Jack Versus Jane

 

(I certainly don't want to be a dick.)

I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m., and the place was crowded. So I hit the floor right away, taking an order for a pain-in-the-ass family of three. Trust me. These were some off-the-menu motherfuckers. Dad wanted his hash browns light. And Mom wanted her waffle light. And the boy said he didn’t want eggs even though he ordered an All-Star Breakfast.

But I gave them a joyful smile and patiently explained their instructions to Dwayne the Dwarf. And, to his credit, he did what I told him to do without handing me any sass. So all’s well that ends well. Plus they left me a fifteen-dollar tip…which is pretty nice. However, I had to hustle for every last penny. Being a waiter isn’t a job which allows you to keep your dignity. I’m one tiny step above a stripper.

With that said, the money kept falling from the trees. People were passing out twenty-dollar bills like they were candy. In fact, my biggest tip of the night was forty bucks, and I barely did a thing for the table. I guess it all comes down to luck.

Yet money isn’t free. When you have a shitload of customers, the dishes start piling up in the sink. And you don’t have the time to knock them out because you’re too busy waiting on tables.

At one a.m., I took some trash back to the dumpster. And you should have witnessed what I saw. A group of ten teenagers were huddled in a circle smoking dope and swapping stories. And who was their ringleader? You guessed it. Pork-Chop Jane.

Needless to say, I was filled with fury. And when she came back inside, I gave her a piece of my mind.

She said, “Are you doing OK, Jack?”

I shot her the stink eye. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I’ve been tied to this wonderful dish pit for the last two hours. And meanwhile you and your friends have created your very own private opium den. What could be better?”

“Then take yourself a break. Jesus, man, what’s your fucking problem. Do have hemorrhoids or something?”

“No, I don’t have hemorrhoids, and you are free to do all the drugs you want. As long as it’s on your time.”

“You need a chill pill. You’re getting old, Jack. Getting old.”

“Look, I might be a geezer. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’re playing me for a fool. I’m in here slaving away while you’re outside getting high.”

And for the first time in my brief Waffle-House career, I thought about going to the manager. Working with potheads isn’t the easiest thing in the world. They break shit. They forget stuff. They never keep up with their work. And all their responsibilities land squarely on the uptight sober assholes.

But I’m not a squealer. It simply isn’t in my DNA. Plus Pork-Chop told me about her rotten life, and it broke my heart. Her parents are dirt poor. She dropped out of school during Covid. She can’t afford a car, so she has to ride everywhere on a bike. And the kid is only nineteen years old.

Anyway, our conversation left me with a lot of guilt pangs. I’m certainly not going to drop a dime on a child. Heaven forbid. But I will continue to ride her ass until I get adequate work-place production. I’ll be damned if I’ll grind my fingers to the bone to keep her in cupcakes. Fuck that shit.

In spite of the drama, the night was a financial success. I ended up making $280.

Happy Wanda

 

(Wanda couldn't stop smiling.)

Yesterday, I got to the restaurant at 8:45 p.m. and had a cig at the dumpsters with Weepy Wanda. These days, she mainly works 2^nd shift. However, she enjoys hanging around after she clocks out to get high with Pork-Chop Jane. They toke their weed and discuss their boyfriends. Sometimes, they do drugs and gossip for two to three hours. I shit you not.

Anyway, Wanda was all smiles.

I said, “What are you so happy about?”

“Cindy got fired.”

Cindy is a rough-edged waitress who also works the 2^nd shift. She has a ton of tats and has been warned several times for vaping inside the establishment.

I said, “What did she do?”

“The manager doesn’t like her attitude.”

“That’s it? There must be more to the story than that.”

“Cindy’s been on her last warning for several months now. But the manager was cool about it. He said that she’s free to work at any Waffle House in the entire state of Texas. Just not at this one.”

Well, my friends, what can I tell you. They come and they go. It’s the Waffle-House way.

The night was extremely busy, but unfortunately the grill operator was Slow-Poke Benson. The kid still doesn’t know how to cook a fucking egg, and Dwayne the Dwarf refuses to teach him. Dwayne says that he’s too fucking old to be an instructor.

One of my orders took nearly 30 minutes to complete. I was afraid that my customers were all going to stand up and walk out. But most of them turned out to be jovial souls, and they waited patiently without protesting.

Slow-Poke Benson finally left at 2 a.m. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. I wasn’t sad to see him go. Waiting for that kid to finish an order is an exercise in frustration.

Then this greasy old biker limped into the restaurant and sat at the hi-bar.

I said, “Is that a Harley?”

He nodded grimly. “Damn straight, it’s a Harley. I wouldn’t ride nothing else.”

“I’ve always been afraid of motorcycles. They seem kind of dangerous.”

He nodded again. “I lost my fucking foot about a year ago after dumping my bike in the street. But I swore that I’d get back on the horse and ride again. And here I am, my friend.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Nothing in the world is going to keep me off my Harley.”

After he finished shoving the rest of his hash browns into his mouth, he left me a five-dollar tip.

At 3 a.m., a drunk guy staggered into the parking lot and took a nap right by our front door. Somebody must have called the police because three squad cars came rolling in a couple of minutes later. The man was arrested for public intoxication, and Pork-Chop Jane was asked to write a witness statement describing everything she’d seen.

This filled her with joy, and her boyfriend helped her spell the difficult words.

Of course, I was mopping and sweeping while she had all the fun. Jane is by far the laziest person I’ve ever met. Sometimes, I just want to smack her in the head with the mop. Yet she’s only nineteen, so I do my best to remain patient.

Overall, it wasn’t a bad night. I ended up with $260 dollars for the ten-hour shift.

The New Grill Operator

 

(Jesus helped Bruce turn his life around.)

Yesterday, a new grill operator showed up for the overnight shift. His name is Bruce. The kid isn’t new to the Waffle House. In fact, he’s been with the company for many years. But he’s usually a morning guy. That’s where all the action is. The mornings.

I said, “How old are you, Bruce?”

He said, “Twenty-six.”

“Wow. You’re young enough to be my son.”

“I might look young. But there’s a lot of tread on my tires.”

I smiled at him. “Really? You’re still a child. How can there be tread on your tires?”

“I was homeless for almost two years. I was also addicted to crack.”

I shot him a puzzled expression. “Crack?”

He nodded. “I’d do anything for drugs. In fact, I used to beat up other homeless people just to steal their money. I’m not proud of myself. Yet the truth is the truth.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You can say that again. He helped me out of the gutter.”

Waffle House is a rough crew. I can’t imagine assaulting hobos for drug money. It makes no sense to me. Besides, how much money does a bum usually carry? But I guess substance abusers aren’t the most logical people in the world.

Then he told me about another morning grill operator who’s in trouble with the manager. The cook’s name is Butch Li. He’s originally from Cambodia. I know the dude in passing. I see him from time to time at 7 a.m.

I said, “What the fuck did Butch do?”

“He keeps sassing the boss.”

I shrugged my shoulders while turning my palms to the sky. “Why would he sass the boss?”

“Butch has a problem with authority. He just can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.”

“But he barely speaks a word of English.”

“It’s all about the attitude.”

Waffle House has a huge turnover rate. I’ve only been working here for a few months, yet I’ve already seen four or five people get the axe. And you can’t blame the management. These folk are fucking batshit crazy. I shit you not.

Pork-Chop Jane was also working the shift. She was her usual self. Her entire family showed up at the restaurant, and she spent a good hour outside in the parking lot talking to them. Then they came inside to sit in a booth, and she gave them all free food.

After they left, her boyfriend visited, and she spent another hour by the dumpster smoking dope and sucking face with her latest flame.

I really should get a job selling cars. I think I could sell the crap out of them, and I wouldn’t have to spend any time washing pots and pans in the dish pit. Sadly, I’m fucking lazy. As I’ve said many times, the restaurant is only a five-minute drive from my humble abode.

The shift wasn’t very busy, and I only wrote nineteen tickets. Yet I still managed to make $200. Most of the customers were extremely nice. However, I did have a couple of Mexicans in the corner who ran up a $42 bill and completely stiffed me on the tip. I don’t know where these motherfuckers get the balls.

Theft

 

(The Waffle Princess ripped me off.)

On Sunday, I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. I was the only server on the floor for about an hour, and the joint was pretty full. I had to handle seven tables on my own…which might not seem like much to a regular waiter. But you have to remember that this is the Waffle House. So I’m also the busser and the dishwasher.

With that said, I handled the situation pretty well. I’ve been at the gig for a few months now, and I’ve pretty much got the hang of it.

Dwayne the Dwarf yelled at me in front of the manager. He didn’t like the way I was making my calls. Yet my boss never said a word. The employees often scream at one another. I guess everybody is used to it.

At 10:30 p.m., a cop car pulled into the parking lot and a woman got out carrying a shitload of her belongings. A purse. An overstuffed backpack. A small suitcase. And a blanket which was draped around her shoulders.

She walked inside and took a seat in one of the booths. The girl was in her twenties. She wasn’t ugly, but a caution sign might as well have been flashing above her head. Hard bitten. That’s the best way to describe her.  She was covered in tats and was sporting a pair of denim shorty shorts.

I smiled at her. “Can I get you something to drink?”

She smiled back. “No. I don’t need nothing except to charge my phone.”

“Want to rest your feet for a while, huh?”

“Yes, sir. I just got out of jail. I was in there for three weeks.”

“What the hell did you do?”

She smirked in a snotty fashion. “Those stupid cops said that I beat up my boyfriend.”

“Did you?”

“Fuck right I hit him. But he hit me, too.”

“Did they arrest him?”

“No, he didn’t leave any marks.”

I decided to completely ignore her. I was involved in an abusive relationship for years and years. In fact, the Dragon Lady would often get physical with me. I’ve even been kicked in the nuts a couple of times. Plus she would hurl plates and dishes at my head.  It sounds funny, but it really isn’t. Because there isn’t a damn thing you can do. If you fight back, you get labeled as a wife beater. It’s really nice to have a little peace in my life.

At midnight, a huge to-go order came in through the internet. I spent a lot of time putting the food into all types of plastic containers and bagging them up in an orderly fashion. Then I had to throw in all the syrup and butter and plastic cutlery.

About fifteen minutes later, the guy came to pick up his vittles. The Waffle Princess handed him his order, and the man handed her a ten-dollar tip. She quickly put the money in her pocket without saying a word to me.

Needless to say, her actions grated on my nerves. She pretty much stole my money. Yet I managed to control my anger and remained silent. It was my best option.

The Waffle Princess is only seventeen. So it would be a bad visual if an old man bullied her for such a small amount of cash.

However, I have to say this. When you work at the Waffle House, you really have to keep an eye on the other servers. Many of them have criminal records.

At 6 a.m., the lady who had just got out of jail found a ride to West Virginia with a complete stranger. Many of the customers were worried, fearing that she was putting herself in danger. Yet I felt bad for the dude. He had no idea what he was getting into.

Overall, I made $210 for the shift.

Saturday Night

 

(There'll be war and rumors of war.)

I got up at 6 p.m. and walked to the kitchen for supper. My mother served me a hamburger, and it tasted damn good. Meanwhile, Nurse Ken was sitting at the counter.

I said, “I listened to Steve Bannon’s podcast the other day. He thinks that Orange Donald has come to his senses and isn’t going to attack Iran.”

Ken said, “Well, Bannon’s full of shit because we just bombed their nuclear sites.”

I shook my head in disdain. “No fucking kidding? Well, I guess Trump knows what he’s doing. The guy has great instincts.”

“Horseshit. Soon we won’t be able to afford gasoline.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “What are you going to do? It’s like Jesus said during the Olivette discourse. There will be wars and rumors of war. But these are merely birthing pangs.”

Ken was disgusted by my words and went into a huge tirade against the Jews. He believes that all our politicians are controlled by the Zionists. But he doesn’t understand white people. We love money and power, and no Jew is going to tell us what to do…unless we can cash in.

Gradually, his argument became more ridiculous. He told me that I was forced to work at the Waffle House because of the Jews.

I said, “Are you fucking crazy? You’re going to pin this on Bibi?”

“Bibi controls our shitty economy.”

I pointed at him with my index finger. “You’re the reason I work at the Waffle House. Bibi’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You iced me out for six months and wouldn’t speak to me until I returned from Korea.”

This left him speechless because he knew it was true.

Anyway, I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m., and the manager wanted to speak to me out by the dumpsters.

He said, “How did yesterday go?”

I nodded. “Pretty good. We did a lot of business.”

“I heard that there was some conflict between the staff. Lots of yelling and screaming.”

I shot him a big toothy grin. “Honestly, I never even noticed. When you have a big crowd, it can get a tad stressful. But it seemed just like every other shift.”

And I wasn’t lying. The overnight situation is perpetually fucked up. But what do I care? I just work there and collect my pay. Plus I have other fish to fry.

Benson was the main grill operator, and his cooking skills seem to degenerate on a daily basis. If possible, he was even slower than the night before. Plus he kept dropping eggs on the floor because he doesn’t know how to flip them in the pan.

I tried to remain positive. “That’s OK, my young friend. You’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

Then I helped him make the toast.

I’m not sure if Radiohead got fired. But as bad as that lunatic was, she looks like Julia Child next to this fucking moron.

Then the kid burned himself on the grill and ran screaming out the back door. So I had to wake up Dwayne the Dwarf, which is never a pleasant task.

He shot me the stink eye and climbed out of the booth. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

And like a hero in a movie, he strode into the kitchen and saved the day.

Dwayne has a ton of skill. He can prepare an order for four people faster than it takes me to grill a waffle. I shit you not.

I ended up making $230 for the shift. And I only had to write eighteen tickets. Good for me.

Friday Night

 

(Dwayne the Dwarf is driving me crazy.)

On Friday evening, I finally found out the results of Rice-Boy Larry’s SAT exam. He scored a 1440 which puts him at the 95 percentile of all the deadbeats applying for universities throughout the nation.

He looked at me with glee in his eyes. “I fucking told you!”

“Told me what?”

“That I’m smart. But you refused to believe me. Well, here’s the fucking proof.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “What’s the perfect score for an SAT exam?”

“1600.”

“Then what are you fucking smiling about?”

In all honesty, there’s no way on God’s green earth that I could pull a result like that. But Rice-Boy is a motivated student. Always has been. In Korea, he used to stay up all night to get good grades in school.

Nurse Ken, on the other hand, is more like me. I think he got a 1290 if my memory serves me correctly. However, he just rolled out of bed without any preparation whereas his younger brother really burnt the midnight oil. To each their own.

I’m hoping that Rice-Boy can get into the University of Texas at Austin. Yet that’s a real stretch. If not, he’ll just have to settle for Texas A and M.

I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. My partners in crime were Pork-Chop Jane, Georgia the Waffle Princess, and Dwayne the Dwarf. We also had a new grill operator named Benson. He’s only 20 years old. And let me tell you something. This guy can’t cook a fucking thing. He’s as green as grass.

As soon as the boss was gone, Dwayne crawled into one of the booths and fell asleep. He made the new kid handle all the orders. And it was fucking chaos. All the servers had to help him out. My contribution to the cause was toast.

I turned to Georgia the Waffle Princess. “Is that old rotten motherfucker going to sleep all night?”

“I’m not sure. But maybe he’s sick.”

“Sick? My ass. He’s probably on fucking drugs.”

“You don’t know that for sure. And there’s no point in starting rumors.”

Her advice was sound. And I really don’t care if he’s hopped up on narcotics. It’s just that he’s making everyone’s life harder. Sadly, he’s a talented cook…when he’s actually awake. In fact, he’s got mad short-order skills. Yet he’s pissed off about something, and like an infant, he insists on taking out his fury on the rest of us.

Benson left at 2 a.m., and I was the guy assigned with to the task of waking up Dwayne.

I kicked his feet. “Hey, you old cocksucker, we’ve got customers. So you going to cook for them or not?”

“Leave me alone. The kid can handle it.”

“He ain’t here anymore. It’s just you.”

The dwarf stormed out of the booth and threw some empty hash-brown containers across the kitchen. Then after many repeated expletives, he began grilling some sandwiches. Of course, the customers all witnessed his juvenile tirade. So I guess the manager will probably bring it up sometime in the near future.

Yet the night wasn’t a total loss. I managed to make $250.

Thursday Night

 

(Sometimes, I can get a little paranoid.)

Last night, I ate a single piece of steak before driving to work. Nurse Ken was sitting at the kitchen counter.

I said, “When will they mail you your college diploma?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe in a couple weeks.”

“It’s almost July. Are you sure you actually graduated?”

He let out a heavy sigh. “You’ve asked me that question a million times. Yes, I fucking graduated.”

“Then why didn’t you go to the graduation ceremony?”

“I’m not into all that bullshit. I didn’t go to my high school graduation, either.”

Like father like son. I skipped all my ceremonies, too. I had no urge to walk across a stage to shake hands with some asshole I’ve never met before. But that’s me. My attitude sucks giant ass.

I cleared my throat. “Did you apply to the police like I asked you?”

“No, I didn’t apply to the fucking police. The last thing I want to do is become a cop. I’m still thinking about joining the Airforce.”

“Well, I hope you like the taste of sand because they’re going to end up sending you to the Middle East. Have fun getting your nuts shot off for Bibi and Orange Donald. However, I’m sure they’ll pay for the funeral. Hell, they might even give us a brand-new flag to drape over your coffin.”

“Why are you so unpatriotic?”

“I’m not unpatriotic. In fact, I’ll be the first one to defend the homeland. But I’ll be damned if I’ll die for nothing”

Anyway, I let it go after that. No reason to stand on a soapbox. Trust me. Nobody’s going to listen to a clown who wears an apron and a baseball cap to his job site.

I eventually got to the restaurant at 8:45 p.m. My co-workers were Dwayne the Dwarf and Pork-Chop Jane. True to form, the first thing Jane did upon her arrival was sit on her big beautiful ass and scarf down a huge BLT. Yet it was no big deal. The place was pretty much dead, so I was able to keep up with the work.

But Pork-Chop said something that made me a little paranoid. She talked about one of her friends being two-faced, and then she walked out the door to take a few hits off her vape.

I immediately went outside to confront her.

I said, “What was that crack about me being two-faced?”

She laughed out loud. “I wasn’t talking about you, Jack. It was about my boyfriend.”

“Because I’m not two-faced. The only time I talk to the manager is to say hello and goodbye.”

“Like I said, it has nothing to do with you.”

Working with Jane and Dwayne can be a tad challenging. Why? They break all the fucking rules. They fall asleep during their shift. They get high by the dumpster even though customers have complained about their service. They don’t do a lot of the required side work. Sometimes, she’ll sit for hours and hours in her boyfriend’s car while I’m inside cleaning the fucking plates.

Yet the manager seems oblivious to their work ethic. Is he ignoring their behavior, or is he genuinely ignorant of the situation? I’m picking option one because my boss is actually pretty smart. He’s far from a brain-dead hillbilly. So when he does eventually call them out, I don’t want my co-workers to think that I squealed on them.

Anyway, business was pretty slow all night long, and I only made $180. That comes to $18 an hour. Pretty shabby, if you ask me.

Sunday Night

(Be careful. She's only seventeen.)

On Sunday night, I worked with Radiohead and Georgia the Waffle Princess. As I told you before, Georgia is only seventeen. Why they have her on the overnight shift is beyond my comprehension. But it is what it is.

Anyway, Radiohead was having another bad shift. She kept hopping up and down on one foot and grabbing her side.

She said, “I hate this fucking place. I’m either going to quit or transfer to another restaurant.”

I said, “Are you OK? Did you twist your ankle or something?”

She looked at me with hate in her eyes. “No, I’m not fucking OK. Do I look OK to you?”

I shrugged. “Are you having a bad night?”

“It’s the nerves in my leg and back. They’re flaring up.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I called my husband, but the bastard told me to be tough and finish the shift.”

“Why don’t you get in touch with the manager? Just tell him that you’re sick.”

Radiohead gave me another hateful look. “He’s not working tonight, you fucking dipshit. It’s the district manager who’s on duty.”

I raised my hands in a show of surrender. “OK, OK. No need for name calling.”

She then marched out the back door for a much-needed cigarette.

Anyway, to make a long story short, she eventually got in touch with the big boss, and he sent over a young guy named Davis who looked like a surfer from California. He had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a five-o’clock shadow. He must have been handsome because the Waffle Princess couldn’t take her eyes off the guy.

He began flirting with her, and I immediately told him the score. “She’s only seventeen, Davis. I’m simply letting you know.”

Georgia got pissed off. “I hate the way you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Tell everybody my age. It’s not like you guys are my guardian.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “The law’s the law. And it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

It turns out that the Waffle Princess doesn’t know how to drive. So when her shift ended at 2 a.m., her mother came to pick her up. The old lady bought herself a sandwich and admired Davis from the counter.

Suddenly, the conversation turned toward the subject of marijuana. The princess’s mother told the entire restaurant that she was a huge fan of weed and smoked it on a daily basis. Her words made me cringe. Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but admitting your drug use in front of your teenaged daughter seems a bit crass to me. But what do I know?

After Georgia and her stoner mom left the building, it was just me and Davis for the rest of the night. And I soon noticed that he had no idea what the fuck he was doing. For instance, three customers walked into one of the booths, and a fearful expression passed over his face.

He turned to me and said, “Do you know how to mark the plates?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea. Sorry. I’ve never cooked in my life.”

Then it took him a million years to prepare the orders.

I was worried that he’d drown by the time morning hit. Between 5:30 to 7 a.m., there’s usually a huge blitz of customers. But lucky for him, we remained dead.

It wasn’t a great night for me. I only made $200. 

The Police and a Gun

 

(It was an exciting night.)

Yesterday, my mom cooked me a huge T-bone steak. It tasted wonderful. I dipped the meat into A-1 sauce before gulping it down like a hungry heron. Yet I was still afraid that it might make me shit like a goose. I hate using public restrooms. It’s a real phobia with me.

Nurse Ken sat by my side at the kitchen counter. He kept badmouthing the Jews as I stuffed my face. My eldest son is an angry Asian white supremacist. Yes, the hits just keep coming. It’s great to be me.

I said, “Son, how many Jews have you actually met in your life?”

“None. But my friends say that they control all the banks.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “So what if they do? Somebody’s got to control them. Why not the Jews?”

“That gives them too much power.”

“Ken, we live in a world where the white men make the rules. What’s the old saying your dead grandfather used to quote all the time? ‘Black is beautiful. And tan is grand. But white is the color of the big boss man.’ Trust me. Bibi follows orders that come straight from the Washington D.C. He’s certainly not a wildcard.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

I plopped a big piece of steak into my mouth and chewed vigorously. “And let me tell you something else. If my car ever breaks down, I hope the person walking toward me looks a little more like Jerry Seinfeld and a little less like Denzel Washington. The Jews haven’t done a damn thing to me. And that’s all I have to say about the matter.”

I got to work at 9 p.m., and I had to hustle my butt to the bone. Why? Pork-Chop Jane has a new boyfriend, and she spent most of her shift outside in his car. He’s a homeless guy in his twenties who lives in his beater. I shit you not. Jane sure can pick them.

Around two in the morning, a couple of guys and their girlfriends sat in my section. They seemed very joyous. They kept telling me that I was the best waiter in the entire state of Texas. So naturally I was expecting a huge tip.

But fifteen minutes later, three cops entered the premises. I thought they were just coming to eat. Therefore, I waved and gave them a huge Waffle-House welcome. Yet they walked right past me to the corner booth with the happy customers.

One of the cops said, “Which one of you has a gun?”

“None of us, sir.”

“Stop giving me bullshit.”

Then the taller of the two started moving his hand toward his front pocket. That’s when the officer went apeshit.

He grabbed the man by his arms and slapped the cuffs on him. “Are you fucking stupid, son? That’s the worse thing you could do in a situation like this.”

The cop then fished a handgun from the perp’s waistband.

This immediately prompted another officer descended upon the booth and cuff the other guy.

“Why the fuck are you arresting me? I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re not being arrested. You’re being detained.”

Anyway, the gentlemen were led out into the parking lot and questioned for a good thirty minutes. But I guess they passed muster because they were eventually released. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. They stiffed me on fifty dollars’ worth of food. The fucking bastards.

Be that as it may, I still did pretty well. I made $260 for the entire ten-hour shift.

The Waffle Princess

 

(You should see her move.)

Yesterday, I ate a couple of pork chops for dinner. They were made by my mother, and they tasted slightly undercooked. Needless to say, it wasn’t long until I was running to the bathroom to squirt nasty diarrhea into the toilet bowl. You should have smelled it. Absolutely ghastly.

When I emerged from my ordeal, I walked back to the kitchen.

Mom said, “Can I get you a slice of pie?”

I placed my hand on my stomach. “I don’t think so. Your last attempt at cooking nearly cost me my life.”

“Those chops weren’t undercooked. I don’t care what you say.”

“Maybe you’re right. It could be stress that’s messing up my bowels.”

She scoffed at me. “Stress? What kind of stress could you possibly have?”

“I’m a fifty-six-year-old waffle boy.” I paused for dramatic effect. “It’s not as easy as it looks. Imagine being surrounded by drunks who keep calling out for more ketchup? Plus I have nightmares about the dish pit.”

“So get another job already.”

“But it’s only five minutes from the house.”

Suddenly, I was forced to run back to the restroom to squirt more shit into the bowl. This time, it scorched my anus as it slid out of my intestines. I groaned in discomfort. But I’m a big boy, so I was able to carry on like a true soldier after the fifteen-minute nightmare.

I got to the restaurant at 8:45 p.m. and stopped for a smoke near the dumpster. Then I clocked in ten minutes early.

Once again, my sidekicks were Pork-Chop Jane and Georgia the Waffle Princess while Dwayne the Dwarf and Radiohead were manning the grill. Georgia is only seventeen, but she works with amazing speed. You should see her go.

There was a foul expression on Jane’s face. She had left her pens at home, and I gave her a couple of mine. I always come well-stocked.

I said, “You seem like you’re in a bad mood.”

She sighed heavily. “I’m feeling overwhelmed today. Plus I’m about to start my period.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That’s a little too much information.”

“Well, you asked.”

I nodded. “That’s true. I did ask. But now I take it back.”

Georgia left the work area to go smoke pot with Dwayne the Dwarf. And I felt a chill go up my spine. She’s a minor, and I’m pretty sure that the law would come down hard on grown men giving her drugs. But I kept my mouth shut. I’m not slinging hash in order to be somebody’s daddy. So let the chips fall where they may.

It was Friday, and the usual assortment of drunks showed up sporadically. I had this one table of five guys who were whooping it up in the corner booth.

One of them looked at me with a big dopey grin on his face. “Do you get a lot of people like us here at the Waffle Home?”

“Almost every night.”

“Then you don’t mind if we make some noise?”

“If it’s OK with the customers, then it’s OK with me.”

They ended up leaving a twenty-dollar tip.

Another drunk son of a bitch named Butch came at 2 a.m. He was very inebriated and kept asking people for hugs.

I pointed at Georgia. “Be careful, Butch. She’s still a minor.”

He immediately held up both hands in a sign of surrender. Smart man.

Overall, the night was pretty good. I only wrote 23 tickets, but I came home with $260.

Othello the Spaniard

 

(Othello got fired.)

Yesterday, I talked to my sons before going to work. The first item on the agenda was Rice-Boy Larry and school. He’s going into the 12^th grade come August, and the guidance team told him to pick three electives.

Nurse Ken said, “You should go STEM.”

I wrinkled my nose. “STEM? Are you fucking crazy? The poor kid is coming from Korea.”

Ken said, “So?”

“So, he’s been slaving in the academic salt mines all his life, and your brother could use a well-deserved break.”

Rice-Boy Larry said, “Then what would you suggest, Dad?”

I smiled at him. “How about criminal justice, culinary arts, and outdoor education…whatever the fuck that is? It doesn’t get any easier than that.”

Larry said, “Culinary arts? Is that where they let me cook?”

I nodded. “That’s right, son. It’s a cooking class, and if things don’t work out for you at Harvard, you’ll be well prepared to join me at the Waffle House.”

After that, I turned my attention to Nurse Ken. He’s been talking about joining the Air Force, and I think it’s a horrible idea. Why? The only reason I came back from Korea was because he had stopped talking to me. The kid desperately wanted me and Larry back in the States, and our absence was clearly grating on his nerves. And now that we’re all living under the same roof, he suddenly has the urge to fly off into the wide blue yonder. I mean, what kind of bullshit is that?

I said, “Tonight, you should apply for the county police. They make decent money, and your health insurance will be first-rate. On your application, make sure to tell them that you’re Asian.”

“But I don’t consider myself Asian. I feel more like a white man.”

“Son, you look like Professor Tanaka from the old WWF. Trust me. You ain’t passing for white, and your color might help you to land a job. There’s no Asian’s on the force in this part of the world.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m only half Asian.”

“Well, let’s put it this way. If we were to hold a contest to see who looked the most like Charlie Chan, then you’d definitely win.”

Mom got pissed. “Leave him alone! If he says he’s white, then he’s white.”

I sighed heavily. “I’m just trying to get him a solid career, old lady. That way we can all be together as a family.”

I eventually arrived at the Waffle House at the stroke of 9 p.m. and noticed that Othello the Spaniard wasn’t there. Instead, I was working with Weepy Wanda and a new girl named Georgia.

I said, “Where’s Othello?”

Wanda said, “He got fired.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “He got fired? But he’s the only motherfucker who actually hustles during the overnight shift. The rest of you people smoke dope, catch naps, and sit on your asses.”

Wanda said, “They think he was stealing from the company.”

I was flabbergasted. “Stealing? Othello? I find that hard to believe.”

“Too many of his tickets went missing, and he was suspected of pocketing the cash.”

“Goddamn. There is no balm in Gilead.”

A puzzled expression passed over Wanda’s face. “What?”

I clapped my hands and rubbed them together. “It’s a line from Poe’s The Raven.”

“Does it mean anything?”

“Probably not.”

I’m going to miss that kid. He always had my back.

But the night wasn’t a total loss. I ended up making $250.

Not the Best Night Financially

 

(Things could have been worse.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 7 p.m. and walked out to the patio for a smoke. I ran into Rice-Boy Larry along the way.

I said, “Did you make it to your test on time?”

He nodded. “Yep. Everything went smooth.”

“And you did well?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It didn’t seem that hard. In fact, there’s a good chance I scored a 1400. Yet I did miss a couple of math problems at the end. I knew how to solve them, but I simply didn’t have the time.”

I let out a deep melancholy sigh. “You missed two fucking math problems?” Long pause. “Well, you can bag those plans for Harvard.”

Suddenly, Mom spoke up in his defense. “He doesn’t want to go to Harvard anyway. Only queers and libtards attend that university.”

Larry said, “Don’t worry, Dad. I can take it again if things get screwed up.”

“I’m not worried, son. It’s just that I’m a dullard and your brother’s a dullard and your granny’s a dullard and your aunt’s a dullard and your cousins are dullards. So you’re the only chance this family has left.” I patted him on the back. “Do the best you can. There’s no escaping your damaged genetic code, but give it the old college try just for shits and giggles.”

I ate a rare piece of steak for dinner. I try not to stuff my face before going to work in fear that I might shit myself. Plus I hate using public restrooms when I need to cop a squat. Home is the only place for a truly satisfying bowel movement.

Anyway, I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m., and my sidekicks were Pork-Chop Jane, Othello the Spaniard, Dwayne the Dwarf, and Radiohead.

Jane said, “What section do you want?”

“I need three. My ass feels like 2,000 pounds of lead, and I simply can’t handle one or two.”

Of course, they had no problem with my choice. Three is always the slowest section which meant that they would get most of the tips. But what can I tell you? I’m an old man, and I’m still recovering from Thursday’s debacle.

It was a strange night. Dwayne the Dwarf crawled into a booth as soon as he started his shift. Then he went to sleep and made Radiohead do all of the cooking.

I tapped Othello on the shoulder. “Can you imagine the balls on this guy? He comes to work just to take naps. I envy the motherfucker. I wish I had his courage.”

Othello said, “It ain’t my business. I only work here.”

I smiled at him. “You’re 100-percent correct. It ain’t our business. Yet you have to admit that it takes balls the size of an elephant’s nuts. And he does it right out in the open.”

During the shift, my section was populated mainly with hillbillies. You should have seen the mess those fuckheads left behind them. Spilled hash browns. Syrup all over the countertops. Dirty napkins tossed carelessly onto the floor.

And to make it worse, many of them were cheap fucking assholes. For instance, one guy and his sloppy old wife had a forty-dollar ticket and left me three bucks. Then I had a couple of tables who completely fucking stiffed me.

And I’m going to tell you motherfuckers something. If you don’t want to tip, then go to fucking McDonald’s.

I’ve never gone to a restaurant and stiffed the server. I’d be too afraid that they might spit in my food should I ever return. I follow social conventions. 15 to 20 percent seems fair to me. But what the hell do I know?

At six a.m., the Waffle Queen appeared, and Dwayne the Dwarf started badmouthing Radiohead. He told the Waffle Queen that his assistant grill operator hadn't done a fucking thing during her shift and that he had been stuck with all the work. I couldn’t believe my ears.

Anyway, the night wasn’t a complete bust. I ended up making $190.

Final analysis? It is what it is.

Stress

 

(It's the little things that kill.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 7 p.m. and wandered into the kitchen for dinner. While I was chomping away on my Italian sausage, I had a conversation with Nurse Ken.

I said, “Tomorrow is a huge day.”

He looked at me as if I were crazy. “What’s going on tomorrow?”

I rubbed my head and frowned. “You’re driving your brother to his SAT-testing site.”

He took a long swallow of Coke and waved my notion away with his free hand. “It’s no big fucking deal. Why do you have to turn everything into a situation?”

“You can’t be late. They won’t let him into the classroom.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control.”

“Let me give you some money.”

I reached into my pocket and handed him sixty-five dollars.”

He looked at the bills as if they were a pile of steaming shit. “These are all singles.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “What do you expect? I’m a fucking waiter…which is the male version of being a stripper. I had to shake my ass for that scratch, so spend it in good health.”

The high school wants Rice-Boy Larry’s SAT scores to prove that he isn’t a dullard. They’re accepting his transcripts from Korea on the condition that my son can show he can do math and English on the level of an average kid from Texas. I’m not too worried. Don’t get me wrong. Larry’s no rocket scientist, but he should be able to break a 1300 without too many problems. Provided he gets to the location on time.

The little things in life always eat away at me like a cancer. Dotting the I’s and crossing the t’s can literally drive a person insane.

Anyway, I got to work at 8:45 p.m. and enjoyed a cigarette by the dumpster. Then the manager came outside and bummed a smoke.

He said, “I talked to Othello this morning. I told him that it wasn’t cool to leave you all by yourself during a busy shift.”

I said, “You didn’t mention my name, did you? The last thing I need is a beef with Othello. That boy really hustles.”

“No, your name never came up. But I’m the manager, and this isn’t a one-person job during the summer. I don’t want you to get sick or quit out of frustration. I’ve seen cooks and servers get pissed and leave during the middle of a shift.”

The thing with me is this: I’m semi-retired and working at the Waffle House beats being a cashier at the Dollar Store. And the reason I enjoy my place of employment is because I get along with my sidekicks. Weepy Wanda loves me. Pork-Chop Jane adores me. And Othello the Spaniard thinks I’m a cool old white man. The last thing I want to do is fuck up any of those relationships.

Anyway, the shift was pretty slow for a Friday night. But we did have a steady flow of customers. It simply wasn’t the normal zoo.

Weepy Wanda looked at Pork-Chop Jane. “Let’s go to my SUV and get our smoke on.”

I cleared my throat. “Have you ladies seen the dish pit? It’s starting to stack up.”

Jane sighed. “It’s not that bad.”

I wagged my finger at her. “So what you’re telling me is you’re both going to smoke dope like a couple of hoochie mammas while poor old grandpa does the dishes?” I paused for dramatic effect. “Sorry, but not on my watch, ladies. Work comes before pleasure.”

To my surprise, Wanda started scrubbing the plates and silverware without even putting up a fight. I had no idea that my commands carried so much weight with the young woman. After all, it’s not like I have any real authority. So I made sure to compliment her after she finished the task.

I said, “Wow, this is quite the job. I’ve never seen the dish pit sparkle in such a fashion.”

She shot me a smile. “Thank you. I did the best I could.”

“It shows. You’re a girl of many talents.”

I only wrote twenty tickets the entire evening, and almost half of them were to-go orders. Yet I still managed to make $206 bucks for the shift. Not great, but I’ll take it.