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.