Pork-Chop Jane

 

(Jane is the laziest woman in the universe.)

Yesterday, I stopped for a smoke by the dumpsters before clocking into work. The manager was there, and we struck up a short conversation as we puffed away on our generic cigarettes.

He said, “Jack, you’re doing a stellar job. Your tickets are great, and you always keep up with your side work. I just wanted to let you know that your efforts haven’t gone unnoticed.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the kind words.” There was a long awkward silence. “I have to be honest with you. I do my best to avoid talking to the boss.”

He smiled. “I understand. And it’s not your job to talk to me.”

I took a long drag from my cig and blew the smoke up into the air. “It’s nothing personal. You seem like a nice enough guy. It’s completely my fault. I’ve been that way with all of my bosses. When I see them walking down a corridor, I turn around and walk the other way.”

“Not a problem. Trust me. I get it.” More silence. “Let me ask you a question.”

I nodded. “Sure.”

“Are the other workers taking advantage of your good nature?”

I shook my head vociferously. “Not at all. They’re very kind.”

“So Jane is helping you out? You aren’t stuck doing all the work, are you?”

I waved off his notion with both of my hands. “No. Jane is fantastic. She always helps me out.”

Of course, I was lying my ass off. Pork-Chop has to be the laziest girl in the entire universe. Her big beautiful butt never gets out of the chair. And many of the customers have complained about her attitude. Furthermore, she’s constantly goofed on skunk weed.

Yet, with that said, I truly enjoy Jane’s company. I’d rather work with a nineteen-year-old stoner than a hardcore Waffle Boy any day of the week. Sure. I have to perform a few extra duties. Yet I’m cool with it. Waffle people are often crazy. It’s like a cult. A waffle cult. How insane is that?

Anyway, the best thing about working nights is that I only have to see the manager for about ten to fifteen minutes a day. So it wasn’t long until he got into his SUV and drove home to his wife and kids.

It was an extremely slow night…one of the slowest in my entire waffle career. In fact, I only wrote fifteen tickets. But none of my customers stiffed me on a tip, so I ended up making $180. Not great, but it’s better than being employed at a gas station.

The thing about the Waffle House is that the work never ends. Even when you have no customers. Plus Pork-Chop Jane was my partner, and she spent the entire shift sitting at the counter and stuffing her face with free food.

She said, “You’re my favorite, Jack. There’s nobody else I’d rather work with.”

“Thanks, Jane. I like you, too.”

Then I cleared the dish pit as she wolfed down a plate of hash browns covered in syrup.

After that, I made the iced tea as she smiled at me and waved. But I didn’t mind. I even waved back.

At three in the morning, she went outside with Dwayne the Dwarf to smoke weed. That’s when I dropped the sink and cleaned the filter. Jane was still getting stoned when I swept and mopped the entire restaurant.

She returned an hour later with glazed eyes and a goofy smile.

Jane said, “You don’t have to worry about the toilets. I checked, and they look fantastic.”

I knew it was bullshit, so I decided to see for myself. They were a disaster. In fact, both the men’s and the lady’s rooms had piss on the seats. Therefore, I went ahead and cleaned them. What choice did I have?

Anyway, by the time the shift was over, I was nothing more than a ghost of a man. But things could have been much worse. At least I’m not getting butt-fucked in the Congo by angry rebels.

I try to look on the bright side of life. I’m wonderful that way.

Government Cheese

 

(I'm a useless eater who deserves to die.)

Yesterday, I cleaned the bathroom for the first time in two weeks. It was a hell of a job. The place was covered with pubic hair, shit stains, and dried urine. But don’t blame your humble narrator. My stepfather is 86 years old, and his aim isn’t what it used to be.

I find that I’m often exhausted. I have no idea why. Sure. Working overnights at the Waffle House isn’t the easiest job in the world. But it’s not like I’m trying to split the atom. I just hope that I don’t have cancer.

At 2 p.m., I drove Rice-Boy Larry to the Department of Health in order to get his booster shots. Mom came with us.

The girl at the counter was an attractive Hispanic woman. She had dark eyes, small tits, and a nice little ass.

She said, “Are you Larry’s father?”

“Yes.”

“Does he have any health insurance?”

I nodded. “He’s on Medicaid.”

So she made a copy of his card and told us to have a seat.

Medicaid has become a huge issue in America. In fact, Orange Donald is trying to trim the program by billions of dollars. But I can simply give you my perspective on the issue. I work fulltime at the Waffle House as a waiter, so I’m pretty much tits-up broke. And yet I don’t qualify for healthcare. Therefore, imagine how broke you have to be to actually get the benefits.

I’m just hoping that I can make it to sixty-five without any major illnesses. That’s when Medicare kicks in. Sadly, I’m a useless eater and considered worthy of death by many of my fellow countrymen. But they can all kiss my ass. I simply want to enjoy my remaining years before I’m reduced to ashes by the local mortician and living in a coffee can next to the pancake mix.

Anyway, we got called into the nurse’s office after an hour of sitting on our asses. She was a middle-aged woman with many tattoos. Everyone in America seems to be inked these days.

She said, “Larry is getting his chickenpox vaccine. But I can also give him his shots for meningitis if you want me to.”

I said, “Are they necessary to get into an American high school?”

“Chickenpox is, but meningitis is optional. However, many universities require it.”

Larry said, “Let’s go ahead and do it.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s your body.”

After giving my boy his jabs, the nurse told us to wait in the lobby for a minimum of ten minutes in case he went into convulsions. And that’s exactly what we did. Why tempt fate, right? Luckily, Larry handled the medicine like a champ.

When we were driving home, I delivered a joyous announcement to my family. “Mom and Larry, I have great new. I’m going to take you losers to a Chinese buffet on my tip money. How does that sound?”

Mom said, “Wonderful! But I don’t know why you have to call us a couple of losers.”

I laughed and laughed.

The meal was pretty good. I munched on eggrolls and sweet-and-sour chicken while Mom and Larry feasted on the shrimp and vegetables. The bill came to sixty dollars. It seemed kind of high to me. That’s why I usually eat at home.

Friday Night

 

(Friday night was nuts.)

Friday night was fucking hell. I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m., and the joint was packed to the rafters. I had to start serving customers right away. My first table was pretty easy. It was a single guy who wanted a Delmonico steak and hash browns. The meal also comes with Texas toast.

I called it out like a pro. “Pull one Delmonico rare.”

The grill operator said, “What’s your drop?”

“Drop one scattered.”

“And the mark?”

“Mark a Delmonico plate smothered, covered, and peppered.”

It seems fucking easy. But you really have to say it with a set of brass balls. If the cook can’t understand you, he might hit you over the head with a red-hot skillet. I shit you not.

Suddenly, a huge family of Mexicans walked through the door. There were ten of them in all, and I immediately prayed to God to spare me from the carnage. And praise be to Jesus because they sat in Ling’s section, taking up three entire booths.

I haven’t told you guys about Ling. She’s a Chinese-American lady who usually works the first and second shifts, so I haven’t had much of an opportunity to interact with her. However, it turns out that she’s a very diligent worker who always gives a hundred percent.

Anyway, the Mexican family ran the poor girl into the ground. They kept beckoning her to the booths to order more stuff. In fact, their final bill came to $181. And do you know what they left her as a tip? Five fucking dollars.

Needless to say, Ling was crestfallen.

She sighed heavily. “Look how they left those tables.”

It was a disaster area. Hashbrowns and used napkins were scattered all over the floor, and the seats were smeared with butter.

I said, “At least they gave you something. I’ve been screwed many times but motherfuckers like that.”

Ling was on the verge of tears. “It just isn’t fair. Why did they have to sit in my section?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess it’s just the way that Jesus wrote the story. He is the king of the universe, after all. Maybe you’ll learn a lesson after being humbled by that group of savages.”

She sighed again. “Fuck you.”

I laughed and laughed.

Pork-Chop Jane was also at the restaurant. But she was sick and pretty much refused to do anything.

She said, “Where the fuck is Othello? He’s supposed to work with you until seven.”

“Maybe he couldn’t make it.”

“Not my fucking problem. I’m gone at 2 a.m.”

I gave her the stink eye. “So you’re going to leave me here to die?”

“It’s not my fault. Blame the manager.”

Anyway, Ling left at 1 a.m. and Pork-Chop Jane said goodbye an hour later. Sadly, your humble protagonist was left to the wolves. The place was still busy, but I managed to take all the orders. The problem was the dishes. They were piled high in the sink, and I didn’t have the fucking time to clear them from the pit.

I went outside for a cigarette and contemplated ritual suicide. I planned to end my life like a disgraced Japanese soldier. I was going to kneel down in the parking lot and disembowel myself with a butcher knife.

But that’s when Othello came gliding by on his bike.

I said, “Good to see you. You’re only six hours late.”

“Sorry, man. I was sleeping.”

With that said, the kid has a great work ethic. We hit the sink with a frenzy of energy and got the shit turned around in less than an hour. If he hadn’t of showed, I would’ve been completely screwed. A single worker simply can’t handle a crazy night.

I ended up writing 37 tickets and making 280 dollars. Trust me. Things could’ve been much worse.

Shopping with Uncle Sam

 

(I'm a proud EBT scumbag, so fuck you.)

Yesterday, I had to call the Department of Health for Rice-Boy Larry. It turns out he’s missing a vaccination for chicken pox, and he can’t enroll for school without the jab.

I said, “I’m trying to get my son fully vaccinated, and he needs his chicken-pox shot.”

The woman on the line was very friendly. “We can help you with that. What type of insurance does he have?”

“He’s on Medicaid.”

“Can you give me his ID number?”

And that’s what I did. But nothing popped up on her computer. She tried and tried and tried…yet to no avail.

I said, “Don’t worry. I can just go ahead and pay for it. How much does it cost?”

“It’s free for children under eighteen. However, bring his Medicaid card so that we can get paid in the future.”

So Larry now has an appointment for next Tuesday. It’s only a twenty-minute drive from the house.

After that, I got into contact with T-Mobile. It turns out that they recycled the number of a dead man and gave it to me. Sadly, I can’t link the number to Amazon because the dead guy is still listed on the website. It’s all very confusing.

The man on the phone said, “Have you tried contacting Amazon?”

“I called them a few weeks ago. They told me to call you.”

He sighed deeply. “The only thing you can do is get a new number.”

But it really wasn’t a viable option. It would force me to call everyone to give them an update about my new information. Talk about a pain in the balls.

I hate to say this because it makes me sound unpatriotic. Yet I miss South Korea more and more every day. Everything seemed so much simpler over there. Maybe I’m a lazy fucker. I truly don’t know. But it was great just to hop on a bus and see a doctor whenever the fuck I wanted. Plus my phone number on the peninsula didn’t belong to a corpse. By comparison, everything in America seems quite half-assed.

Mom stepped out onto the patio.

I said, “You want to come with me to Walmart? I still have over $200 dollars on my EBT card.”

“Sure.”

“But we have to take my Hyundai Venue. I need to get gas.”

Mom hates my car with a passion. She thinks it’s a death trap on wheels. She’s probably right, but it’s nice own a brand-new car without a monthly nut.

Anyway, Rice-Boy Larry went along for the ride, too.

Mom pointed out the window during the journey. “Larry, that’s going to be your new school. Isn’t it beautiful?”

I said, “Just remember one thing, Larry. That place is teeming with violent hillbillies. Yet it’s only for a year, so do your best to be strong and try to avoid conflicts at all costs.”

The old woman let out a huge sigh. “Why are you always such a downer? He’s going to love it.”

I looked into the rearview mirror to make eye contact with my son. “Remember what I told you. It’s only a year.”

We arrived at Walmart ten minutes later and loaded up on meat. We bought steak, pork chops, chicken, and sausages. The final tally came to $185. Thank you, Uncle Sam.

It’s currently Friday afternoon, and I have to pull a ten-hour shift tonight. I still get the Waffle-House yips even though I’ve served nearly three thousand customers up to this point in my career. I can’t explain it, but there’s something about the place that’s a tad nerve-wracking.

Waffle People

 

(Hardcore waffle people suck giant ass.)

Monday was my fifth ten-hour shift in a row. So I’m still pretty exhausted. In fact, I feel like I was savagely butt-fucked by an angry billy goat. But none of you assholes care. Therefore, I’ll simply continue with the story.

I worked with a guy named Othello. He’s an eighteen-year-old light-skinned black kid. And he’s one of the few nightly crew members who doesn’t get stoned on the job.

I passed one of his tables and noticed that he was speaking a foreign language to the customers.

I said, “Holy shit, Othello. You’re fluent in Spanish?”

He nodded.

I said, “How did you learn that shit?”

I was mightily impressed.

He said, “My parents are both from the Dominican Republic. I learned to speak Spanish before English.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I had no fucking idea. Good for you.”

Othello is a hell of a worker, and I can barely keep up with him when we’re on the same shift. That’s why I prefer working with hardcore stoners. They make me feel good about myself. Which makes sense, right? After all, the last thing I’d want to do is take a math class with Einstein and Newton.

The only flaw in Othello’s game is that he’s a bit shy and standoffish. He talks to the customers as little as possible.

Anyway, I was bussing the booth right behind a sour-looking middle-aged couple. The man turned around to face me, and I acknowledged him by smiling and nodding my head.

I said, “How are you?”

He never responded.

Instead, his old prune of a wife said, “Hello, yourself. We’re trying to eat over here.”

I’ve got no idea what her problem was. I guess she wanted me to shut the fuck up while she stuffed her face with hash browns. But I never let rude people bother me. What the hell do I care? So I went silently back to work and listened to their conversation.

She said, “Remember the Waffle House in El Paso? Now that place was great.”

He said, “Yup, they really hustled at that location.”

“This place sucks. We had to wait nearly five minutes to get our goddamn food.”

“Well, they can forget their tip.”

Of course, it didn’t matter to me. They belonged to Othello, and nobody splits the tips at the Waffle House. However, you run into your fair share of retards when you’re a server, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to please them. Therefore, I no longer try.

The grill operator was Radiohead, and she was talking to herself as usual. She has a huge problem with anxiety, and it was pretty damn busy for a Monday night. So she nearly went into a meltdown.

She said, “I’m about to walk the fuck out of this place.”

I said, “What did you say?”

“I’m about to walk out.”

I shook my head. “Listen to me, Radiohead. You aren’t walking out. I won’t allow it. Me and Othello don’t know how to cook. So you’d be throwing us to the wolves.”

“But I hate this fucking place. The second-shift cook never stocks the stuff I need. It’s like I’m working three jobs.”

“You should take your time and relax. It’ll be OK.”

“Fuck this place. Two weeks ago, I got written up for calling in sick. What kind of shit is that?”

“You can quit after the shift. But not now. I won’t let you.”

Luckily, the traffic dried up at 2 a.m., and Radiohead was able to hang on to her sanity.

It was an average night financially. I made about 200 bucks.

Glorious

 

(Can ugly people be glorious?)

Yesterday, I talked to my boss for a few minutes before clocking in. We were out by the dumpsters smoking our generic cigarettes.

He said, “Hey, Jack. What happened with Jamaal?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t really know. We were working together on Thursday night when he suddenly decided to walk out. Did he quit?”

The manager nodded. “Yup, he sure did.”

“Don’t take it personally. He’s just a young kid, and he has a good heart. When I was his age, I was stupid, too.”

“Oh, I understand completely.” He let out a giant sigh. “It leaves me in a bind, though.”

We smoked in silence for nearly a minute because I’m awful at talking with my superiors. It always makes me nervous. And our age difference is also a problem. I’m old enough to be the manager’s father.

He said, “You’re not planning on quitting, are you?”

I shook my head. “No, I need the money. Plus this restaurant is very close to my house. It’s only four miles away.”

“So you’re still liking the gig?”

I thought about the question for a moment. “Yes, I actually love working at Waffle House. I have no idea why. But for some reason I enjoy coming here.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. This is actually a great company to work for. Have you looked at the Waffle-House stock options?”

I shook my head from side to side. “No, I haven’t had the chance. And to be honest with you, I’m kind of semi-retired. Therefore, I’m trying to keep things as simple as possible.”

“I understand completely.”

For most of the night, I was the only server on duty. My grill operator was Radiohead. And true to form, she spent the whole night talking to herself.

A kid from the nearby McDonald’s brought over some cookies. He has the hots for Pork-Chop Jane, and he’s always trying to butter her up with tasty treats. And I don’t blame him. Jane is a hundred and sixty pounds of sassy dynamite. Plus she’s always goofed on skunk weed…which seems to render her perpetually jolly.

I gazed at him with doleful eyes. “She’s not here tonight, my little friend. But keep trying. I’m sure you’ll eventually win her over.”

“Thanks, man. I really appreciate your confidence in me. Here. Take the cookies for yourself.”

And that’s exactly what I did. They were chocolate chip, and I ate every last one of them.

Since I was the only waiter in the joint, things got kind of hairy for a couple of hours. I had to dance from table to table like a graceful ballerina, making delightful small talk and taking accurate orders. You should have seen me. I was a true white-trash artist.

And where did I learn these skills? From the Waffle Queen. She’s the waitress who comes in at 6 a.m. and takes over my tables. From her, I learned that the real pressure is on the grill operator. I’m simply the asshole who writes shit down.

And Radiohead has to be one of the slowest cooks in the entire United States. But what’s it to me? Let her deal with the pressure. I’m too busy being glorious.

Anyway, I made over $260 for my ten hours of work. That comes to 26 bucks an hour. It’s not great, but it’s better than living in Djibouti.

Dementia

 

(Mom is having trouble with her brain.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 6 p.m. and walked to the patio for a smoke. Mom was there sipping on a cup of coffee.

I said, “How did it go at the doctor’s office?”

“Not good. He said that I’ll probably get dementia in the near future.”

I sighed heavily. “That’s terrible. Did he say that you have dementia now?”

She took a swig of her beverage. “No, but my brain isn’t functioning properly. I’m having a hard time remembering things. So he thinks that my mental decline will continue to deteriorate.”

“Man, what an asshole. Why the hell did he have to tell you? Wouldn’t it have been better to learn this crop after he made an actual diagnosis?”

“Well, I guess it’s his job.”

“Oh, horseshit. There’s a poem by Emily Dickinson called Tell the Truth, but Tell It in Slant.”

“I’ve never read it.”

“The meaning is actually pretty simple. The truth is a powerful thing. Therefore, one shouldn’t go around battering people with it like a fucking sledgehammer.”

The conversation brought on memories of when my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer back in the day. The doctor came striding into the room to let us all know that there was absolutely no hope. In other words, poor old Dad was fucking screwed.

What kind of bedside manner was that?

This is how he should have phrased it: “Pancreatic cancer sucks giant ass, and it pretty much kills everyone that it afflicts. But this man is a tough son of a bitch who is going to fight until the bitter end, and miracles have been known to happen. So put on your war face and get ready for a tough fucking fight.”

Now that’s telling the truth but telling it in slant. Those nerds need to take more literature classes in college.

Anyway, I went to work at 9 p.m., and the place was a ghost town. To make matters worse, three servers were on duty which drastically reduced the amount of tickets we could write.

My first table was a couple of Mexicans. And I knew from past experience that these two douchebags weren’t going to give me a dime. I had waited on them a few times in the past and had never received a penny.

True to form, they ran up a $45 bill and walked out without leaving me a single cent. Where do these motherfuckers get the balls?

Then I had the misfortune of waiting on a husband and wife who ran me through the ringer. They constantly demanded refills and extra packets of grape jelly. Plus the mess they left on the table was beyond belief. Smeared butter. Melting ice. Filthy hash browns covered in tabasco sauce.

Sadly, your humble narrator just stood there and took it like a fool. What else could I do? So what did they leave me for all of my trouble. Not a fucking dime!

Then a black guy walked through the door at 2 a.m. I screwed up the order, giving him a pecan waffle instead of the peanut butter he requested. Yet he told me not to worry, that he would eat it anyway. Then he slipped me $40 as a tip.

I said, “Sir, this is way too much.”

“Bullshit. It’s only money. All I ask is that you don’t waste it on booze or drugs. Instead, take your grandchildren out to dinner.”

All in all, it wasn’t a terrible shift. I ended up making $230.

More Verbal Violence

(There's never a dull moment.)

Last night, I worked with Jamaal. He’s a lazy son of a bitch, but I like the kid, nevertheless. So I greeted him warmly as he walked through the door, but all I got in return was a disgruntled grunt.

I said, “What’s the matter?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to be here.”

I smiled at him. “Listen, my friend. Nobody wants to be here. It’s called working for a living.” Then I gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Cheer up, for Christ’s sake. This is overnights at the Waffle House, the land of drunken happiness.”

“I’m thinking of moving to the Dairy Queen.”

“The Dairy Queen? Are you nuts? They don’t even tip over there.”

The news shocked me. Even though Jamaal’s a filthy pothead, I really enjoy working with him. And I’m not sure who the boss will get to replace the kid. Lots of waffle boys and girls are downright fucking crazy. The restaurant can often have a cult-like atmosphere when it comes to serious people. As I said before, some of these crazy motherfuckers even tattoo themselves with waffle slogans. I shit you not.

A Mexican man and his son sat in my buddy’s section. I could tell they were good tippers because I’m developing a real sixth sense when it comes to generous people. I figured that getting ten or twenty bucks in his pocket for minimal work would snap him out of his funk. But I was wrong.

He said, “I’m going home?”

I said, “Going home already? You’re scheduled to work until 7 a.m.”

“I don’t care. I’m just not feeling it.”

“Why don’t you sit down and think for ten minutes. You know, get your head on straight. Because if you walk out of here, they’re probably going to fire you.”

Dwayne the Dwarf decided to add his opinion on the matter. “Jack’s right, Jamaal. Sit and think hard. It’s kinda of stupid to quit a job unless you have another one lined up.”

Jamaal said, “I don’t need cash these days since I’m living with my dad. He says that he’s willing to support me for the time being.”

Then he walked to the back of the store and punched out. The exact time was 10:30 p.m.

I knew that I’d benefit financially because I could now scarf up all the tips. Yet it really put me in a bind. I would have to cover all the side work for the entire restaurant. Clean the bathrooms. Sweep and mop the floor. Drop the sink. Prepare the iced tea. Fill all the sugar, salt, and pepper containers. Trust me. The list goes on and on.

But what’s a boy to do? I just had to keep on keeping on.

At 3 a.m., we had a to-go order come in over the internet. Dwayne the Dwarf was cleaning various pots and pans over the deep sink in the back of the restaurant.

I warned him several times. “We have a to-go order. All the other shit might have to wait.”

“I don’t have to wait. The motherfucker that ordered the food will have to wait. He doesn’t make the goddamn rules.”

And wouldn’t you know it. The guy showed up five minutes later, and I had nothing to give him. Needless to say, he was pissed off.

He pointed at Dwayne with his index finger. “You know, this happens all the motherfucking time because of that crackhead. Just cancel the fucking order. I got to get to work.”

Dwayne looked at him. “No fucking problem. I’ll cancel your order. But don’t come back here again.”

The Dwarf walked to the register but couldn’t figure how to operate the void function. I sensed the potential for violence lingering in the air, so I decided to take action.

I reached into my apron and took out seventeen dollars. “Sir, I’m paying for your food.”

“No, you ain’t. This has nothing to do with you, Jack. It’s all about Dwayne. Every time I’m here, he’s high out of his mind.”

My grill operator exploded. “Get the fuck out of my store! I’ll never cook for you again!”

“Fuck you, you fucking junkie.”

“I’m gonna call the cops if you don’t leave.”

“Call the fucking police. I don’t give a fuck.”

“Asshole.”

“Fuck you, you fucking faggot. And if you keep running that mouth, I’ll break your fucking head open.”

I gently grabbed the man’s wrist and forced my money into his hand. “Just take it and go. The last thing we need is the law descending on the restaurant. Nothing good will come of it.”

“But that’s your money.”

“It’s only seventeen dollars, and I’ve done well tonight in tips. Take it. It’s my pleasure.”

And that’s what he did. He put the cash in his pocket and walked out the door. It was the best money I ever spent.

I ended up making $250 for my ten-hour shift. That comes to twenty-five bucks an hour. Things could’ve been much worse.

If you enjoyed this post, then try my message board. I'm trying to start an online community. 

More Healthcare Shit

 

(Larry has a doctor.)

Yesterday, I finally found my son a doctor who is willing to take Medicaid. He’s about a twenty-minute drive from my house.

The woman on the phone said, “Dr. Smith’s schedule is pretty busy. The earliest appointment for a new patient is in September.”

“I’ll take it! Beggars can’t be choosers.”

There was a long awkward silence.

“Sir, nobody said that you’re a beggar. We treat everyone here with respect.”

I laughed out loud. “I apologize. It’s only a saying. I certainly didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Yes, ma’am. Is there a clinic for poor folk? What happens if my son catches strep throat? Where would he go? Sometimes, these routine ailments can actually prove deadly.”

“In that case, you would have to take him to the emergency room.”

“Does Medicaid cover the cost for the emergency room?”

“Probably not.”

I laughed out loud again.

America is great if you are an arms dealer, a pornographer, or a successful politician. But for the rest of us poor sons of bitches, it seems to be a constant struggle between life and death. But I’m not going to complain. This is where I live, and I’m just going to have to get used to it…even if it kills me. Which is probably will.

After that, Mom and I drove to the Department of Health to show them Rice-Boy Larry’s vaccination record. All of that stuff has to be put into a computer system so that my boy can attend the local high school.

The guy at the counter told me that he’d call me in a couple of days to let me know if everything was straight. However, if Larry needs more shots, they have a clinic to take care of him on-site.

Mom said, “Let’s go to Walmart.”

I said, “Why? We were just there the other day.”

“Well, you and your boy need new underwear.”

I nodded. “That’s true.”

“Plus you can use your EBT card again.”

“I don’t think it covers the cost of boxer shorts.”

Anyway, we went shopping, and two small bags of underwear came to forty-five dollars. I also bought some water, a few bags of sunflower seeds, an apple pie, and a bathroom scale.

I made the purchase with my normal debit card. The final tally? 82 bucks.

On the way home, I struck up a conversation with Mom.

I said, “That EBT card is a miracle, isn’t it?”

She smiled at me. “It’s fantastic.”

“But I have to give the government information about the Dragon Lady if I want to continue with the benefits. Uncle Sam sent me a form.”

“Why?”

“I guess they’re trying to stick her for child support. But good fucking luck. I don’t even know where she lives.”

“Well, send it in. It would be a shame to lose all that assistance.”

“Oh, I plan to. Have no worries. However, I just hope it doesn’t hurt her chances of getting back into the country.”

Mom sighed deeply. “You truly are mentally ill, aren’t you? Fuck that bitch. Look at all the shit she’s done to you over the years.”

My thing is this. I’m probably going to be dead within the next five years, and I don’t want to hold on to any ancient grudges. Let bygones be bygones.

Don’t misunderstand me. I have zero feelings of romantic love for my wife. She abandoned the children and me, and she also drained the bank account. However, I do look at her as family. Which leaves me with a sense of responsibility toward her…no matter how evil she might be.

Anyway, when we arrived home, I weighed myself on the new bathroom scale. I’m 188 pounds. Final analysis? I’ve lost more than 80 pounds over the last three years. I guess that’s a good thing.

I simply hope that I don’t have cancer.

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EBT

 

(The smell of victory.)

Today, I woke up at 8 a.m. and had a cup of coffee on the patio. Mom and her dogs were with me. Julius the angry Schnauzer kept barking and growling.

I said, “Shut the fuck up.”

Mom said, “Be nice to my puppies.”

“Julius has a lot of mental problems.”

She took a sip of her beverage. “That’s true. I got him on the cheap because of his behavioral issues. They cut $125 from the price. But down deep he’s really a good boy.”

“How much did you pay for him?”

“$375.”

Julius is nice to my mom and my stepfather and Nurse Ken. But he treats me and Rice-Boy Larry like shit. In fact, he often snaps at us. Yet the situation isn’t dangerous. The dog is old and missing most of his teeth. Dental problems are a huge problem in rural America…even among the animals.

Later that morning, I called Rice-Boy’s primary-care physician in order to arrange an appointment for his skin. I’m trying to get him on Accutane. But shit fell apart fast after speaking to the receptionist.

She said, “How can I help you?”

“I’m trying to make an appointment for my son.  He’s on Medicaid, and you guys are listed as his primary-care physician.”

“That’s impossible. This doctor is a pulmonary specialist, so you need to call Medicaid and straighten the matter out.”

And that’s what I did. The lady I spoke to was very nice. She sent me a list of physicians in my area and told me that I needed to call them to see if they would accept Larry as a new patient. I know that most of the doctors will run for the hills. You can’t buy a brand-new Cadillac and join a posh country club when you’re working for the poor.

In the afternoon, Mom and I drove to Walmart to use my EBT card. But we ate a Chinese buffet before shopping for food.

Mom said, “Don’t worry. We’ll find a doctor for Larry.”

I nodded. “I know. I just have to be patient.”

“Are you sorry you came to America?”

“Not really. I wanted the boys to be together in life. It kind of sucks when you’re separated by an ocean.”

“I’m sure that Larry will do well in school.”

“I fucking hope so. This town is filled with fuckheads and retards. If you can’t beat these hillbillies academically, then there’s pretty much no hope.”

She frowned. “You’re such a negative son of a bitch.”

“What did I say?”

By the time we got to Walmart, I was truly on the verge of shitting my pants. I had to run into the store in order to empty my bowels. The stench was putrid. In fact, it was so rancid that I felt ashamed of myself.

I worry about my health. I used to weigh nearly 270 pounds, but now I’m down to 200. I guess that’s good news, but I’m always worried about cancer. That’s the disease that killed my father.

Anyway, we threw eighty bucks worth of meat into the shopping cart.

I said, “Get some more. I’ve got 300 on the card.”

“Don’t you think we should try it out first? What happens if it fails?”

“I guess you’re right. We can always come back to buy some more in the future.”

So we went to the self-swipe area and rang up the vittles. Then the moment of truth came. I put the card in the machine and…bingo! It worked. Easy. Peasy. Lemon squeezee.

It was one of the few victories in my life.

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Food Stamps

 

(I'm an official member of the working poor.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 7 p.m. and stumbled into the kitchen. Mail was waiting for me on the counter, and it was from the state government.

Mom was very excited. “Go ahead and open it. It looks like you qualified for your benefits.”

I said, “Calm down, old woman. There’s not a chance in hell that I’m getting food stamps.”

Well, I was wrong. I’m now receiving $200 a month to pay for my vittles. One of the envelopes even contained an EBT card. It looks just like a normal credit card. So now I have to find a place that will accept it. I guess I’ll try Walmart.

I know that some of you assholes will berate me for being a loser. But here are the facts. I’m an old dude with a full-time job. Plus everything I wrote on the application was 100 percent true. I showed them my bank account. I told them about my Hyundai Venue. And I explained that I’m currently living with family. So somebody in the office must have decided that I’m a poor elderly bastard who needs a little assistance. Which is true. I’m a broke dead dick.

God bless America, right?

I walked onto the patio to smoke a cigarette. Mom was out there drinking coffee.

I said, “Are you going to the doctor’s office tomorrow?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Why? I’ll drive you.”

I have plenty of time this week because I don’t go to Waffle House until Thursday. Then I have to work five 10-hour shifts in a row. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. It ain’t an easy schedule for a guy who’s pushing sixty. Sometimes, I pray that God will kill me with a lightning bolt. But I do my best to keep a sunny attitude.

Anyway, Mom gave a strange reply. “I can’t go because the grass is too long. I have to make sure that your boys cut it.”

“That’s the dumbest shit I ever heard. Of course they’re gonna cut it.

Mom’s yard isn’t very big. In fact, an old geezer like me can do the job in about an hour. My two sons zip through it in no-time flat.

She said, “You don’t have to insult me.”

“I’m not insulting you. But what are your plans? Are you going to stare at the grass to stop it from growing?”

“Make sure you tell them that the job’s got to be done.”

I sighed heavily. “I will, for Christ’s sake. Just give it a rest.”

Then it was time to do my laundry. You should have seen the state of my apron. It was stained with grits and other various bits of food. I’m surprised that none of the customers complained. But it’s overnights at the Waffle House. They were probably too drunk to notice.

I have to be honest with you. Sometimes, I wear the same pair of pants for an entire week of overnight shifts. Plus I only have two work shirts. But at least I take a shower every day. So I guess that’s good enough.

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Dope Fiend!

 

(The Dwarf Loves to Get High.)

Saturday started off with a bang. The restaurant was filled to capacity from ten p.m. until two in the morning. And my old ass was running this way and that way to keep up with the customers. It was a bit draining.

To make matters worse, I kept fucking up all the orders. For instance, one guy wanted chili and gravy on his hash browns. And his request totally slipped my mind.

He raised his hand, and I ran to his table.

“Yes, sir?”

“I wanted gravy and chili on my hashbrowns.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Let me do that for you now.”

“No worries. You’re busy. I get it.”

So I took his plate and made the required adjustments.

Then a middle-aged woman flagged me down. “I didn’t want bacon. I ordered sausage.”

I shook my head and sighed. “My apologies.” I paused for dramatic effect. “I’m the shittiest waiter in the world. In fact, somebody should take me outside and shoot me.”

“No, honey. It’s not a problem. You certainly don’t deserve to be shot. Just get me some sausage when you get a chance.”

I walked over to Dwayne the Dwarf. He was sweating like a little pygmy over the grill.

I tapped him on the shoulder and looked him right in his bloodshot eyes. “I fucked up an order. I need you to pull a sausage when you get a chance.”

He grunted his approval. Dwayne’s been in a good mood these days. He must be smoking some righteous weed.

By the way, I ate the woman’s discarded bacon. That’s the best thing about the Waffle House. You can literally nibble all night long. I wolf down the pies. I chomp on the hash browns. And I slurp on the chili.

Suddenly, a violent storm came through the area, and the power went off for about a minute. All the customers were happy because they thought they might get a free meal since the cash register was down. In fact, they let out a collective groan when the lights came back on.

After that, the place went completely dead for a couple of hours. However, the lack of customers was actually a benefit. It gave me time to prepare the iced tea. I was also able to sweep and mop the floors.

At four a.m., a strange couple walked through the door. It was a young black woman and an old white guy covered in tats. On his forearm was scribbled the words Rock Star. Right away, I knew this guy was a Waffle Boy. That’s how crazy some waffle people are. They even ink themselves to tell the world about their glory.

Dwayne was out by the dumpsters getting high, so I took their order all by my lonesome. The gentleman wanted a half-and-half to drink. This was more waffle bullshit. Waffle people like to test the knowledge of other waffle people. A half-and-half means sweet tea mixed with unsweetened tea.

Suddenly, Dwayne sauntered back into the kitchen. He was higher than a kite caught in a windstorm.

Rock Star suddenly stood up and pointed at the dwarf. “Is he the cook?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, we’re not eating here. He’s on drugs!”

Dwayne said, “Then fuck you. So take your woman and get the fuck outta here.”

Rock Star was fuming with rage. “You better watch yourself, little man. I’ll kick the shit out of you.”

I said, “Let’s not resort to violence. I’m too old and easily broken.”

Rock Star said, “What? You sound like a pussy.”

I nodded in agreement. “I am a pussy, sir. And the last thing I want is a fistfight. But if you punch him, then you’re gonna have to punch me, too. I’m not going to let you kick the shit out of my grill operator.”

“He’s a drug fiend!”

I shrugged my shoulders. “So what? Dwayne is a hash-brown boy. Now I could understand your outrage if he were an air-traffic controller or an elementary school teacher. But c’mon, my friend. It’s overnights at the Waffle House. What did you expect?.”

“You can both go fuck yourselves.”

That’s when his girlfriend began tugging on his arm, and he left without throwing any punches.

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