he’s related to one of the bigshots. It wouldn’t surprise me.

Around one in the morning, a fight almost broke out amongst the drunken male customers. Four big guys were about to throw down over some perceived slight.

A woman at the counter looked at me with disdain in her bloodshot eyes. “You need to man up and throw those assholes out of here.”

“Well, let’s see what happens.”

Maybe I’m a pussy, but I wasn’t about to get in the middle of that squabble. I’m pushing sixty, and one good punch to the head from an angry hillbilly would probably kill me. Luckily, they resolved the issue on their own without having to spill blood.

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