As the Waffle Burns
By: Jay M Horne
Copyright 2009 International Mobile Publishing
Smashwords Edition
Disclaimer:
As the Waffle Burns is in no way affiliated with Waffle House, Inc. its partners, employees, customers, or vendors.
Any similarities in people and/or events are purely coincidental and in no way reflect the true operation or ownership of Waffle House, Inc.
The events and descriptions contained herein are solely the opinions and fictional ideas of the author and reflect in no way the opinions of
International Mobile Publishing
www.internationalmobilepublishing.com
© 2010 All Rights Reserved
for
Clayton
Foreword
Sarcasm has the high seat when it comes to life’s highlights. I use to say God took a back seat to sarcasm ages ago but how can that even be said without a little bit of sarcastic twang dripping from the end of the sentence?
Way down here, under the big yellow sign, we have seen all types of comings and goings. Everyone moving, quickly back and forth from there where to’s and their gota get done’s. Being in the middle of such riddle I suppose is what sets us apart. Location, location, location the saying goes, and where better to be but right smack in the middle of where ever it is you've been and where it is you’re going.
Irony is a word used in the English language to describe something that explains it’s opposite, but at Waffle House there’s no room for irony here! Only good old fashioned, pure, straight down to the bone sarcasm is accepted here, and don’t y’all Forget it!
Introduction
Life’s a joke, so let us start here:
What has six arms, six legs, six tits, and six teeth?
Answer: 3rd Shift at the Waffle House
Go ahead laugh it out, and if you’re the waitress (or cook) with the ‘oh so snaggly teeth’ keep smiling, I’m on your side, I promise. You’re gonna have your annoyingly stereotypical Waffle House crew waiting on you or working with you one time or another, that’s guaranteed! There will always be the ‘Thrice a dayer’. The old man who is there in the morning for breakfast, then back for lunch, and again for dinner. Yep. Then you have the folks with bartender syndrome who always ask why.
The question sticks in our human consciousness like dry grits, and always represents itself with perfect enough timing to get under our skin, over and over again.
WHY?
Why did he have to die?
Why did I marry this guy?
Why do I try so hard and get nowhere?
Why are we here?
Why do I have it so bad?
Why do I work all day?
Why am I happy?
Why am I sad?
Why?
Why?
Why?
And this is no less than a perfect introduction for the second in the line-up of our tragic tales in our Waffle House saga starting on page 15:
Why ask why?
But let us first consider, what about our comfy Waffle House restaurant environment, gives rise to these tales.
Tragic Tales
Environment is typically the leading factor in our inspiration. Perhaps being particularly close to a Wal-Mart has some influence on the types of tales that come our way, but not every Waffle House is born in a Wal-Mart parking lot. Some of our restaurants are located in the remotest locations and still breed the same cesspool of individuality and peculiar family ties. Take Corsica, Texas for example. It is probably one the loneliest of our locations, it’s only neighbor for miles being the Comfort Inn, but you could bet your wide ass that it will see it’s share of tragic tales, just as well as any other Waffle House. Perhaps it is all due to the fact that we all sit beneath that big yellow sign. Yellow being a color of cowardice maybe has doomed our regulars into not having the gal to stand up for themselves and in turn allowing themselves to be utterly spent by their own lives. Who knows.
Everything happens for a reason, right? Does being the good guy really pay off in the end? We all like to think so and for our sakes and the sakes of those who have crossed our welcome mat, let us hope.
So you’ve worked for the awful waffle for the better part of ten years, huh? We would say that is tragic enough. Hahaha. Though let us imagine, for a moment, being on the other side of the counter. Here we are having been a Waffle House customer everyday for the better part of ten years. What happened in our existence that finally drove us this deeply in to insanity where we would call this a life, much less, a wonderful life?
And so begin our tales of tragedy, straight from the customer’s mouths, recorded for your pleasure by your friendly local Waffle House cook, right here under the big yellow sign.
Why ask why?
By: Diane
People always said good things occur in three’s. “Well, I had three husbands and loved each one for a different reason other than love.” She says. She goes on to tell me that her first husband was Lust, and still is, “Damn he fine! That was it” She says. Her second was fear. Fear that if she didn’t stick to her exact schedule and answer the phone at the right time, every time, it was her ass that was beaten down. “And you vow to care for him and to serve him’ who put that shit in the wedding vows?! Hell nah, I done had my ass beat, wasn’t no love there.” She carries on as her hips move slowly, but ever so gently matching the motion of her lips as she speaks. This lady, has been through the ringer, no doubt! But her body is a dance. She is slow, and for sure. “And the third man… I married him for his money.” A smug grin at the last comment left her audience wondering if she had always been this truthful. “You damn straight I’ve been. I done learned!” She dusts off her shoulders, “I even told that man why I was marrying him. Fo tha money.” That smug grin again, this time matter-of-factly.
“My dress was getting hemmed up and my momma gonna say to me ‘You just marrying that man for his money’ as she zipped it up in back.”
“And a mother should never tell her child that!” A voice breaks from across the room. “Right” says Shanique. People are now getting settled in to the subject. We know truth when we hear it. Interesting truth is even better.
We are all here sitting at the Waffle House having a human conversation with, what may be, the biggest question mark in human history. “Clayton was his name.” She would eventually begin her story, but not quiet yet. “I had done been through enough hard times to know what I wuz doing. This time I was right and I knew it! I would prove my momma wrong! I would NOT marry this man for his money!” Shanique pauses, rolls her eyes up and tucks her chin down before she tells us, “Oh we married! But I would doom my life by living those years like money didn’t matter.” She glances over at the old lady that had interrupted her, motioning for her to continue for her, “All because you wanted to prove your Mom wrong. It doesn’t matter what you tell your children they will do the exact opposite to prove it was their own decision.” This time it is Shanique who interrupts the old woman, who obviously knew from experience what she was talking about, “Exactly! Even though I had told the man myself that that was why I was marryin’ him. But maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have gone through with the whole thing if momma woulda just kept her mouth shut!” Everyone is amused. The room is filled with smiles and nods.
You can always trust Waffle House to bring you some interesting stories and experiences. Being right next to a Wal-Mart presents us a frequent supply of rare characters as well. If you want to know how strange then check out that old web site;
http://www.peopleofwalmart.com
Strange and rare are in no way bad. People are people, they are born in different places and at different times, so no two are just alike. They do say variety is the spice of life, right.
On this particular day and during this particular conversation I would realize that the question why can hold you down or pick you up depending on how you ask it. The old lady that had joined Shanique in her little spat about Love was carrying with her the weight of the world, and no one even knew it as she greeted customers on a daily basis at the next door Wal-Mart I so briefly mentioned before. This little miss, was a bit over weight but soft spoken and respectful. She knew something.
“I can agree with you because I know a thing or two about being a mother myself.” The little old lady had been busy eating the food I had prepared for her. She continued, “I saw a sign for missing children just the other day as I walked in work that had my son’s exact first and last name on it. It made me do a double take.” As she pats her lips with her napkin I ask, “Did it look anything like him?” Shaking her head, “Lord no. It just made me feel thankful that I knew where my son was, and send some prayers the way of that poor child’s mother.”
I have always envied commendable people who are thankful and think first about others. Not that I don’t try and act the same way, but I can’t seem to drop the belief that others have an easier time at it. “From the first day my boy laid foot on this planet I never spoke a bit of baby talk to him.” Mary was this little old ladies name, which I would find out a bit later. Mary kept on for awhile, “He was like a little man. I could tell from the day I met him. When my next door neighbors had their twins I brought little Clayton with me to meet them first hand.” I couldn’t help but ask her if it was the same Clayton that managed our store there. “Let me assure you, that would be impossible.” She tells me and then, “The twins we met were both little girls. Pink as could be, and the sweetest little things. Of course, their parents were baby talking to them with their ‘goo gagas’ and such. I couldn’t help but do the same.” The expression she made while she demonstrated the act was noticeably typical of any mother. Mary was surely a great story teller and we, engulfed as we are, let her continue, “Clayton was watching me the whole time with curiosity but it wasn’t until the ride home he would ask me ‘Mom why didn’t you baby talk me like you did those babies?’ So I explained in words he could understand easily.” She prepared herself for the punch line, “Well Clayton baby, you just never struck me as the kind of baby that I should baby talk to.” Then that unmistakable Goo goo gaga face assumed her expression, “But I’ll talk baby talk to you if you wan me ta talk baby talk to you pumpkin” She says in her best pidlly little baby voice. At this point Clayton’s face curled into a revolting pungent expression and as he recoiled he says shortly, “No!” All of us begin laughing at this point and Waffle house is filled with a conglomeration of understanding.
Clayton was surely a special kid. The intelligence he showed at that young age was due to his odds of birth. Mary was 33 when she became pregnant and after a sonogram and a routine inspection the doctor explained that he would be born with autism or a high I.Q. The only option at the time was a live abortion where they induce labor and crush the head after it emerges. This was horrible to her ears, so when she heard the offer of adoption, it was considerably juggled about in her mind. The father was a dead beat. But in the end she would decide that she would keep this child and find out what reason God had for him in her life.
“You had a deadbeat in your life too, eh?” Shanique asks while she has a chance. Mary pats her lips again and with a quick shake of her head she resumes, “Yeah, but lord knows I didn’t marry him. Couldn’t. He never gave me the time of day after our one night together. I was already old honey, but after deciding to keep little old Clayton in my life I felt more blessed than depressed.” Mary looks down below her table as if expecting to find something there, “I have some photos in my purse, but it’s in the car. The strangest thing about Clayton is that people could not resist his draw. We would be in a parking lot loading groceries and strangers would always come by just to pat his head, like they felt how special he was.”
The same few customers were still engulfed in this ladies story and no one had entered since I served the last guest, so I dared a bit closer to get it on the action. Mary saw me walking over and unexpectedly asked me, “How old are you son?” I paused close to the register and leaning on one arm answered politely, “Twenty nine.” Feeling that she must think I hadn’t been paying attention I ventured a question of my own, “How old is Clayton?” There was no pause in her answer, “Twenty seven last Friday.”
Shanique, hearing the talk of Mary’s special son knew all too well the feeling of giving birth to the next great. Sliding her seat back, she began to stand, “Well, I had thirteen of my own.” Hushed gasps came from those present, nothing Shanique hadn’t learned to block out years ago, I’m sure. “The eldest of mine is the same age of my boyfriend.” She smiles reminiscing. “That’s what I always felt I was meant for, to make babies.” At this point Mary silently vacates her seat and heads for the door. Her jacket still draped across her chair was a sure sign she wasn’t going far. Shanique is taking advantage of the moment by putting a thing or two in about her own saga, “Now don’t go think I do it for the government benefits, cuz I don’t. All my babies are with their fathers who make the ends meet, I just like child bearing.” A slight pause to let us react, but no one does, “Not to say I haven’t had my share of tragic moments. I like to say I have thirteen children, cuz that’s the number I gave birth to. But only three is living. Some died at childbirth, one was beat to death by their step father. Others, well, tragedy is something worth speaking of I reckon, but a whole lot harder to do when it comes in multiples.” The group of patrons and employees now standing in ear shot couldn’t help but assume that classic face, the face of confusion, disappointment, and sorrow. It is really a mix of the three because no one knows how to respond to a person of such strength. Do you console them when it looks as if they have overcome this calamity? Maybe their stern face is just a front, maybe inside they still feel the reckless abandon of their God or faith. Either way, we all sat silent, only to be saved by the sound of the door opening and Mary reassuming her place among us.
“I am sorry I had to excuse myself for a moment.” Mary settled herself into her chair again as I noticed photos in her hand. “Oh, you brought us some photos to look at?” I asked, to break the uneasy feeling in the room. She hands me one as people come closer to look at the kid she called angelic in his charisma. “That’s him.” The people passed about the photos she had brought in, but I couldn’t seem to let this one I started with go. All of the pictures were when he was between three and five years old. He truly did have a glow about him. After everything I had heard and pictured in my mind, he was definitely a god send to this lady. I looked up at her after a long time with this picture and just had to ask the pressing question on everyone’s mind, “So where is he now? What is he doing?” Again, no pause before her response, “He’s dead. Hung himself on a swing set at seven years old.”
The room assumed again that mix of emotions. But the faces, the faces told more this time. We all could sense the huge weight this lady had carried with her all these years. This time the response was in grained in each human there. We all hugged her.
It was only natural for the people who had gathered to start clearing out quickly, but I sat with her a few more moments. In the end I remembered what she left me with. She had said to me, “I brought that boy into this world because I knew God had something special planned for his life. I am still waiting to find out what it is.”
This is when it struck me, the awful truth. Mary has been carrying on for some twenty some odd years trying to answer this question - “WHY?”
The human psyche is so complex and massively inconceivable that there are over jillians of different outcomes for any one situation at any one time. We narrow down our choices in nano seconds and pick through them quickly with our feelings, sometimes accompanied by thought, and end up with a result. But still those choices were there for a time. They were technically ‘thunk’ up, but just never acted upon and in turn never experienced.
We are all parts of the project. I am not talking about ‘the projects’ where countless hours of hands hard at work go unnoticed and unclocked by the bosses watch, but THE project, YOUR Project. That project is whatever it is you happen to find yourself doing at the time. It’s your life to live. Live it!