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.