The Waffle Princess

 

(You should see her move.)

Yesterday, I ate a couple of pork chops for dinner. They were made by my mother, and they tasted slightly undercooked. Needless to say, it wasn’t long until I was running to the bathroom to squirt nasty diarrhea into the toilet bowl. You should have smelled it. Absolutely ghastly.

When I emerged from my ordeal, I walked back to the kitchen.

Mom said, “Can I get you a slice of pie?”

I placed my hand on my stomach. “I don’t think so. Your last attempt at cooking nearly cost me my life.”

“Those chops weren’t undercooked. I don’t care what you say.”

“Maybe you’re right. It could be stress that’s messing up my bowels.”

She scoffed at me. “Stress? What kind of stress could you possibly have?”

“I’m a fifty-six-year-old waffle boy.” I paused for dramatic effect. “It’s not as easy as it looks. Imagine being surrounded by drunks who keep calling out for more ketchup? Plus I have nightmares about the dish pit.”

“So get another job already.”

“But it’s only five minutes from the house.”

Suddenly, I was forced to run back to the restroom to squirt more shit into the bowl. This time, it scorched my anus as it slid out of my intestines. I groaned in discomfort. But I’m a big boy, so I was able to carry on like a true soldier after the fifteen-minute nightmare.

I got to the restaurant at 8:45 p.m. and stopped for a smoke near the dumpster. Then I clocked in ten minutes early.

Once again, my sidekicks were Pork-Chop Jane and Georgia the Waffle Princess while Dwayne the Dwarf and Radiohead were manning the grill. Georgia is only seventeen, but she works with amazing speed. You should see her go.

There was a foul expression on Jane’s face. She had left her pens at home, and I gave her a couple of mine. I always come well-stocked.

I said, “You seem like you’re in a bad mood.”

She sighed heavily. “I’m feeling overwhelmed today. Plus I’m about to start my period.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That’s a little too much information.”

“Well, you asked.”

I nodded. “That’s true. I did ask. But now I take it back.”

Georgia left the work area to go smoke pot with Dwayne the Dwarf. And I felt a chill go up my spine. She’s a minor, and I’m pretty sure that the law would come down hard on grown men giving her drugs. But I kept my mouth shut. I’m not slinging hash in order to be somebody’s daddy. So let the chips fall where they may.

It was Friday, and the usual assortment of drunks showed up sporadically. I had this one table of five guys who were whooping it up in the corner booth.

One of them looked at me with a big dopey grin on his face. “Do you get a lot of people like us here at the Waffle Home?”

“Almost every night.”

“Then you don’t mind if we make some noise?”

“If it’s OK with the customers, then it’s OK with me.”

They ended up leaving a twenty-dollar tip.

Another drunk son of a bitch named Butch came at 2 a.m. He was very inebriated and kept asking people for hugs.

I pointed at Georgia. “Be careful, Butch. She’s still a minor.”

He immediately held up both hands in a sign of surrender. Smart man.

Overall, the night was pretty good. I only wrote 23 tickets, but I came home with $260.

Othello the Spaniard

 

(Othello got fired.)

Yesterday, I talked to my sons before going to work. The first item on the agenda was Rice-Boy Larry and school. He’s going into the 12^th grade come August, and the guidance team told him to pick three electives.

Nurse Ken said, “You should go STEM.”

I wrinkled my nose. “STEM? Are you fucking crazy? The poor kid is coming from Korea.”

Ken said, “So?”

“So, he’s been slaving in the academic salt mines all his life, and your brother could use a well-deserved break.”

Rice-Boy Larry said, “Then what would you suggest, Dad?”

I smiled at him. “How about criminal justice, culinary arts, and outdoor education…whatever the fuck that is? It doesn’t get any easier than that.”

Larry said, “Culinary arts? Is that where they let me cook?”

I nodded. “That’s right, son. It’s a cooking class, and if things don’t work out for you at Harvard, you’ll be well prepared to join me at the Waffle House.”

After that, I turned my attention to Nurse Ken. He’s been talking about joining the Air Force, and I think it’s a horrible idea. Why? The only reason I came back from Korea was because he had stopped talking to me. The kid desperately wanted me and Larry back in the States, and our absence was clearly grating on his nerves. And now that we’re all living under the same roof, he suddenly has the urge to fly off into the wide blue yonder. I mean, what kind of bullshit is that?

I said, “Tonight, you should apply for the county police. They make decent money, and your health insurance will be first-rate. On your application, make sure to tell them that you’re Asian.”

“But I don’t consider myself Asian. I feel more like a white man.”

“Son, you look like Professor Tanaka from the old WWF. Trust me. You ain’t passing for white, and your color might help you to land a job. There’s no Asian’s on the force in this part of the world.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m only half Asian.”

“Well, let’s put it this way. If we were to hold a contest to see who looked the most like Charlie Chan, then you’d definitely win.”

Mom got pissed. “Leave him alone! If he says he’s white, then he’s white.”

I sighed heavily. “I’m just trying to get him a solid career, old lady. That way we can all be together as a family.”

I eventually arrived at the Waffle House at the stroke of 9 p.m. and noticed that Othello the Spaniard wasn’t there. Instead, I was working with Weepy Wanda and a new girl named Georgia.

I said, “Where’s Othello?”

Wanda said, “He got fired.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “He got fired? But he’s the only motherfucker who actually hustles during the overnight shift. The rest of you people smoke dope, catch naps, and sit on your asses.”

Wanda said, “They think he was stealing from the company.”

I was flabbergasted. “Stealing? Othello? I find that hard to believe.”

“Too many of his tickets went missing, and he was suspected of pocketing the cash.”

“Goddamn. There is no balm in Gilead.”

A puzzled expression passed over Wanda’s face. “What?”

I clapped my hands and rubbed them together. “It’s a line from Poe’s The Raven.”

“Does it mean anything?”

“Probably not.”

I’m going to miss that kid. He always had my back.

But the night wasn’t a total loss. I ended up making $250.

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.

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.

Insults and Money

 

(Sometimes, I feel exhausted.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 5 p.m. and walked to the kitchen. Mom was sitting at the counter, sipping on a cup of tea.

She frowned at me. “Why do you always look so miserable?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I ain’t miserable. I’m just a little tired.”

“What type of black thoughts are racing through your mind?”

I shrugged again. “I’m not thinking about anything. My brain is a complete blank.”

This wasn’t exactly true. I was actually thinking about a dream I’d had a couple nights ago. I was back in Korea trying to sell Toyotas for a living. Everybody at the dealership could speak English. But a black guy was very upset that the manager had given me the job. He was the only foreigner working at the place, and he feared that I might cut into his profits.

Dreams. Psychiatrists seem to think they’re important. But they’ve always seemed like a load of horseshit to me.

Mom said, “You haven’t been nice to Nurse Ken lately.”

“How so?”

“He’s doing a great job water-blasting my back patio. Yet all you do is criticize him.”

I sighed heavily. “The place now looks like a pile of shit, and there’s fucking sand everywhere. But it’s not his fault. The blame lies upon you. You’re always handing out these meaningless fucking tasks that do more harm than good.”

“Well, excuse me for living.”

I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. I was supposed to be working with Othello the Spainard and Pork-Chop Jane. However, Jane decided to take the night off. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. We were busy as hell. And hustling like a coolie is a job for young people. I might be getting too long in the tooth for this gig.

My first table was very strange. It was two guys who were both cooks at a fancy establishment. Well, maybe the word fancy is pushing it. Let’s just say that their place of employment is fancier than the Waffle House.

Anyway, they kept insulting me.

One of them said, “You’re the worst waiter in the fucking world. Don’t they train you at this place?”

I nodded. “Yes, I’ve been trained.”

“What’s the problem then? Are you new to the gig.”

I shook my head. “I’ve actually been working here since March.”

“And this is the fucking best you can do?”

I nodded again. “Yes, I’m afraid that I’m lacking the basic skills to be an effective waiter.”

“Then why don’t you do some fucking research on YouTube?” He looked at his friend. “Would you hire this joker as a waiter in your restaurant.”

“Not in a million years.”

I didn’t take their verbal jabs very seriously. Besides, they were a hundred percent correct. I’m a shitty server who always gets the orders wrong. But here’s where it becomes weird. They left me a 32-dollar tip on a 50-dollar bill. Then, on the way out the door, they both told me to pick up my game.

At 2 a.m., Othello the Spaniard bailed on me. So your poor old narrator was left all alone. And the people just kept coming and coming. I had to hustle like a son of a bitch simply to keep up with all of the orders. Plus I’m the unfortunate asshole who had to do the dishes, make the iced tea, sweep and mop the floor, drop the sink, etc.

Yet the tips were great. I ended up making $350 for the ten-hour shift. But what good is money if you die from a heart attack?

Criminal Waffle Queen

 

(It was a strange and wonderful night.)

Yesterday, Othello the Spaniard decided to take a day off in order to go fishing with his buddies. So he was replaced by a woman named Denver who has been bouncing around various locations until she can find a fulltime slot.

I could tell that she was a skilled artist right away. Everything she did was fast, fast, fast. She made the coffee fast. She cleaned the dishes fast. She cooked the waffles fast. You get the idea. A real pro.

I said, “This can’t be your first time on the floor.”

She said, “I’ve been in the game for many years. But I took five years off to raise my children. I was a stay-at-home mom.”

Anyway, my ass was dragging because it was my fourth ten-hour shift in a row. Therefore, I gave her section one. That’s where all the action is during the night shift.

At the beginning of the evening, she had the vast majority of the customers. And you should have seen her go. She was dancing around like a ballerina. I know that some of you will scoff. But being a good server isn’t easy. You have to have lots of energy and a good memory. Unfortunately, I’m a little lazy and I can never remember a fucking thing.

Yet there’s good news. Even though my tables were few and far between, my customers kept giving me great tips. Then a wonderful thing occurred around ten p.m. These four ladies sat in my section and wanted water. So I brought it to them with a smile on my face. They were blonde and very attractive. I even popped a Woodrow just gazing upon their lovely faces.

The oldest one said, “Would you mind taking our photo with my phone?”

I said, “You bet. Nothing would bring me greater pleasure.”

After that, they ordered a triple hash brown, a double hash brown, and a plain waffle. Their bill only came to $17.25. Then they handed me a hundred-dollar bill and told me to keep the change. That’s an eighty-three dollar tip for those of you who are counting at home.

I said, “Are you girls stoned?”

The youngest one smiled at me. “No, we’re perfectly sober.”

I let out a heavy sigh. “This is insane.”

She said, “It’s our pleasure.”

Then they walked out the door after finishing their meal.

I guess that kind of shit happens once in a lifetime. I’ll be telling that story on my deathbed.

Anyway, let’s get back to Denver. She was a little disappointed that the store wasn’t busier. She was used to working at Waffle House in the mornings where the action is fast and furious.

I said, “Overnights is all about pulling your twenty to thirty tickets. The customers tip better than the morning crowd.  You have section one, so there’s no way you’re walking out of here with less than $250 for the shift.”

“But it’s goddamn boring.”

I nodded. “Yes. And let’s hope it stays that way. Excitement is for young people. I much prefer slow and steady.”

During the night, I got to know Denver a little better. She’s going through a rough divorce, and her husband now has custody of the children. Plus she has two felonies on her rap sheet. One is for assaulting a cop for which she spent five years under house arrest. And another is for possession of meth which landed her in jail for six months.

With that said, she’s still the greatest waitress I’ve ever laid eyes upon. And it was a real pleasure to work with her.  Conversely, when I’m tied down with Pork-Chop Jane, I feel like I’ve been crucified by the time 7 a.m. rolls around. I love the girl to death, but she’s the laziest chick in the universe.

Overall, it was a wonderful night financially. I only wrote 14 tickets but ended up making $270 for the shift.

My Poor Old Bowels

 

(Getting old really sucks.)

Yesterday, Nurse Ken cooked supper on the grill. Steaks, to be exact. I had purchased them about a week ago with my EBT card.

He said, “Dad, should I put some butter on yours?”

“No, I’m not a butter guy.”

Mom shot Ken the stink eye. “Why do you put butter on everything? It’s not good for your cholesterol.”

“I do it for the calories. I’m trying to gain weight.”

My oldest son is nearly six and a half feet tall. Yet the poor kid is paper thin. I used to be very skinny when I was his age, but now I’m a flabby old man.

Anyway, I ate two large pieces of meat before changing into my uniform. However, a few minutes later, I had to take off my apron and Waffle-House shirt so that I could take a massive shit. Now that I’m an AARP geezer, I no longer have control over my bowels. In fact, one of my biggest fears is that I’ll soil myself in public. Pray for me.

I got to work at 8:45 p.m. and ran into the district manager by the dumpster. He was puffing away on a generic cigarette…even though he probably makes about 100 grand a year. But he didn’t stay long. He was simply there to change out the cash register.

He said, “I had no idea that you’re a filthy smoker. You never struck me as the type.”

I said, “I quit the habit for ten years, but I blew up to 270 pounds. So I started smoking again for the sake of my health.”

He laughed out loud for a few seconds and shook his head. “You just can’t win, can you?”

“Nope. Life is definitely a loser’s game.”

By the way, that’s I how witness Christ to all the pagans I run across. I tell them that we’re all completely screwed without Jesus. Sadly, I have no gravitas. Nobody ever believes a word that comes out of my mouth.

Anyway, my co-workers were Pork-Chop Jane and Othello the Spaniard. I love to watch Pork-Chop Jane. The first thing she did upon her arrival was ask Dwayne the Dwarf to cook her a BLT. Then she sat on her big, beautiful ass as she chomped away on her sandwich.

After that, she walked outside to meet Weepy Wanda by the dumpster. They proceeded to smoke weed for the next fifteen minutes.

She returned with glazed eyes and a big goofy smile on her face.

I said, “You should work at Waffle House forever. This is the greatest job for a girl like you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Who else is going to let you eat for free and get high on the clock? You’ve found your calling, girlfriend.”

“You’re the biggest hater in the world.”

“I don’t hate you, Jane. On the contrary. I love you to death. Keep on being you.”

And I wasn’t lying. I wish I had the balls to collect a paycheck while getting stoned every night. Yet my fucking conscious won’t let me do it. I’ve always broken my balls at work…even when I was a 12-year-old paperboy delivering the Hartford Courant to all the assholes in my neighborhood. I need to start having some fun before I die.

The place was busy all night long. Yet we had to split the tables between the three of us…which cuts down on the tip money. But I did OK. I made 225 dollars for the ten-hour shift.