Sunday Night

(Be careful. She's only seventeen.)

On Sunday night, I worked with Radiohead and Georgia the Waffle Princess. As I told you before, Georgia is only seventeen. Why they have her on the overnight shift is beyond my comprehension. But it is what it is.

Anyway, Radiohead was having another bad shift. She kept hopping up and down on one foot and grabbing her side.

She said, “I hate this fucking place. I’m either going to quit or transfer to another restaurant.”

I said, “Are you OK? Did you twist your ankle or something?”

She looked at me with hate in her eyes. “No, I’m not fucking OK. Do I look OK to you?”

I shrugged. “Are you having a bad night?”

“It’s the nerves in my leg and back. They’re flaring up.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I called my husband, but the bastard told me to be tough and finish the shift.”

“Why don’t you get in touch with the manager? Just tell him that you’re sick.”

Radiohead gave me another hateful look. “He’s not working tonight, you fucking dipshit. It’s the district manager who’s on duty.”

I raised my hands in a show of surrender. “OK, OK. No need for name calling.”

She then marched out the back door for a much-needed cigarette.

Anyway, to make a long story short, she eventually got in touch with the big boss, and he sent over a young guy named Davis who looked like a surfer from California. He had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a five-o’clock shadow. He must have been handsome because the Waffle Princess couldn’t take her eyes off the guy.

He began flirting with her, and I immediately told him the score. “She’s only seventeen, Davis. I’m simply letting you know.”

Georgia got pissed off. “I hate the way you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Tell everybody my age. It’s not like you guys are my guardian.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “The law’s the law. And it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

It turns out that the Waffle Princess doesn’t know how to drive. So when her shift ended at 2 a.m., her mother came to pick her up. The old lady bought herself a sandwich and admired Davis from the counter.

Suddenly, the conversation turned toward the subject of marijuana. The princess’s mother told the entire restaurant that she was a huge fan of weed and smoked it on a daily basis. Her words made me cringe. Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but admitting your drug use in front of your teenaged daughter seems a bit crass to me. But what do I know?

After Georgia and her stoner mom left the building, it was just me and Davis for the rest of the night. And I soon noticed that he had no idea what the fuck he was doing. For instance, three customers walked into one of the booths, and a fearful expression passed over his face.

He turned to me and said, “Do you know how to mark the plates?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea. Sorry. I’ve never cooked in my life.”

Then it took him a million years to prepare the orders.

I was worried that he’d drown by the time morning hit. Between 5:30 to 7 a.m., there’s usually a huge blitz of customers. But lucky for him, we remained dead.

It wasn’t a great night for me. I only made $200.