Insults and Money

 

(Sometimes, I feel exhausted.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 5 p.m. and walked to the kitchen. Mom was sitting at the counter, sipping on a cup of tea.

She frowned at me. “Why do you always look so miserable?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I ain’t miserable. I’m just a little tired.”

“What type of black thoughts are racing through your mind?”

I shrugged again. “I’m not thinking about anything. My brain is a complete blank.”

This wasn’t exactly true. I was actually thinking about a dream I’d had a couple nights ago. I was back in Korea trying to sell Toyotas for a living. Everybody at the dealership could speak English. But a black guy was very upset that the manager had given me the job. He was the only foreigner working at the place, and he feared that I might cut into his profits.

Dreams. Psychiatrists seem to think they’re important. But they’ve always seemed like a load of horseshit to me.

Mom said, “You haven’t been nice to Nurse Ken lately.”

“How so?”

“He’s doing a great job water-blasting my back patio. Yet all you do is criticize him.”

I sighed heavily. “The place now looks like a pile of shit, and there’s fucking sand everywhere. But it’s not his fault. The blame lies upon you. You’re always handing out these meaningless fucking tasks that do more harm than good.”

“Well, excuse me for living.”

I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. I was supposed to be working with Othello the Spainard and Pork-Chop Jane. However, Jane decided to take the night off. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. We were busy as hell. And hustling like a coolie is a job for young people. I might be getting too long in the tooth for this gig.

My first table was very strange. It was two guys who were both cooks at a fancy establishment. Well, maybe the word fancy is pushing it. Let’s just say that their place of employment is fancier than the Waffle House.

Anyway, they kept insulting me.

One of them said, “You’re the worst waiter in the fucking world. Don’t they train you at this place?”

I nodded. “Yes, I’ve been trained.”

“What’s the problem then? Are you new to the gig.”

I shook my head. “I’ve actually been working here since March.”

“And this is the fucking best you can do?”

I nodded again. “Yes, I’m afraid that I’m lacking the basic skills to be an effective waiter.”

“Then why don’t you do some fucking research on YouTube?” He looked at his friend. “Would you hire this joker as a waiter in your restaurant.”

“Not in a million years.”

I didn’t take their verbal jabs very seriously. Besides, they were a hundred percent correct. I’m a shitty server who always gets the orders wrong. But here’s where it becomes weird. They left me a 32-dollar tip on a 50-dollar bill. Then, on the way out the door, they both told me to pick up my game.

At 2 a.m., Othello the Spaniard bailed on me. So your poor old narrator was left all alone. And the people just kept coming and coming. I had to hustle like a son of a bitch simply to keep up with all of the orders. Plus I’m the unfortunate asshole who had to do the dishes, make the iced tea, sweep and mop the floor, drop the sink, etc.

Yet the tips were great. I ended up making $350 for the ten-hour shift. But what good is money if you die from a heart attack?