Fucking Potheads

 

(I'm tired of working with potheads.)

Yesterday, I had a weird dream in which I was dead. I was standing on the side of the road under a streetlamp. A complete stranger stood next to me. However, I couldn’t really see his face. All that I remember is that he was extremely tall and skinny. He towered way above me.

I looked up at him. “Are we really dead?”

“Yes.”

“So what are we doing here?”

“Waiting.”

Soon, an ambulance came screaming down the boulevard and stopped in front of us. Then an angry lesbian got out of the vehicle and scowled at me.

She screamed, “Get in the back of the fucking ambulance!”

I said, “Where are we going?”

She said, “Don’t worry about where you’re going. Just get in the fucking back like I told you.”

And that’s what I did.

Now I was sitting next to the stranger, and a feeling of joy came over me.

“I can’t believe we’re dead.” I grabbed his arm affectionately. “No more fucking bullshit. We’re finally completely free.”

My alarm went off. It was seven p.m. This great wave of disappointment spread throughout my body. I’d have to make it through another day whether I wanted to or not.

Anyway, I don’t put too much stock into dreams. They’re always a bunch of crap.

So moving on…

I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m., and my partners in crime were Weepy Wanda and Pork-Chop Jane. The unit was packed to the rafters, and many of my customers were teenagers. It was like teaching high school again.

But I have to say that the kids were very respectful. They kept calling me sir and Mr. Jack. Good for them. Yet young folk aren’t greatest of tippers. However, I did my best to treat them with proper respect. To that end, I brought them their waffles with a big stupid smile spread across my wrinkled visage and told the children that it was a pleasure to serve them.

What the fuck else could I do? Throw the waffles at their faces? Yes, my options were limited.

Needless to say, Wanda and Jane went outside to do drugs. So grandpa was left to mind the fort and scrub the dirty dishes.

They both returned stoned out of their gourd. Jane sat on her big ass and stuffed herself to the brim with hash browns and bacon. Meanwhile, Wanda tried to help me out, but she was far too compromised to be of much use. Instead, she played songs on the jukebox and sang along at the top of her lungs. The customers got a real charge out of her antics. But I only felt pity for her. The poor girl can be a real horse’s ass at times.

Wanda looked at me. “I know I’m very pretty. But I’m actually extremely shy.”

I nodded in agreement. “Yes, you are the most beautiful girl in Texas. I shit you not.”

“Well, I’m not that pretty. But I have no problems attracting men.”

“I agree. I imagine that they never leave you alone.”

I went to the dumpster for a cigarette, and Jane’s creepy boyfriend was sitting on a milkcrate waiting for his nightly free dinner. The mere sight of him filled me with hateful bile.

And that’s when I decided that enough is enough. I’m no longer going to protect Jane or Wanda. When the manager asks about their behavior,--which he does from time to time—I’m simply going to tell him the truth. They’re a couple of stoners who refuse to work.

Am I a snitch? Who fucking cares? It’s not really about that. I’m simply tired of getting played for a fool.

I ended up making $270 for the shift. Yet it wasn’t worth the work I had to put in for the cash. I spent hours over that dish pit like a dimwitted coolie in a mining camp while those two hoochie mamas had the times of their lives. Well, the bullshit stops now.