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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Career Change?

(I'm hoping to change jobs.)

Hello, my dearest friends. I’m afraid that your humble narrator is a tad drunk due to a few Jack and Cokes. But I’ll do my best to be as coherent as possible. I once heard that the famous gunfighter Doc Holliday was a deadly shot when he was in the bag. So how hard could it be to write five hundred words while under the influence? We shall see.

Anyway, I bought a Hyundai Venue last Saturday, and I paid for the vehicle in cash in order to avoid a monthly nut. However, I couldn't pick it up until Monday. That’s old news. But I struck up a conversation with the finance guy as I crossed the t's and dotted the i's. His name is Doug, and he’s an Englishman who loves history.

He said, “I’m so damned tired. I’ve been working for fifteen straight days. The grind never ends.”

I said, “I’d love a job like this.”

“Really?”

“No kidding. I’ve been slaving at a bullshit gig with the Waffle House since I came back to America.”

“Are you planning to teach again in August?”

I sighed heavily. “I’d rather dive to my death off a luxury cruise ship than to step back into a classroom.”

He laughed out loud. “Well, I do make good money. In fact, I drive a Genesis.”

“How much did that run you? About seventy grand?”

He nodded. “That’s right. Seventy grand. You hit it right on the nose.”

“It must be nice.”

Doug frowned and shook his head. “I’d rather teach history on the high-school level. That was my dream. Sadly, it never worked out.”

“Man, you’re crazy. I taught high-school English for five years in America. It sucked giant ass. A lot of the kids were either crazy or on drugs.” I paused for dramatic effect. “You really need to count your blessings.”

“Why don’t you come to work here? Some of the top salesmen make $20,000 a month.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not. I’ve seen their salaries with my own eyes. Not saying that you would be at their level. It’s a complete grind, and if you don’t sell, then you starve. But even the weak members of the herd usually make about four grand a month.”

To make a long story short, he gave me an application and told me to bring it back whenever I passed his way in the future. So I drove home in my brand-new Venue and filled out the paperwork at my mom’s kitchen table. Then I threw the application into the drawer by my bed and forgot about it.

Fast forward to Friday. I drove down to the Hyundai dealership in the morning and gave Doug the application. He shook my hand and told me he’d give it to the sales manager. Will I hear from Hyundai in the future? Probably not. But it’s in God’s hands, right?

On my way home, I stopped at the Toyota dealership. I stepped into the showroom and talked to a young fat lady who was covered in tattoos.

I said, “I’d like to apply to for a job.”

“In sales?”

“Yes. In sales.”

She picked up the phone and talked to her boss for a brief moment. “One of the managers would like to speak to you. Have a seat, and he’ll call you when he’s ready.”

Well, I waited for an hour, but not a single soul came to speak to me. So I got up and walked out. If they’re going to treat me like a dog when I’m a civilian, imagine how bad they’d abuse me if I were actually an employee. Who needs that shit? 

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Rice-Boy and School

 

(Rice-Boy needs his education.)

Yesterday, I took Rice-Boy to the local high school in my snazzy new Hyundai Venue. He brought his transcripts, his birth certificate, and his vaccination records. They were stored in a large manila envelope.

We struck up a conversation during the drive.

I said, “They’re probably going to hold you back a year.”

“That sucks.”

“Well, it’s certainly not a good thing. But just remember that your life would have been delayed for two years if you had stayed in Korea.”

Which is true. The ROK has mandatory service, and all male citizens are required to join the army for eighteen months. But Larry is half-a-white guy, so there’s no way in hell that the-powers-that-be would have ever let him into the military. Therefore, he’d have been stuck working the post office or picking weeds at the side of the road. And that’s a full two years since it’s considered light duty.

I took a huge drag from my vaping machine and blew the mist toward the windshield. “Just remember that you can’t get into any fights.”

“What?”

“Fights! You have to avoid them. You still have a hole in your skull.”

When Rice-Boy was six months old, a deposit of fatty tissue was growing out of the back of his head. So he had to have surgery to remove it. The bone never grew back, and now he has a hole in his noggin that’s about the size of a quarter.

Rice-Boy said, “Why would I get into any fights?”

“You can’t tell with these Texas rednecks. They might try to test you.”

“So I’m supposed to back down like a pussy?”

I nodded my head up and down. “Damn skippy. And don’t try to impress the girls. Trust me. If you got to get your ass kicked simply to impress some young split-tail, then she’s not worth the effort.” I took another pull from my vaping machine. “Your dad might be a white man, but he isn’t speaking with a forked tongue.”

Anyway, we got to the school about ten minutes later, and it was hard to get into the front door. Everything was completely locked down. It took us about five minutes to figure out which button to push before we were eventually buzzed in.

Larry said, “Boy, what a pain the ass.”

I smiled. “Welcome to America.”

To make a long story short, I finally got to speak to the registrar. She was a cute little brunette with a nice smile. She was also very polite.

I said, “This is my son, and I want to get him enrolled. But everything is a little complicated.”

She said, “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

“He’s from South Korea, and stuff is different over there. They start the year in March and finish in December. He’s completed his junior year, and now—”

She cut me off mid-sentence. “I know all about South Korea. So basically you want him to begin his senior year in August.”

“Exactly.”

I handed her his transcripts and birth certificate. Then she disappeared, and we sat on a wooden bench as we waited for further instructions.

I looked at Larry. “She knows all about South Korea. Who would have guessed it?”

“Well, Koreans are pretty much all over the world.”

I nodded in agreement. “You’re right. They are certainly ubiquitous.”

“True. Wherever you go, you’ll run into a Korean.”

When the lady returned, she told me that everything was in order, but that I should call on Friday for more information. She also said that he might have to take a couple of bullshit courses over the summer. Good enough, right?

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