Homeless Hugh

 

(Waffle House attracts a lot of bums.)

At 10 p.m., I left the restaurant for a smoke. I stood in the parking lot puffing away on my cancer stick when I saw a guy carrying a backpack heading in my direction. I felt a pain in the pit of my stomach because I knew it was a homeless guy coming to beg for free hash browns. And I simply don’t have the heart to refuse them. One day, maybe I’ll need free hash browns, too.

He took a hit off his vape machine and grinned at me. He was missing several teeth in the front of his mouth, and his remaining choppers were dark and dirty.

He said, “My name’s Hugh, and I’m from Scotland. And you are Jack. I love name tags. They make life so much easier.”

I shot him an uneasy smile. “My mother is originally from Scotland. Glasgow, to be precise.”

“Glasgow. I’ve been there many times. But I live way up in the north country. In fact, I’m so far north that I can fly to Finland for twenty-nine pound.”

“What brings you to America?”

“I’ve come here to hike. I enjoy walking from hither to yon. I guess you could call it a hobby. But unfortunately I’ve run into trouble.”

“And what would that be?”

“At my last campsite, the squirrels got into my bag while I was sleeping. I’m afraid they defaced my bank card and rendered it useless. I won’t get a new one until Monday.”

I sighed heavily.  “That really sucks. Would you like a couple of free waffles and some bacon?”

“Brother, you are truly a godsend.”

So he came inside and sat at the counter. And I made the poor broke prick his food. The good thing about working nights at the Waffle House is that my co-workers are usually too stoned to care if the occasional hobo needs a place to rest his feet for a while. In fact, Dwayne the Dwarf and Pork-Chop Jane never uttered a single word about the matter.

While he was munching away on his vittles, he told me about his advanced education.

He said, “I have a Ph.D. in medieval history from Cambridge, and I served in the Australian army for many years. But I caught bone cancer, and I’m also struggling with prostate cancer.”

That’s when I reached for my wallet and handed the guy four five-dollar bills.

I said, “That’s all I have. Twenty bucks. I wish I could give you more.”

“You are a true Christian, my friend. And I’ll return this to you in a few days.”

I waved off his notion with both hands because my bullshit detector was going off at full blast. Cambridge? Ph.D.? Well, let’s just say I had my doubts.

I said, “I tell you what. Pay it forward. Next time you see a homeless bum, give him a twenty.”

“Fair enough, Jack. Fair enough.”

The problem with these hard-luck cases is that they never fucking leave. Hugh sat there for the next five hours sipping on water and nibbling on bits of bacon. And he kept talking and talking and talking about useless garbage.

“Jack, have you ever had pizza in Glasgow?”

“Yes, I have, Hugh. They deep fry it.”

He clapped his hands together triumphantly. “That’s right, lad. They deep fry it.”

And he laughed and laughed and laughed.

He finally left the fucking restaurant at 3 a.m. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. I wasn’t sad to see him go.

It was one of the lowest paying nights in my Waffle House career. I only made $170 for the entire ten-hour shift. That comes to $17 an hour.

Talk about shit pay for a guy my age. But at least I ain’t begging for hash browns. Yet, anyway.

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Catnaps

 

(I'm a tired-out motherfucker.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 5 p.m. after only getting three hours of sleep. It’s tough living the life of a vampire. Trust me. It ain’t for pussies. I’m pushing sixty, and surviving on catnaps is driving this poor old man straight into the ground.

To make matters worse, Mom caught my cold. It’s affecting her mood, and these days she wanders through the house wheezing and hacking her lungs out.

Anyway, she got very angry at Nurse Ken.

Mom said, “That boy is a lazy son of a bitch.”

I said, “What the fuck happened?”

“I called him and asked if he would cook the porkchops. But he said that he’d rather go buy a sandwich at Subway. He’ll do anything to avoid work. Plus he just doesn’t give a shit about anybody else.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

So I dialed his number using my smartphone, and he picked up after the third ring.

I said, “Ken, you have to come downstairs and cook these pork chops. You pissed off your granny. In fact, she might stick a fork in your eye.”

“But I don’t know how to cook fucking pork chops.”

“It’s real fucking simple. You turn the oven to 375 degrees, and then you cook the meat for about an hour.”

“So why don’t you fucking do it?”

“It wouldn’t have the same peaceful effects.” I paused to increase the drama. “Come on down and make her happy. Be a sport, won’t you?”

And to his credit, he did what he was told.

Normally, Mom isn’t a bitch. But she gets a little ornery when she’s under the weather. Yet I have to cut the old gal a little slack. In two years, she’ll be eighty. I’m only fifty-six, and I’m falling apart both mentally and physically. Hopefully, I’ll be fucking dead by the time I get to her age.

At 6:30 p.m., I drove to church by my lonesome. My sons are a couple of filthy pagans. However, I never twist their arms to join me.

This new pastor I have is amazing. He talked about some of the prophecies in the Book of Daniel, and then he brought the writings of Josephus into the sermon. I found his entire presentation awe-inspiring. In fact, I put eighty bucks into the collection plate. I’m going to donate one thousand dollars a year to his church. He’s doing great stuff.

I went to work at 9 p.m. My partners in crime were Jamaal and John the Dwarf. The foot traffic was slow but steady. I ended up making $230 for the shift.

Jamaal is great. But he hates being a waiter, so he gave me about eighty percent of the tables.

I said, “Jamaal, I feel pretty bad…like I’m doing you a bad turn. How can you make any scratch if you won’t write tickets?”

He smiled and shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll catch some tips tomorrow.”

At five in the morning, four of his friends walked into the restaurant and squeezed into a booth.

I said, “Here’s a great chance for you to make some money.”

He shook his head. “You go ahead and take them. I’m cleaning the sink.”

They ended up tipping me twenty bucks.

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Medicaid

 

(It's tough being poor.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 11 a.m. and stumbled to the patio for a cigarette. I was dead on my feet due to my overnight work schedule. Some days, I’m forced to survive on catnaps. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. It’s not the easiest thing in the world for a man of my advanced years.

As I was puffing on my generic cancer stick, I decided to call a local clinic to make an appointment for Rice-Boy Larry. He starts his senior year of high school in August, and he doesn’t have all of the required vaccinations. South Korea and the United States have different standards.

A woman answered the phone.

I said, “I’d like to make an appointment for my son.”

“How old is he?”

“Seventeen.”

“And are you insured?”

“Sort of. He’s on Medicaid.”

There was a long moment of silence.

Finally, she said, “Well, we’re all booked up until July.”

“That’s six weeks.”

“I’m well aware of that, sir. But we’re very popular in the area. Are you still interested?”

“Yes.”

“Has your son been here before?”

“No.”

“Then you need to go to our website and make an appointment.”

And that’s exactly what I did. I filled in all of Rice-Boy’s information and pressed the submit button. A message soon popped up stating that I’d be getting an email within the next few days.

I started getting paranoid. Does being a Medicaid deadbeat interfere with proper scheduling? I mean, six weeks seems like a hell of a long time. But I remembered that my mother has to wait ages to get to see her physician. It’s just the way that America seems to roll.

Then my mind started getting hit with nightmare scenarios. What happens if the kid comes down with something like strep throat. It’s a common ailment that can turn fatal if left untreated. By the time he gets to see a professional, he might actually be dead.

I certainly don’t want to badmouth America. It’s my country. Yet the healthcare system seems a tad shoddy. No wonder our life expectancy lags behind the other OECD nations. I bet I could fly to Djibouti and get the same level of service. In fact, it’s kind of shameful when you think about it. After all, we’re supposed to be the best nation in the world.

Mom said, “There’s probably another option. Call the Department of Health.”

So I gave it a try, and I explained Rice-Boy’s situation to the receptionist.

She said, “Do you have a list of the vaccinations he received in Korea?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’ve got a division not far from your house. Bring his information, and we’ll get you squared away. We even have a clinic that will give your boy the shots he needs.”

I hung up the phone. It was a huge relief.

I looked at my mother. “You know, not having insurance could actually be deadly in this country.”

“You need to start talking to more poor people. They know all the tricks.”

“Where am I gonna meet poor folk?”

“Excuse me. You work at the Waffle House.”

She certainly has a point. A network of deadbeats could help guide me safely past the slings and arrows of this unforgiving life.

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A Day Off

 

(It was a relaxing day.)

I woke up this morning at 11 a.m. and walked to the bathroom for a piss. Then I stepped out onto the patio a quick smoke. I only do generics these days. Why? I’m just not paying ten dollars for a pack of Marlboros. It seems outrageous to me.

Mom was sitting down and drinking coffee. “I’m taking Julius the dog for a haircut today.”

I took a heavy pull from my cigarette. “That’s ironic. I’m also going for a haircut.”

“How is that ironic?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I simply talk in an attempt to be sociable. To be honest, I could probably live the rest of my life without uttering a single word.”

She took a sip from her beverage. “There’s a hairdresser next to the HEB grocery store. It costs twenty bucks. That’s where I took Rice-Boy Larry last week. They did a good job. Ask for Julie.”

“I don’t need anyone special. I’m going to shave it all off.” I took another puff. “It should only take about five minutes.”

She made an irritating clucking sound with her mouth. “You have such beautiful hair. I have no idea why you’d want to be bald.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll grow back.”

Mom suddenly changed the subject. “Are you OK? Mentally, I mean. Are you still missing Korea?”

I shook my head. “Not really. In all sincerity, I don’t think I could actually do the teaching job these days. It wasn’t the easiest gig in the world, and unfortunately I’ve lost a step. I’m no longer the man I used to be.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re still on top of your game. You just need a little time to rest.”

“You could be right.”

But she’s not. In fact, I feel pretty fucked up. I think all the nonsense finally caught up with me. Mom had a stroke and kept begging me to come home. Nurse Ken refused to speak to me for nearly a year because I was living overseas. And my crazy wife drained my bank account and ran away. There’s only so much a man can take before his brain goes haywire.

Anyway, I drove my Hyundai Venue to the HEB parking lot and walked to the hair shop. I was greeted by a middle-aged woman who demanded my name and phone number. She then typed my info into a computer. It seemed rather intrusive just to get a clip, but I didn’t argue. Hell, I’m even required to punch in my zip code when purchasing gas. It’s simply the way things are done in America.

She led me to a barber chair and told me to have a seat. “You want a trim, or do you have something else in mind?”

“I need you to shave it off.”

“Really? Shave it all off?”

“Yes, please.”

She sighed heavily. “OK. You’re the boss. What guard do you want?”

“Guard? I’m not getting you.”

“It means how short do you want it?”

“I want it as short as possible.”

“That would be zero guard.”

“OK. That’s what I want. Zero guard.”

It only took her five minutes to get the job done. Then I gave her a five-dollar tip.

After that, I drove to the Dollar Store. I bought some ballpoint pens and a few bags of sunflower seeds. The whole experience was quite relaxing.

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Whooping Cough

 

(I wonder if my ribs are cracked.)

I was still in Korea last November, and I can remember that the weather had turned a tad chilly. One of my homeroom students had a terrible cough. I mean, this poor bastard was really hacking his lungs up, so I sent him to the nurse

The next day, a few more of the kids came down with the same symptom. They kept coughing and spitting green stuff into the garbage can. Well, it was an outbreak of whooping cough, and it spread like wildfire.

And you guessed it. I contracted the illness, too. It was really horrible. In fact, the spasms were so violent that I might have actually cracked a couple of ribs. I shit you not. My chest hurts until this very day.

So why am I bringing this up? Because recently I’ve been dealing with a nasty cold, and every time I cough, the pain is unbearable. But I’m not complaining. I’ve still been going to work while keeping the illness to myself. However, I haven’t been writing lately due to the fact that I’m currently dealing with this malady.

Not that any of you sons of bitches care. Yet if you can keep me in your prayers, then I would certainly appreciate it.

Anyway, I woke up today after Nurse Ken began screaming about his boss. Even though he was in the living room talking to his granny, his shrieking awoke me from a deep slumber.

So I left my bedroom to see what all the hubbub was about.

He said, “My boss is a motherfucker.”

I nodded. “Could you be more specific.”

“The van I use to deliver the mail is a broken down piece of crap, and I always have to wait a couple hours before I start my route.”

“And are they paying you while they repair the vehicle?”

“Not a cent! I get $2,400 a month no matter how long it takes to finish the job.”

“Man, that sucks. What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to fucking quit. It’s the only solution. Lincoln freed the fucking slaves.”

I nodded and took a puff from my vape machine. “Wouldn’t it be better to find employment before ditching this gig?”

“Fuck that shit. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. He gives me the crappiest van out of the entire fleet because he thinks I’m a pushover. And I’m tired of him defecating on my head.”

The thing about Ken is this: He’s not the type of kid who appreciates advice. In fact, he’s a bit of a hothead. But I understand where he’s coming from. Who the hell wants to sit for two hours without getting paid for their time?

Anyway, I went to work at 9 p.m. later that night, and I was expecting festival crowds since it was Saturday. Yet the place was fucking dead. This is the first time I’ve worked a ten-hour shift without putting at least $200 in my pocket. Sadly, the final tally was $160…which comes to a paltry 16 bucks an hour.

However, I looked at the lack of customers as a strange blessing. I’ve been feeling poorly, and it was a nice break from the usual chaos.

Weepy Wanda also worked the shift. She kept complaining about Jamaal.

She said, “I’m going to report him to the manager.”

“Why?”

“He never does his fucking side work. Instead, he goes outside and smokes grass.”

But here’s the thing about Wanda. She’s a pothead, too. For example, she spent an hour in her car that evening making love to her water bong. Yes. She actually brings a water bong to her place of employment.

That’s why I love working at the Waffle House. The drama never ends.

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The New Girl

(The new girl certainly speaks her mind.)

Tonight, I worked with Radio Head and a new girl. The new girl’s name is Trinity, and she talks with a funny accent because she’s from the Bahamas.

Anyway, I started putting away the plates and dishes as soon as I clocked in. Then I dropped a fork on the floor, so I had to bend over to pick it up.

She said, “Man, you is so old. Why you work? You should be relaxing at home?”

I smiled at her. “I’m fine. It’s just that I have problems with my knees.”

“How old is you?”

“Fifty-six.”

“I work with old man at da other store. He sixty-tree.”

“Do I look sixty-three?”

She shook her head. “Not you face. But da way you move. Plus you all hunched over. Why you not stand straight up in da air?”

“I’ve always been a slouch. I was born that way.”

Her words kind of made me feel self-conscious. But then I looked at her. She was a fat black girl with cornrows. Don’t get me wrong. I’m pretty fucking ugly, but I’m not as nearly ugly as her. I mean, where does she get the balls to talk about my appearance when she fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down? However, I let it go. Why rock the boat, right?

One of my tables featured a Hispanic man with his wife and daughter. They ordered T-bone steaks, eggs, and hashbrowns. I had served him before, so I knew I was in for a pretty good tip. But Radio Head jumped past me to the cash register and screwed everything up. The guy gave her 66 dollars on a 54-dollar ticket. And sadly she rang it up as if the bill itself was 66 bucks. In other words, she inadvertently screwed me out of a 12-dollar tip.

Yet it turned out OK. I went into the machine and voided the entire transaction. Then I simply entered it again.

However, here’s the deal. The manager hates it when waiters use the void function. And I’m already on the red board dedicated toward the losers. So I guess we’ll have to see how it all turns out.

My shift was only five hours long, but at Waffle House you have a lot of stuff you got to do on the side. For instance, it was my job to make the iced tea and mop the floor. Therefore, I struck a deal with Trinity when the clock struck midnight.

I said, “Most of the customers have been sitting on my side of the restaurant tonight. Why don’t you take over the floor while I do some of the other shit before my shift ends.”

Her face brightened up, and she shot me a broad smile. “Really? How you gonna pay you bills with no tip money?”

“I already made close to a hundred bucks, so I’m good to go.”

“A hundred dollars in tree hour?” She thought about it for a second. “You get good tip because you old man. Dey feel sorry for you.”

I shrugged my slouched shoulders. “I don’t know. But I usually do pretty well compared to the others.”

“It your age. Old folk always do better.”

But here’s something that young people don’t understand. They’re all addicted to their phones and their drugs. And the customers fucking hate it. In fact, third shift has had a myriad of complaints about the behavior of the servers since I joined the team. It’s very rude to watch videos and sit on your fat rump while people chomp on their grub. It’s akin to giving them the finger.

That’s why I was given fulltime hours even though I’m the shittiest waiter in the fucking world. The boss knows that I’m not gazing at YouTube or getting stoned out by the dumpster. This isn’t me bragging about myself. I suck giant ass, but what other choice does he have?

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Radio Head

 

(She just keeps talking to herself.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 7 p.m., and I had yet another case of the Waffle-House yips. I was scheduled to work with Toothless Bunny all by myself, and the thought of it made me sick to my stomach. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got nothing against Bunny, but she’s a hardcore Waffle Girl. So all the cleaning has to be done perfectly. Needless to say, it’s a real fucking drag.

I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. and clocked in for my shift. That’s when I heard that Bunny had been fired. Instead, the new grill operator was a woman named Radio Head. That’s not her actual name. I call her that because she constantly talks to herself. Something has obviously happened to the transistors in her brain.

The manager was in his office.

He said, “Jack, I looked at your most recent tickets. They look damn good. Thanks for heeding my instructions.”

I nodded and smiled. “No problem. You’re the boss.”

I soon noticed that he had set up a red and green board. All the good tickets were in the green section. And the red section was devoted to the deadbeats. Well, you can guess whose tickets were pinned up on the loser’s side. That’s right. Your humble protagonist.

However, I simply kept my mouth shut. I’m still new to the game, and there is definitely a learning curve. He’s giving me forty hours a week, so why rock the boat?

I looked at the manager. “I can hit the dish pit and get them out of the way.”

He shook his head. “I tell you what. I need you to sweep until 2^nd shift clears the tables.”

And that’s what I did. I got all the hashbrowns and used napkins off the floor, making the place look presentable. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. Even though I’m a peasant, I take pride in my work.

The manager was behind the counter, and he suddenly looked at Radio Head. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

Yet she was too busy chattering away to even notice his question.

I said, “She sorta has her own style.”

He shrugged his shoulders and went home.

As soon as he left the building, we were suddenly swamped with customers. I mean, there was barely a seat left in the entire restaurant. And I was the only server on duty. It was a real cocksucker. In fact, I was so busy that some of the customers left because they didn’t want to wait.

But here’s the kicker. Even though I’m a crap waiter, I always get tipped pretty well. I made over fifty bucks in less than 90 minutes. Why these people keep giving me their money is beyond my reasoning. Perhaps they feel sorry for me.

I ended up making 220 dollars for a ten-hour shift. And the place was completely dead between 2 a.m. till 5 a.m. I’m starting to get used to the lifestyle. It’s like being a kid again. Plus Rice-Boy Larry is now on Medicaid…which is a huge load off my back.

At 7 a.m., I drove to a nearby gas station and bought a vape machine. Its flavor is blueberry mixed with watermelon. And it tastes fantastic. It cost me twenty bucks.

My one big worry in life is getting enough sleep. So now I’m mixing Tylenol PM with Jack Daniel’s and Coke. It’s probably not a wise choice, but I need my shuteye.

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