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.
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