Jack Versus Jane

 

(I certainly don't want to be a dick.)

I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m., and the place was crowded. So I hit the floor right away, taking an order for a pain-in-the-ass family of three. Trust me. These were some off-the-menu motherfuckers. Dad wanted his hash browns light. And Mom wanted her waffle light. And the boy said he didn’t want eggs even though he ordered an All-Star Breakfast.

But I gave them a joyful smile and patiently explained their instructions to Dwayne the Dwarf. And, to his credit, he did what I told him to do without handing me any sass. So all’s well that ends well. Plus they left me a fifteen-dollar tip…which is pretty nice. However, I had to hustle for every last penny. Being a waiter isn’t a job which allows you to keep your dignity. I’m one tiny step above a stripper.

With that said, the money kept falling from the trees. People were passing out twenty-dollar bills like they were candy. In fact, my biggest tip of the night was forty bucks, and I barely did a thing for the table. I guess it all comes down to luck.

Yet money isn’t free. When you have a shitload of customers, the dishes start piling up in the sink. And you don’t have the time to knock them out because you’re too busy waiting on tables.

At one a.m., I took some trash back to the dumpster. And you should have witnessed what I saw. A group of ten teenagers were huddled in a circle smoking dope and swapping stories. And who was their ringleader? You guessed it. Pork-Chop Jane.

Needless to say, I was filled with fury. And when she came back inside, I gave her a piece of my mind.

She said, “Are you doing OK, Jack?”

I shot her the stink eye. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I’ve been tied to this wonderful dish pit for the last two hours. And meanwhile you and your friends have created your very own private opium den. What could be better?”

“Then take yourself a break. Jesus, man, what’s your fucking problem. Do have hemorrhoids or something?”

“No, I don’t have hemorrhoids, and you are free to do all the drugs you want. As long as it’s on your time.”

“You need a chill pill. You’re getting old, Jack. Getting old.”

“Look, I might be a geezer. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’re playing me for a fool. I’m in here slaving away while you’re outside getting high.”

And for the first time in my brief Waffle-House career, I thought about going to the manager. Working with potheads isn’t the easiest thing in the world. They break shit. They forget stuff. They never keep up with their work. And all their responsibilities land squarely on the uptight sober assholes.

But I’m not a squealer. It simply isn’t in my DNA. Plus Pork-Chop told me about her rotten life, and it broke my heart. Her parents are dirt poor. She dropped out of school during Covid. She can’t afford a car, so she has to ride everywhere on a bike. And the kid is only nineteen years old.

Anyway, our conversation left me with a lot of guilt pangs. I’m certainly not going to drop a dime on a child. Heaven forbid. But I will continue to ride her ass until I get adequate work-place production. I’ll be damned if I’ll grind my fingers to the bone to keep her in cupcakes. Fuck that shit.

In spite of the drama, the night was a financial success. I ended up making $280.

Happy Wanda

 

(Wanda couldn't stop smiling.)

Yesterday, I got to the restaurant at 8:45 p.m. and had a cig at the dumpsters with Weepy Wanda. These days, she mainly works 2^nd shift. However, she enjoys hanging around after she clocks out to get high with Pork-Chop Jane. They toke their weed and discuss their boyfriends. Sometimes, they do drugs and gossip for two to three hours. I shit you not.

Anyway, Wanda was all smiles.

I said, “What are you so happy about?”

“Cindy got fired.”

Cindy is a rough-edged waitress who also works the 2^nd shift. She has a ton of tats and has been warned several times for vaping inside the establishment.

I said, “What did she do?”

“The manager doesn’t like her attitude.”

“That’s it? There must be more to the story than that.”

“Cindy’s been on her last warning for several months now. But the manager was cool about it. He said that she’s free to work at any Waffle House in the entire state of Texas. Just not at this one.”

Well, my friends, what can I tell you. They come and they go. It’s the Waffle-House way.

The night was extremely busy, but unfortunately the grill operator was Slow-Poke Benson. The kid still doesn’t know how to cook a fucking egg, and Dwayne the Dwarf refuses to teach him. Dwayne says that he’s too fucking old to be an instructor.

One of my orders took nearly 30 minutes to complete. I was afraid that my customers were all going to stand up and walk out. But most of them turned out to be jovial souls, and they waited patiently without protesting.

Slow-Poke Benson finally left at 2 a.m. And let me tell you motherfuckers something. I wasn’t sad to see him go. Waiting for that kid to finish an order is an exercise in frustration.

Then this greasy old biker limped into the restaurant and sat at the hi-bar.

I said, “Is that a Harley?”

He nodded grimly. “Damn straight, it’s a Harley. I wouldn’t ride nothing else.”

“I’ve always been afraid of motorcycles. They seem kind of dangerous.”

He nodded again. “I lost my fucking foot about a year ago after dumping my bike in the street. But I swore that I’d get back on the horse and ride again. And here I am, my friend.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Nothing in the world is going to keep me off my Harley.”

After he finished shoving the rest of his hash browns into his mouth, he left me a five-dollar tip.

At 3 a.m., a drunk guy staggered into the parking lot and took a nap right by our front door. Somebody must have called the police because three squad cars came rolling in a couple of minutes later. The man was arrested for public intoxication, and Pork-Chop Jane was asked to write a witness statement describing everything she’d seen.

This filled her with joy, and her boyfriend helped her spell the difficult words.

Of course, I was mopping and sweeping while she had all the fun. Jane is by far the laziest person I’ve ever met. Sometimes, I just want to smack her in the head with the mop. Yet she’s only nineteen, so I do my best to remain patient.

Overall, it wasn’t a bad night. I ended up with $260 dollars for the ten-hour shift.

The New Grill Operator

 

(Jesus helped Bruce turn his life around.)

Yesterday, a new grill operator showed up for the overnight shift. His name is Bruce. The kid isn’t new to the Waffle House. In fact, he’s been with the company for many years. But he’s usually a morning guy. That’s where all the action is. The mornings.

I said, “How old are you, Bruce?”

He said, “Twenty-six.”

“Wow. You’re young enough to be my son.”

“I might look young. But there’s a lot of tread on my tires.”

I smiled at him. “Really? You’re still a child. How can there be tread on your tires?”

“I was homeless for almost two years. I was also addicted to crack.”

I shot him a puzzled expression. “Crack?”

He nodded. “I’d do anything for drugs. In fact, I used to beat up other homeless people just to steal their money. I’m not proud of myself. Yet the truth is the truth.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You can say that again. He helped me out of the gutter.”

Waffle House is a rough crew. I can’t imagine assaulting hobos for drug money. It makes no sense to me. Besides, how much money does a bum usually carry? But I guess substance abusers aren’t the most logical people in the world.

Then he told me about another morning grill operator who’s in trouble with the manager. The cook’s name is Butch Li. He’s originally from Cambodia. I know the dude in passing. I see him from time to time at 7 a.m.

I said, “What the fuck did Butch do?”

“He keeps sassing the boss.”

I shrugged my shoulders while turning my palms to the sky. “Why would he sass the boss?”

“Butch has a problem with authority. He just can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.”

“But he barely speaks a word of English.”

“It’s all about the attitude.”

Waffle House has a huge turnover rate. I’ve only been working here for a few months, yet I’ve already seen four or five people get the axe. And you can’t blame the management. These folk are fucking batshit crazy. I shit you not.

Pork-Chop Jane was also working the shift. She was her usual self. Her entire family showed up at the restaurant, and she spent a good hour outside in the parking lot talking to them. Then they came inside to sit in a booth, and she gave them all free food.

After they left, her boyfriend visited, and she spent another hour by the dumpster smoking dope and sucking face with her latest flame.

I really should get a job selling cars. I think I could sell the crap out of them, and I wouldn’t have to spend any time washing pots and pans in the dish pit. Sadly, I’m fucking lazy. As I’ve said many times, the restaurant is only a five-minute drive from my humble abode.

The shift wasn’t very busy, and I only wrote nineteen tickets. Yet I still managed to make $200. Most of the customers were extremely nice. However, I did have a couple of Mexicans in the corner who ran up a $42 bill and completely stiffed me on the tip. I don’t know where these motherfuckers get the balls.

Theft

 

(The Waffle Princess ripped me off.)

On Sunday, I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. I was the only server on the floor for about an hour, and the joint was pretty full. I had to handle seven tables on my own…which might not seem like much to a regular waiter. But you have to remember that this is the Waffle House. So I’m also the busser and the dishwasher.

With that said, I handled the situation pretty well. I’ve been at the gig for a few months now, and I’ve pretty much got the hang of it.

Dwayne the Dwarf yelled at me in front of the manager. He didn’t like the way I was making my calls. Yet my boss never said a word. The employees often scream at one another. I guess everybody is used to it.

At 10:30 p.m., a cop car pulled into the parking lot and a woman got out carrying a shitload of her belongings. A purse. An overstuffed backpack. A small suitcase. And a blanket which was draped around her shoulders.

She walked inside and took a seat in one of the booths. The girl was in her twenties. She wasn’t ugly, but a caution sign might as well have been flashing above her head. Hard bitten. That’s the best way to describe her.  She was covered in tats and was sporting a pair of denim shorty shorts.

I smiled at her. “Can I get you something to drink?”

She smiled back. “No. I don’t need nothing except to charge my phone.”

“Want to rest your feet for a while, huh?”

“Yes, sir. I just got out of jail. I was in there for three weeks.”

“What the hell did you do?”

She smirked in a snotty fashion. “Those stupid cops said that I beat up my boyfriend.”

“Did you?”

“Fuck right I hit him. But he hit me, too.”

“Did they arrest him?”

“No, he didn’t leave any marks.”

I decided to completely ignore her. I was involved in an abusive relationship for years and years. In fact, the Dragon Lady would often get physical with me. I’ve even been kicked in the nuts a couple of times. Plus she would hurl plates and dishes at my head.  It sounds funny, but it really isn’t. Because there isn’t a damn thing you can do. If you fight back, you get labeled as a wife beater. It’s really nice to have a little peace in my life.

At midnight, a huge to-go order came in through the internet. I spent a lot of time putting the food into all types of plastic containers and bagging them up in an orderly fashion. Then I had to throw in all the syrup and butter and plastic cutlery.

About fifteen minutes later, the guy came to pick up his vittles. The Waffle Princess handed him his order, and the man handed her a ten-dollar tip. She quickly put the money in her pocket without saying a word to me.

Needless to say, her actions grated on my nerves. She pretty much stole my money. Yet I managed to control my anger and remained silent. It was my best option.

The Waffle Princess is only seventeen. So it would be a bad visual if an old man bullied her for such a small amount of cash.

However, I have to say this. When you work at the Waffle House, you really have to keep an eye on the other servers. Many of them have criminal records.

At 6 a.m., the lady who had just got out of jail found a ride to West Virginia with a complete stranger. Many of the customers were worried, fearing that she was putting herself in danger. Yet I felt bad for the dude. He had no idea what he was getting into.

Overall, I made $210 for the shift.

Saturday Night

 

(There'll be war and rumors of war.)

I got up at 6 p.m. and walked to the kitchen for supper. My mother served me a hamburger, and it tasted damn good. Meanwhile, Nurse Ken was sitting at the counter.

I said, “I listened to Steve Bannon’s podcast the other day. He thinks that Orange Donald has come to his senses and isn’t going to attack Iran.”

Ken said, “Well, Bannon’s full of shit because we just bombed their nuclear sites.”

I shook my head in disdain. “No fucking kidding? Well, I guess Trump knows what he’s doing. The guy has great instincts.”

“Horseshit. Soon we won’t be able to afford gasoline.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “What are you going to do? It’s like Jesus said during the Olivette discourse. There will be wars and rumors of war. But these are merely birthing pangs.”

Ken was disgusted by my words and went into a huge tirade against the Jews. He believes that all our politicians are controlled by the Zionists. But he doesn’t understand white people. We love money and power, and no Jew is going to tell us what to do…unless we can cash in.

Gradually, his argument became more ridiculous. He told me that I was forced to work at the Waffle House because of the Jews.

I said, “Are you fucking crazy? You’re going to pin this on Bibi?”

“Bibi controls our shitty economy.”

I pointed at him with my index finger. “You’re the reason I work at the Waffle House. Bibi’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You iced me out for six months and wouldn’t speak to me until I returned from Korea.”

This left him speechless because he knew it was true.

Anyway, I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m., and the manager wanted to speak to me out by the dumpsters.

He said, “How did yesterday go?”

I nodded. “Pretty good. We did a lot of business.”

“I heard that there was some conflict between the staff. Lots of yelling and screaming.”

I shot him a big toothy grin. “Honestly, I never even noticed. When you have a big crowd, it can get a tad stressful. But it seemed just like every other shift.”

And I wasn’t lying. The overnight situation is perpetually fucked up. But what do I care? I just work there and collect my pay. Plus I have other fish to fry.

Benson was the main grill operator, and his cooking skills seem to degenerate on a daily basis. If possible, he was even slower than the night before. Plus he kept dropping eggs on the floor because he doesn’t know how to flip them in the pan.

I tried to remain positive. “That’s OK, my young friend. You’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

Then I helped him make the toast.

I’m not sure if Radiohead got fired. But as bad as that lunatic was, she looks like Julia Child next to this fucking moron.

Then the kid burned himself on the grill and ran screaming out the back door. So I had to wake up Dwayne the Dwarf, which is never a pleasant task.

He shot me the stink eye and climbed out of the booth. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

And like a hero in a movie, he strode into the kitchen and saved the day.

Dwayne has a ton of skill. He can prepare an order for four people faster than it takes me to grill a waffle. I shit you not.

I ended up making $230 for the shift. And I only had to write eighteen tickets. Good for me.

Friday Night

 

(Dwayne the Dwarf is driving me crazy.)

On Friday evening, I finally found out the results of Rice-Boy Larry’s SAT exam. He scored a 1440 which puts him at the 95 percentile of all the deadbeats applying for universities throughout the nation.

He looked at me with glee in his eyes. “I fucking told you!”

“Told me what?”

“That I’m smart. But you refused to believe me. Well, here’s the fucking proof.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “What’s the perfect score for an SAT exam?”

“1600.”

“Then what are you fucking smiling about?”

In all honesty, there’s no way on God’s green earth that I could pull a result like that. But Rice-Boy is a motivated student. Always has been. In Korea, he used to stay up all night to get good grades in school.

Nurse Ken, on the other hand, is more like me. I think he got a 1290 if my memory serves me correctly. However, he just rolled out of bed without any preparation whereas his younger brother really burnt the midnight oil. To each their own.

I’m hoping that Rice-Boy can get into the University of Texas at Austin. Yet that’s a real stretch. If not, he’ll just have to settle for Texas A and M.

I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m. My partners in crime were Pork-Chop Jane, Georgia the Waffle Princess, and Dwayne the Dwarf. We also had a new grill operator named Benson. He’s only 20 years old. And let me tell you something. This guy can’t cook a fucking thing. He’s as green as grass.

As soon as the boss was gone, Dwayne crawled into one of the booths and fell asleep. He made the new kid handle all the orders. And it was fucking chaos. All the servers had to help him out. My contribution to the cause was toast.

I turned to Georgia the Waffle Princess. “Is that old rotten motherfucker going to sleep all night?”

“I’m not sure. But maybe he’s sick.”

“Sick? My ass. He’s probably on fucking drugs.”

“You don’t know that for sure. And there’s no point in starting rumors.”

Her advice was sound. And I really don’t care if he’s hopped up on narcotics. It’s just that he’s making everyone’s life harder. Sadly, he’s a talented cook…when he’s actually awake. In fact, he’s got mad short-order skills. Yet he’s pissed off about something, and like an infant, he insists on taking out his fury on the rest of us.

Benson left at 2 a.m., and I was the guy assigned with to the task of waking up Dwayne.

I kicked his feet. “Hey, you old cocksucker, we’ve got customers. So you going to cook for them or not?”

“Leave me alone. The kid can handle it.”

“He ain’t here anymore. It’s just you.”

The dwarf stormed out of the booth and threw some empty hash-brown containers across the kitchen. Then after many repeated expletives, he began grilling some sandwiches. Of course, the customers all witnessed his juvenile tirade. So I guess the manager will probably bring it up sometime in the near future.

Yet the night wasn’t a total loss. I managed to make $250.

Thursday Night

 

(Sometimes, I can get a little paranoid.)

Last night, I ate a single piece of steak before driving to work. Nurse Ken was sitting at the kitchen counter.

I said, “When will they mail you your college diploma?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe in a couple weeks.”

“It’s almost July. Are you sure you actually graduated?”

He let out a heavy sigh. “You’ve asked me that question a million times. Yes, I fucking graduated.”

“Then why didn’t you go to the graduation ceremony?”

“I’m not into all that bullshit. I didn’t go to my high school graduation, either.”

Like father like son. I skipped all my ceremonies, too. I had no urge to walk across a stage to shake hands with some asshole I’ve never met before. But that’s me. My attitude sucks giant ass.

I cleared my throat. “Did you apply to the police like I asked you?”

“No, I didn’t apply to the fucking police. The last thing I want to do is become a cop. I’m still thinking about joining the Airforce.”

“Well, I hope you like the taste of sand because they’re going to end up sending you to the Middle East. Have fun getting your nuts shot off for Bibi and Orange Donald. However, I’m sure they’ll pay for the funeral. Hell, they might even give us a brand-new flag to drape over your coffin.”

“Why are you so unpatriotic?”

“I’m not unpatriotic. In fact, I’ll be the first one to defend the homeland. But I’ll be damned if I’ll die for nothing”

Anyway, I let it go after that. No reason to stand on a soapbox. Trust me. Nobody’s going to listen to a clown who wears an apron and a baseball cap to his job site.

I eventually got to the restaurant at 8:45 p.m. My co-workers were Dwayne the Dwarf and Pork-Chop Jane. True to form, the first thing Jane did upon her arrival was sit on her big beautiful ass and scarf down a huge BLT. Yet it was no big deal. The place was pretty much dead, so I was able to keep up with the work.

But Pork-Chop said something that made me a little paranoid. She talked about one of her friends being two-faced, and then she walked out the door to take a few hits off her vape.

I immediately went outside to confront her.

I said, “What was that crack about me being two-faced?”

She laughed out loud. “I wasn’t talking about you, Jack. It was about my boyfriend.”

“Because I’m not two-faced. The only time I talk to the manager is to say hello and goodbye.”

“Like I said, it has nothing to do with you.”

Working with Jane and Dwayne can be a tad challenging. Why? They break all the fucking rules. They fall asleep during their shift. They get high by the dumpster even though customers have complained about their service. They don’t do a lot of the required side work. Sometimes, she’ll sit for hours and hours in her boyfriend’s car while I’m inside cleaning the fucking plates.

Yet the manager seems oblivious to their work ethic. Is he ignoring their behavior, or is he genuinely ignorant of the situation? I’m picking option one because my boss is actually pretty smart. He’s far from a brain-dead hillbilly. So when he does eventually call them out, I don’t want my co-workers to think that I squealed on them.

Anyway, business was pretty slow all night long, and I only made $180. That comes to $18 an hour. Pretty shabby, if you ask me.