This one is for Kathryn.
Part 1
At my High School graduation rehearsal I made special shirts for my best-friends with different synonyms for "whore" on the back of each. The five of us sat in the front and when our row was asked to stand up and do a mock graduation walk everyone got a view of bright blue letters reading "SLUT. TRAMP. VIXEN. FLOOZY. WHORE."
This was the kind of person I was at eighteen. Always mocking the system. None of us were particularly promiscuous at the time or if we were it wasn't something we were known for. I made the shirts for one reason and one reason only - to fuck with people.
After graduation my parents felt like I should get a job. Traditional employment always sounded exhausting to me. I preferred earning my money via babysitting gigs where the most required of me was willingness to pick up little people from school and tolerate their ramblings on Pokemon until they passed out and I was able to gorge myself on x-rated cable television and sugary snacks. It was easy, fun and rather profitable.
Still, my parents wouldn't budge. They wanted me to have a "real" job. One with a boss. One with a time clock. One with a stupid name tag or uniform or some other oppressive establishment symbol. "Get a job!" they would say "or we are taking your car!"
Those fuckers.
Admittedly, I was panicked. My car was freedom and without it I was held captive in a land of floral wallpaper and ceiling speakers blasting "People Need the Lord" on repeat. So, I hatched a plan. I would get a job, but it had to be a job that would somehow shame my parents. Something awful. Something embarrassing. Something they wouldn't want to tell their friends. Something where I would be surrounded by unsavory sorts of people.
After completing a simple math test I became a part-time employee of Waffle House.
The manager was a stern lady with wispy grey and red hair, "No nail polish less it's clear. And wear black shoes. Got it?"
Um, yeah. I got this.
I floated home on a cloud of self satisfaction. I announced my new found employment with the same glee and joy Maria had when she sang from the Austrian hills.
"Iiiiiiiiiii got a job! So, the car is minnnne!!"
"Oh, yeah?" my parents responded, "Where?"
Oh how much fun it was to say these words..."At Waffle House. From 9:00 pm till 6:00 am. I start tomorrow. See ya later. I'm going out with Rachel and Hannah!"
I threw my new uniform and name tag on the kitchen table and darted out the door.
My parents didn't say much. They played it cool. But we all knew...I was mocking them.
Part 2
"Here. Stand on this mark. See that red spot. That's yer mark. Hash browns gotta be called a certain way. When they wants em spread out on the grill ya say 'scattered'. Now for onions ya say 'smothered' and 'covered' for cheese. 'Chunked' ham. 'Diced' is the tomatoes. 'Peppered' is for spicy peppers and 'capped' for 'shrooms. 'Topped' is the chili and 'country' is for the gravy right over there. Then you set the plate for what'ya called. Like this (throws weird things on plate). Understand?"
I was given a whirlwind tour of yellow stained toilets and inadequate food storage along with introductions to co-workers who all had names that started with "K". Soon came the breakdown on how to prepare waffles and calculate tax without a calculator. It took less than an hour to learn the ins and outs of the barely 800 square foot facility.
Two weeks in I was a veteran. I knew every customer not only by name, but by order - like a good waitress should. I knew Carl came in every night after his factory shift and wanted an iced tea with two sweet-n-lows and an order of dry toast. The boys came in after drinking at the bar and needed coffee and sugar waiting for them before they sat down. After Paul's wife died he came in for pie every Sunday evening, but mostly he just wanted to talk - preferably to a female.
Often a man whose name I never knew would slowly pull himself up to the counter bar stools and ask for a bowl, a cup of hot water, and some crackers. He would then use the meager ingredients along with the ketchup on the table to make tomato soup. We charged him a small fee for the water, but the rest was free. Occasionally the owner, Bob, a handsy grey haired dictator, would force the poor man out of the restaurant. The staff would be scolded and told not to give out such freebies or he would dock our pay. Bob was almost never there and losing the minimal pay we received wasn't much of a threat. We gave out lots of free stuff.
Jimmy, an old man with fluffy white hair and sad blue eyes, would come early in the morning and order a diet coke without a straw. "I don't need a straw cause I ain't got teeth," he would say with a gentle toothless smile. Then he would put two quarters on the table and push them over to me saying, "Play Alan Jackson's "Little Bitty" and something for yourself sweetheart."
A large shiny vintage Wurlitzer jukebox sat across from the service counter. The bright neon lights would flash and reflect off the ceiling to floor windows. Classic songs from Janis Joplin and Patsy Cline along with more recent hits by Shania and Tim McGraw would fill the small restaurant night after night. In the wee morning hours I'd sit at the counter, smoke cigarettes, drink Dr. Pepper with cherry syrup and listen to the Dixie Chicks. Customers would come in and look to me for help. I'd
slowly take another drag from my Camel Light and through a cloud of smoke explain, "I'll be with you in a minute."
Waffle House was a bizarre alternate universe and strangely enough I fit right in.
Four weeks after my first shift my name tag arrived. My permanent name tag.
I was part of the family.
Kinda.
Sometimes I felt left out.
From time to time the manager would hold staff meetings in the storage room. This usually happened when the staff was about to change shifts. Keith, Kenneth, Kendall and Kim were always invited to the meetings while I was asked to watch the floor and alert them if more than a few customers arrived. Usually I used the opportunity to catch up on my nicotine and toxin intake. Sitting at the counter, puffing away, I'd watch the locked wooden door for signs of the happenings behind it, but nothing ever happened. The more frequently these meetings occurred the more curious I became.
There were parties too. The Waffle House crew would get together at the manager's house and have wild ruckus shenanigans without me. It was rather hurtful. I was eighteen, but I wasn't a baby. I went to Glendale! Partying was our thing. We brought booze to school in water bottles! We skipped class to smoke weed in the parking lot! We were totally wild. There was NO REASON I shouldn't be invited to a party.
Finally, I decided to confront Kenneth. We had a bond. Kenneth, a beautiful young black man with a killer smile and a knack for poor decision making, was my best friend at the WH. We shared our secrets with each other. I frequently gave him rides home from work. Kenneth would play a tune on the jukebox and twirl me around the floor. Kenneth and I had serious discussions about gay rights and religious oppression. Usually Kenneth and I worked shifts by ourselves with him at the grill and me on the floor. He was the only one I trusted to cook for me. I knew he would tell me the truth.
"Why am I never invited to parties with the staff? Do they think I'm too young? Because I promise I could drink most of you under the table."
Kenneth hesitated before speaking.
"Because we do meth. Everyone. And that's not something any of us want you to be a part of. You know you are the only one here with a High School diploma?"
"Am I?" I responded still confused.
Needing to fully understand the situation I continued, "What happens during the meetings in the storage room?"
"We smoke meth," Kenneth stated calmly.
"All of you??!? In the storage room?!?! With the food out? That's totally unsanitary" I exclaimed with repulsion and not due to the new knowledge of my co-workers regular drug use but to the complete lack of respect for the food customers and staff ate.
Kenneth turned and continued frying up the eggs and hash browns for the booth of drunken kids in the corner. I poured myself a tall glass of Dr. Pepper and lit up yet another cigarette. In the distance, beyond the noise of sizzling butter I could make out the faint sounds of laughter.
It was my parents...mocking me.
Those fuckers.
I was so pissed at my parents. I was learning shit. Valuable shit.
As I puffed away, I reflected. Joan Jett started playing on the jukebox. Staring at the coffee maker I still didn't know how to work, it occurred to me, I was being an asshole. Though, I suppose that's the job of an eighteen-year-old. But I knew better. I wasn't completely unaware of my privilege. My father was always insistent on travel and culture and exposure, so at eighteen I had been exposed to a lot. I knew about homelessness and poverty and racism and drug addition and disparities in education.
And yet...
I took on the life of a Waffle House employee as a joke. It's not the kind of job you take on because you love waffles. It's the kind of job you take on because you don't have any better options.
But I did.
I had all the options.
Every door was open to me.
I was mocking opportunity in the face of those without.
Fuck.
Shortly after, I gave my two weeks notice. I was starting college in August. It was a Waffle House first - no other employee had ever left to pursue a college degree. They were all incredibly proud, but noted that if college didn't work out I'd always have a place at Waffle House. Keith and Kenneth made me a goodbye waffle tower with chocolate sauce and whipped cream. We promised to keep in touch and for a while we did. When I started college I would pop by on Friday nights to show them my ridiculous outfit before hitting the gay bar. Kenneth would play a song on the jukebox and twirl me around the customers.
But after a few months there was no one to visit.
Kenneth and Kim and Keith and Kendall had all moved on to new things.
