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.