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.