Homeless Hugh

 

(Waffle House attracts a lot of bums.)

At 10 p.m., I left the restaurant for a smoke. I stood in the parking lot puffing away on my cancer stick when I saw a guy carrying a backpack heading in my direction. I felt a pain in the pit of my stomach because I knew it was a homeless guy coming to beg for free hash browns. And I simply don’t have the heart to refuse them. One day, maybe I’ll need free hash browns, too.

He took a hit off his vape machine and grinned at me. He was missing several teeth in the front of his mouth, and his remaining choppers were dark and dirty.

He said, “My name’s Hugh, and I’m from Scotland. And you are Jack. I love name tags. They make life so much easier.”

I shot him an uneasy smile. “My mother is originally from Scotland. Glasgow, to be precise.”

“Glasgow. I’ve been there many times. But I live way up in the north country. In fact, I’m so far north that I can fly to Finland for twenty-nine pound.”

“What brings you to America?”

“I’ve come here to hike. I enjoy walking from hither to yon. I guess you could call it a hobby. But unfortunately I’ve run into trouble.”

“And what would that be?”

“At my last campsite, the squirrels got into my bag while I was sleeping. I’m afraid they defaced my bank card and rendered it useless. I won’t get a new one until Monday.”

I sighed heavily.  “That really sucks. Would you like a couple of free waffles and some bacon?”

“Brother, you are truly a godsend.”

So he came inside and sat at the counter. And I made the poor broke prick his food. The good thing about working nights at the Waffle House is that my co-workers are usually too stoned to care if the occasional hobo needs a place to rest his feet for a while. In fact, Dwayne the Dwarf and Pork-Chop Jane never uttered a single word about the matter.

While he was munching away on his vittles, he told me about his advanced education.

He said, “I have a Ph.D. in medieval history from Cambridge, and I served in the Australian army for many years. But I caught bone cancer, and I’m also struggling with prostate cancer.”

That’s when I reached for my wallet and handed the guy four five-dollar bills.

I said, “That’s all I have. Twenty bucks. I wish I could give you more.”

“You are a true Christian, my friend. And I’ll return this to you in a few days.”

I waved off his notion with both hands because my bullshit detector was going off at full blast. Cambridge? Ph.D.? Well, let’s just say I had my doubts.

I said, “I tell you what. Pay it forward. Next time you see a homeless bum, give him a twenty.”

“Fair enough, Jack. Fair enough.”

The problem with these hard-luck cases is that they never fucking leave. Hugh sat there for the next five hours sipping on water and nibbling on bits of bacon. And he kept talking and talking and talking about useless garbage.

“Jack, have you ever had pizza in Glasgow?”

“Yes, I have, Hugh. They deep fry it.”

He clapped his hands together triumphantly. “That’s right, lad. They deep fry it.”

And he laughed and laughed and laughed.

He finally left the fucking restaurant at 3 a.m. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. I wasn’t sad to see him go.

It was one of the lowest paying nights in my Waffle House career. I only made $170 for the entire ten-hour shift. That comes to $17 an hour.

Talk about shit pay for a guy my age. But at least I ain’t begging for hash browns. Yet, anyway.

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