The Rodeo

 

(I had a good time.)

On Saturday night, I saw an electronic sign on the side of the road as I was driving to Waffle House. It said that there was heavy traffic ahead because the rodeo was in town. My heart dropped like a sack of stones. I knew the restaurant was going to be filled to the brim with people wearing ten-gallon hats and cowboy boots.

I said a quick prayer to the Lord. “God, why do you always screw with me? A fucking rodeo? You got to be kidding me. What kind of bullshit is this?”

I got to the store ten minutes early and smoked a cigarette by the dumpster. Then I took a couple of deep breaths before walking inside.

The first person I met was a kid named Jamaal. He was a light-skinned black guy who was wearing a hoodie. His eyes were glassy, and he had a goofy smile on his face. It was obvious that he had been smoking weed before coming to work.

He said, “Are you Jack?”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“Who trained you?”

“Daphne Diamond.”

He laughed out loud. “Most people think she’s a bitch. But she loves me to death.”

“No kidding? She treated me like a douchebag.”

“Don’t take it personally. And don’t worry about tonight. I’m going to show you the ropes.”

Anyway, I walked to the back and clocked in. Then I got my ticket book and faced my trial by fire.

My first table was featured two attractive ladies and their well-hung boyfriends. How did I know that they were well-hung? They were handsome and athletic, so I just kind of figured that they had big cocks as well. Call it a hunch. Some folk have all the luck.

I said, “Take it easy on me tonight. I’m kind of new at this waitering stuff.”

It turns out that all four of them were drunk, and they thought I was a humorous old man.

One of the boys said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Jack. We got your back.”

His pretty little friend said, “That’s right. We got your back, Mr. Jack.”

They laughed and laughed.

I shrugged my shoulders and sighed. This only made them laugh harder.

And do you know how they knew my name? Because I’m forced to wear an apron with a name tag. That’s right, motherfuckers. I wear an apron as I slave like a coolie. It’s part of my uniform.

I said, “Are you ready to order?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, we are. Bring us bacon and eggs and hashbrowns. And we also want waffles. Pecan waffles!”

I called out their order the Waffle-House way. The restaurant was loud, so I really had to scream loudly at the cook. “Pull four bacons! Drop four hashbrowns scattered! Mark four platters! Order eggs scrambled on four! Waffles on four! Make them pecan!”

And do you motherfuckers want to know something? Those kids left me a twenty-five-dollar tip. I shit you not.

The restaurant was so busy that one of the waitresses actually broke down in tears. Her name is Wanda, and she simply caved under the stress.

I said, “Just try to relax. It’s only hashbrowns.”

She said, “Where the fuck is Jamaal. Where the fuck is he?”

“I’m not sure.”

“He’s probably outside smoking dope! I don’t get paid enough for this shit. He should be in here handling his tables.”

Anyway, my shift ended at 7 a.m., and I made $260 dollars. And I have to admit the truth. I had a good time.

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