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.