My ankles are swollen. Double shifts are the worst. End up with burnt gravy on my apron every night. At least the dog likes it. Still two more hours. I can see my old Datsun under the flickering mercury lamps in the parking lot. “Order up!” There goes the bell for the thousandth time. How many rubbery pancakes can a trucker shovel into his mouth at two in the morning? Have to say though, people are their friendliest at this hour. Nursing their loneliness in sugary powdered hot chocolate and processed cubes posing as marshmallows. I guess it’s not so bad — the glitter on the stools sparkle like the silver ball at the roller disco and Henry is kind of handsome even if he is scruffy like my dog, Milo and has baseball bats for forearms. He can sure cook a mean plate of hash browns. What the — .35 cents for a tip?! You cheap bastard. I hope you get a flat on the I-9 and your wife’s sleepin’ wit da gardener, you old ape. You’re lucky it’s pourin’ out there or I’d wallop ya.
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