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.