The Law

 

(Nurse Ken has a lead foot.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 4 p.m. because Nurse Ken was arguing with his grandmother out in the kitchen. My oldest son is very loud. You can hear him from a mile away. Rice-Boy Larry, on the other hand, is soft spoken. He rarely speaks a word, and I often wonder if he’s semi-autistic.

I said, “What’s all the screaming about?”

Nurse Ken said, “Screaming? Who’s screaming? That’s simply the way I talk.”

Mom said, “He got another speeding ticket. That makes four in the last eight years.”

“It wasn’t my fault. Blame it on that goddamn state trooper who was lurking in the weeds. The son of a bitch.”

I said, “You gotta be careful. Your car insurance might go up.”

Ken’s granny covers the nut for his monthly insurance bill. She also bought him a Lexus a few years back, and it’s a hell of a nice car for a kid his age. Mom has a special relationship with Nurse Ken. She feels he got the short end of the stick because of the Dragon Lady. In her mind, my wife loves Larry more than her first-born son.

Yet here’s the actual truth. Narcissistic mothers frequently have a golden child and a scapegoat. But being the golden child is by far the much heavier burden. Ken managed to escape when he was sixteen whereas Larry had to fight it out till the bitter end. For instance, when we were living in China, my wife drained the bank account and ran away. It was Larry who spent a penniless week on the mainland until payday rolled around. Not Ken.

Anyway, the issue got resolved when my son finally promised to stop driving like an asshole. He swore that he would now mend his ways and follow all the traffic rules. I don’t actually see that happening, but I will keep my fingers crossed.

Later that night, I arrived at the Waffle House at 9 p.m. And guess what. It was bedlam as usual.

One guy’s card got declined, and Pork-Chop Jane screamed it out so that the entire restaurant could hear that the dude was a deadbeat. However, it turns out that the man had accidentally locked himself out of his own account and Jamaal helped him with the technical issues. So in the end, he managed to pay his bill.

All’s well that ends well, right? Not true in this case. The poor man left the restaurant mortified, but when he came to his senses, he made a U-turn to hash is out with Pork-Chop.

I greeted him as he walked through the door. “Hello, sir. Is everything OK?”

He shook his head. “No, everything is certainly not OK. Where’s that little waitress who was serving me?”

I looked around, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight. In truth, she was probably smoking dope out back by the dumpster.

I said, “It appears that she’s on her break. Can I help you with something?”

He defiantly held up his smartphone. “I want you to look at my bank account.”

I did as he asked. He had $2,500 on deposit.

I smiled at him. “Sir, you don’t have to show me. It was all a big misunderstanding.”

“There’s no reason for her to embarrass me like that in front of everyone.”

“I understand completely, and let me apologize for her behavior. It won’t happen again.”

“That’s not good enough. I want to speak to the manager.”

So I walked to the back and got the boss’s phone number. He has it tacked up on one of the bulletin boards for situations such as this.

The guy sat in one of the booths and talked for about ten minutes, carefully explaining why Pork-Chop Jane acted like a giant cunt. Yet I doubt if there will be any consequences. You can’t fire everybody, or there will be no one left to serve the hash browns.

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My Wife

 

(The Dragon Lady reached out.)

Yesterday, the Dragon Lady got in touch with me via Facebook Messenger. The conversation wasn’t very long, and it was all in the form of text messages.

She typed, “How are you?”

I said, “OK.”

“Good.”

“So what’s your bottom line?”

“I just checking. You still go to the church?”

“Yes. On Wednesdays.”

“Great. Here a picture of my pastor and his wife.”

She sent me their photo. They were a couple of Koreans whom I didn’t recognize.

I typed, “How’s the dog?”

She sent me a picture of Dolly the Bichon. The beast looked damn good. I really miss that puppy.

My wife typed, “I must go now. I have class to teach.”

“OK.”

The Dragon Lady teaches Korean to children who can’t speak the language. The peninsula is currently teeming with lots and lots of foreign workers. And many of the rugrats need to improve their language skills. To that end, she works at a school in the city of Daejeon.

Anyway, most of you fucking morons probably aren’t familiar with borderline and narcissistic characteristic traits in females. And why should you be? It’s not like you married the devil. Anyway, these sinister women have a favorite person. He’s usually the poor son of a bitch who has to put up with all their evil mischief.

Right now, the Dragon Lady is splitting. That means she’s viewing me in black and white. She’s looking back on all her fond memories and concluding that I was the best thing since sliced bread. Therefore, in her diseased mind, she’s got to get me back in order to inflict more psychological damage on her best friend. Yet, when I’m trapped in her web once again, she’ll see me as the biggest piece of shit that ever lived.

There’s no gray area with borderlines and narcissists. You are either an angel sent from heaven or a demon from the pit of hell. Hence the term splitting.

I told Nurse Ken about my brief conversation, and he just about made doodie his pants.

“Why do you keep talking to that crazy bitch? You should ignore her.” He paused for dramatic effect. “You won’t be happy until she puts a knife in your heart, and we’re lowering you into a grave.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic?”

“Dramatic? She’s a dangerous woman.”

“I’m not good at giving people the silent treatment. It seems rather childish to me.”

Suddenly, my mom decided to put her two cents in. “She’ll never step foot through this door. I can promise you that much. I won’t have her near the boys. She’s caused enough chaos to last a lifetime.”

I sighed heavily. “Who the fuck says she’s coming?”

“I’m just telling you up front. This is my home, and I won’t have her here.”

“OK. I got the message. Let’s fucking drop it.”

Mom said, “You should be less cheeky and more grateful.”

“Grateful? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re the one who dragged me out of Asia telling me you were going to die soon.”

She smiled. “Well, maybe I am.”

And here’s the truth. I enjoyed being a resident of South Korea. I liked it a hell of a lot better than living in the USA. Everything was in walking distance, and I didn’t need a car. Plus I got free education for Rice-Boy Larry, and the school also gave me a free apartment.

But why look at the past? I’m here, and I’m a waffle boy. So that’s that.

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Death and Taxes

 

(Tax time is always a bitch.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 11 a.m. because I had to get my taxes done. So I got into my brand-new Hyundai Venue and scooted twenty minutes up the road to the nearest H&R Block. Those of you who read my drivel know that my current tax guy is a hillbilly named Larry. I had seen him last week, and he had become all confused because I was living in South Korea last year. Therefore, I brought the proper paperwork this time. All he needed to do was copy from my previous filing.

When I got to the office, he was busy with another customer. So the plump receptionist told me to take a seat and then she gave me some Easter candy. It was in a Tupperware bowl.

She said, “This stuff is too dangerous around me.”

I smiled at her. “It’s dangerous for me, too. I dropped sixty pounds not too long ago.”

“Really. How did you do it?”

“I drank raw eggs for breakfast and lunch. Then I ate fish for dinner. I did that for fourteen months. It was pure hell. I also took up smoking again.”

“I guess it’s better to look good than to feel good.”

“To be honest, I don’t look good. Nor do I feel good. It’s just that the weight was giving me all kinds of physical problems. Especially in my knees.”

Anyway, Larry called me back to his cubby about fifteen minutes later. He had a hard time getting the job done, and he dealt with his stress by continually muttering to himself in disgust. But I have to give him credit. He never used any profane language.

Instead, he said stuff like this: “C’mon, you God-darned mother-blubber” as he tapped away on his computer.

When he finally finished, he flashed me a brilliant smile. “You owe the government $195 dollars.”

“OK. One hundred and ninety-five dollars. I can do that.”

“And you owe H&R Block another $230.”

Then he printed everything out and placed it in a big manila envelope. “Would you like to make an appointment for next year?”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t even know if I’ll be alive.”

As soon as I walked out the door, I got a message on my phone saying that my tax return had been accepted by the IRS. Yet I feel that a mistake has been made. This is the first time that I’ve ever had to pay a dime. Which makes sense. I’ve been living out of the country, and I don’t make anywhere near $108,000 a year…the threshold for an expat to pay federal money. But why argue over $195? I simply don’t have the energy.

Later that night, I arrived at the Waffle House at 9 p.m. I was working with Dallas. She’s the girl who is eight months pregnant and has an African boyfriend. She recently totaled her car by running it into a tree, and she was filled with aches and pains. Consequently, I did most of her side work. I mopped the floor. I filled up the ice containers. I dropped the sink.

It cut into my tips because I didn’t have a lot of time to wait on customers. Yet I didn’t mind. I’m not going to let some popping future mama do all kinds of physical shit. After all, I’m not a Philistine.

With that said, it was only a five-hour shift, and I did manage to make 93 bucks. So it wasn’t a total loss.

I clocked out at two, and I heard the cook say something quite insensitive.

These were his words: “Don’t use your pregnancy as an excuse to get lazy on me.”

Dallas almost started crying.

This particular cook is very young, and he simply doesn’t know that he’s an idiot.

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Dirty Jack

 

(You can't please everybody.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 11 a.m. because I had a lot of work to do. My mom is currently selling her house, so I had to clean the bathrooms before a showing which was scheduled for later in the afternoon. I was grouchy as fuck. That’s the way I get when I don’t have any sleep.

Mom said, “Hurry up and get your chores done. We don’t have much time. They’re going to be here in a couple of hours.”

“Leave me alone, old lady. I’ll get to them when I get to them.”

“Why are you so miserable all the time? Maybe you should have stayed in Korea.”

I wagged my finger in her face. “Don’t start with that shit. The only reason I’m here is because you and Nurse Ken strongarmed me.”

“That’s not true! It was your decision.”

Both of us are half right. When I lived in the ROK, Mom would always call and tell me how she was going to die soon. And Nurse Ken refused to speak to me until both my feet were on American soil. Yet I was getting tired of being a foreigner living abroad. Plus my life was becoming a bit chaotic after the Dragon Lady packed her bags and left.

The simple truth is this: I’m a miserable son of a bitch when I’m tired. Sleep deprivation is a young man’s game.

Anyway, I took my sons to a Chinese restaurant after my tasks were completed. We drove to the joint in my brand-new Hyundai Venue. Rice-Boy Larry had to squeeze in the back seat…which wasn’t easy to do. The kid is almost six and a half feet tall, and the Venue isn’t known for being roomy and spacious.

Nurse Ken said, “Isn’t America fantastic?”

I said, “Fantastic? You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“First of all, you’ve got to drive a million miles just to buy bread. Then the health insurance sucks. Hell, even getting a fulltime job is a pain in the ass.”

“You worked forty hours this week, so what are you complaining about?” He paused for dramatic effect. “You need to go back to teaching. That’s what you’re trained for. There’s no point in wasting your college degree.”

“I’ll run a hot bath and slit my wrists before that ever happens. I simply can’t do it, son.”

Later that night, I arrived at the Waffle House at 9 p.m. for my ten-hour shift. It was bedlam. The place was filled with teenagers because of the prom. They were decked out in suits and fancy dresses.

I was shocked to see them. I mean, who the fuck brings their prom date to the goddamn Waffle House? And you should see how these little pigs left the tables. Knives and forks on the floor. Hashbrowns scattered all over the place. Syrup stains on the counters. It was enough to make me want to puke.

Then something strange happened around two in the morning. A big black guy made a to-go order for about fifty dollars’ worth of food. I boxed it up for him and placed it in a bag.

I shot him a big smile. “Here you go, sir. Have a nice evening.”

“I ain’t eating that fucking food.”

“What?”

“You’re fucking hands have been all over it.”

“I never touched the stuff. The only things I handled were the plastic containers.”

“Remake the entire order, and I don’t want you as my server. You dirty. Touching your ears and rubbing the back of your neck.”

The cook was very patient. He did what the guy requested.

When the customer left the building, the cook pulled me over to the side. “Don’t take it personally. It’s happened to me a million times…especially with African Americans. They can be somewhat difficult to deal with. But it’s not a complete waste. I’m going to bring the original order home and eat it for breakfast.”

The night wasn’t a complete washout. I ended up making $260. That’s what I usually get on a Saturday shift. So it came to 26 dollars an hour.

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Taxes and Hillbillies

(Marsha the Manager got fired.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 11 a.m. because the goddamn dogs were barking again. Maybe they saw a squirrel out the window. Who knows? This vampire work schedule is tearing my body a new asshole. It’s not easy being a creature of the night.

I took a quick shower and drove to a neighboring town in order to do my taxes at H&R Block. The guy behind the desk was a dude named Larry. Like me, he sported old-man glasses and an old-man pot belly.

I held up a USB. “I’ve been living in South Korea for all of 2024, and all my tax information is on this drive.”

He shook his head vehemently. “We aren’t allowed to put that in the computer.”

“You’re shitting me?”

He shook his head again. “It’s company policy.”

I nodded. “OK. I can tell you how much I made in Korean Won and maybe you could do a conversion.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable. What I really need is a paper copy of your previous taxes. That would help things out. Why don’t you go home and print it out. Then you can bring it back to me. In fact, there’s a print shop right up the road not five minutes from here.”

To make a long story short, I found the shop and did as he asked. Now I’m scheduled to return next week for another consultation. But here’s the deal. Since coming back to America, I feel as if I’m surrounded by ignorant troglodytes. Even my new pastor isn’t excluded from this statement…although I really like the guy. Last Wednesday, he said that we should be grateful to America because people from other countries often smell bad due to the lack of hygiene.

His words certainly rubbed Rice-Boy Larry the wrong way. “What a nerve on that guy. Have you smelt some of these fucking Americans?”

Anyway, I went to Waffle House that night at 9 p.m. for a five-hour shift. I worked with Jamaal and Pork-chop Jane. Three district managers were in the restaurant. They yelled at Jamaal because he wasn’t wearing his apron in the proper Waffle-House fashion.

I turned to Jane. “What’s going on tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“All the bigshots are here. Did somebody try to burn the place down?”

“No. Marsha the Manager got fired.”

“Really? What the hell did she do?”

“She was having a tough time controlling the behavior of the workers. At least, that’s what I heard.”

“Controlling the workers? Is that part of the job description?”

Pork-chop simply shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I only work here.”

We’ve had quite a turnover in the last week. One waiter and one cook got the axe a few days ago. And now the manager is gone, too. Her replacement seems to be some kid in his twenties. His name is Marcus. I wonder if he’s related to one of the bigshots. It wouldn’t surprise me.

Around one in the morning, a fight almost broke out amongst the drunken male customers. Four big guys were about to throw down over some perceived slight.

A woman at the counter looked at me with disdain in her bloodshot eyes. “You need to man up and throw those assholes out of here.”

“Well, let’s see what happens.”

Maybe I’m a pussy, but I wasn’t about to get in the middle of that squabble. I’m pushing sixty, and one good punch to the head from an angry hillbilly would probably kill me. Luckily, they resolved the issue on their own without having to spill blood.

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Another Day

 

(Drunk Dmitri gets free food.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 11 a.m. because the goddamn dogs were barking. My mom owns two Schnauzers who go fucking crazy if a leaf blows in the wind. One of them is named Julius. He always growls at me as if he wants to bite off my testicles.

Anyway, Mom was in the laundry room stuffing clothes into the dryer.

I said, “What are you doing?”

“Nurse Ken’s laundry. He usually brings it down once every couple of weeks.”

“Once every couple of weeks? Can’t he do it himself?”

“I don’t mind. He works so hard to make a buck.”

My oldest son has a job delivering the mail. But he’s not an official mailman. Instead, he works for a private contractor and makes about 25 dollars an hour. Yet it’s only a parttime job, and he’s usually home by 2 p.m. He graduates from college in May, and he’s thinking about becoming an air-traffic controller.

Rice-Boy Larry was in the computer room.

I said, “I’m off to cut your grandmother’s lawn even though I have a ten-hour shift tonight.”

He nodded. “OK. Have fun.”

I sighed heavily. “You’re supposed to feel guilty and offer to help me out.”

“I’m studying for the SAT, but I’ll do it if you can wait an hour.”

In the end, I decided to cut it myself. I need as much exercise as possible. I’ve managed to lose sixty pounds in the last few years, and I don’t want all that flab to come back like a raging river. I used to be so fat that I had to rock back and forth to get off the sofa. Weight loss is one of the reasons that I took up smoking again.

When Nurse Ken got home, I decided to yell at him.

I said, “Son, I’m ashamed.”

“Why?”

“You’re twenty-four fucking years old, and you still make your poor old granny do your laundry. She’s almost seventy-eight, for the sake of Christ.”

“She doesn’t mind.”

“That’s not the point. Don’t you have any pride? Are you mentally retarded or something. Should you be placed in a facility? The world is filled with nice people who can help out dullards such as yourself.”

“I wouldn’t say that I’m retarded. I’m more of an autistic genius. Me and Elon Musk have a lot in common.”

“No more jokes. Just do your own fucking laundry.”

But he’s not going to listen to me. Nobody ever does. My words are severely lacking in gravitas. Always have been. In fact, most people laugh at me even when I’m trying to be serious.

I got to the Waffle House at 9 p.m. and worked with a girl named Jane. She’s only 24 years old, and she has an extremely pretty face. However, Jane is a real pork chop. Sadly, she didn’t do any work. Instead, she spent most of her shift sitting at the counter while stuffing her face with free hash browns.

A guy came in around 1 a.m. who was so drunk that he could barely stand. His name is Dmitri, and he had a difficult time speaking English. I think he’s from Russia.

Dmitri ordered a shitload of food, but none of his credit cards worked. So all his vittles were on the house.

The Nigerian cook yelled at him. “Why you come here every night so drunk? You not care for you health?”

Dmitri smiled and walked out the door.

It was a slow night, and I only made $180. Oh well. What’s a boy to do?

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The Rodeo

 

(I had a good time.)

On Saturday night, I saw an electronic sign on the side of the road as I was driving to Waffle House. It said that there was heavy traffic ahead because the rodeo was in town. My heart dropped like a sack of stones. I knew the restaurant was going to be filled to the brim with people wearing ten-gallon hats and cowboy boots.

I said a quick prayer to the Lord. “God, why do you always screw with me? A fucking rodeo? You got to be kidding me. What kind of bullshit is this?”

I got to the store ten minutes early and smoked a cigarette by the dumpster. Then I took a couple of deep breaths before walking inside.

The first person I met was a kid named Jamaal. He was a light-skinned black guy who was wearing a hoodie. His eyes were glassy, and he had a goofy smile on his face. It was obvious that he had been smoking weed before coming to work.

He said, “Are you Jack?”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“Who trained you?”

“Daphne Diamond.”

He laughed out loud. “Most people think she’s a bitch. But she loves me to death.”

“No kidding? She treated me like a douchebag.”

“Don’t take it personally. And don’t worry about tonight. I’m going to show you the ropes.”

Anyway, I walked to the back and clocked in. Then I got my ticket book and faced my trial by fire.

My first table was featured two attractive ladies and their well-hung boyfriends. How did I know that they were well-hung? They were handsome and athletic, so I just kind of figured that they had big cocks as well. Call it a hunch. Some folk have all the luck.

I said, “Take it easy on me tonight. I’m kind of new at this waitering stuff.”

It turns out that all four of them were drunk, and they thought I was a humorous old man.

One of the boys said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Jack. We got your back.”

His pretty little friend said, “That’s right. We got your back, Mr. Jack.”

They laughed and laughed.

I shrugged my shoulders and sighed. This only made them laugh harder.

And do you know how they knew my name? Because I’m forced to wear an apron with a name tag. That’s right, motherfuckers. I wear an apron as I slave like a coolie. It’s part of my uniform.

I said, “Are you ready to order?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, we are. Bring us bacon and eggs and hashbrowns. And we also want waffles. Pecan waffles!”

I called out their order the Waffle-House way. The restaurant was loud, so I really had to scream loudly at the cook. “Pull four bacons! Drop four hashbrowns scattered! Mark four platters! Order eggs scrambled on four! Waffles on four! Make them pecan!”

And do you motherfuckers want to know something? Those kids left me a twenty-five-dollar tip. I shit you not.

The restaurant was so busy that one of the waitresses actually broke down in tears. Her name is Wanda, and she simply caved under the stress.

I said, “Just try to relax. It’s only hashbrowns.”

She said, “Where the fuck is Jamaal. Where the fuck is he?”

“I’m not sure.”

“He’s probably outside smoking dope! I don’t get paid enough for this shit. He should be in here handling his tables.”

Anyway, my shift ended at 7 a.m., and I made $260 dollars. And I have to admit the truth. I had a good time.

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