overtip your breakfast waitress

i’ve made a habit out of sitting with my back to the wall when i go into bars or restaurants. now, i can’t always do it, but i like to be sitting where i can see the door and where no one can sneak up on me from behind. it’s like some old Wild, Wild West shit, right? i must’ve seen it in a movie.

i was sitting in this diner after my shift – same deal – in a booth at the far end of the place, having some toast and eggs. one of the last moments i recall before the real shitstorm broke loose was reading a paper and considering the vast political and ecological ramifications of Randy Moss heading to the New England Patriots for a fourth-round draft pick.

it was only because the little jingleballs on the door dingledangled against the glass kinda rough-like that i peered around the side of the paper. this guy was standing just inside the doorway. i couldn’t remember his name but i was sure i’d seen him on the company of the Doktor. he was a low-level fence, perhaps, or maybe a trafficker in low-quality German porn. his face was all over the news the last time i’d seen it, arrested for exposing himself to blind people and enticing their seeing-eye dogs with…well, let’s just leave it at that.

the rustling of the newspaper masked exactly what he said, but whatever it was, it was enough to send the waitress into a tailspin. i heard her screams and looked up in time to see her faint, her head disappear behind the counter and rest with a sickening thud on the rough floor below. it looked like a robbery and i knew how these things could turn out. plus, i didn’t want anything to do with this perverted bastard on the off-chance he recognized my face. i slipped my wallet from my front pocket, slid it to edge of the table, and realigned my paper in front of me. from the looks of it, it was shaping up to be a long and twisted football season and i’d need all the intelligence i could gather if i wanted to be in the black this year.

why he didn’t start with the cash register or the customers by the door is beyond me. i could hear the clumsy fuck stumble down the aisle towards my booth. “hey fucko,” he said, “your wallet. you’re first.”

i didn’t say anything. he lunged forward and ripped the paper away from my hands. i remember thinking it might be too late to get another morning edition of the paper, and i’d have to resort to either checking the wire at the local library or stealing one from my neighbor’s stoop.

“it’s right there,” i said. i pointed to where i remembered sliding the wallet, trying not to make eye contact. Sweet Mother of Creeping Jesus, i thought, why hadn’t i sat with my back TOWARDS the door? I DON’T EVEN LIKE WESTERNS!!! with any luck, he wouldn’t remember me.

“hey,” he said, “hey Johnny, right? hey!!! what’s up? hey man, you remember me?”

“yeahheyhihowyadoin’?”

“hey man!!! it’s good to see you. how’s the Doktor? you ever see him?”

“no.”

“awww, hey that’s too bad. he owes me money.”

“…”

“hey man. you mind if i sit down?”

i mean, what would you have done? he’s grinning like a goddamm undertaker, with a machete in one hand and a big laundry bag in the other. so i did what any normal, red-blooded American patriot would have done. i offered him a seat and asked if i could keep my wallet.

“your wallet? oh yeah. Yeah!!! hey…i didn’t even see it sitting here. hey, what is this, eel skin? nice. yeah, man, go ahead and take it. i wouldn’t take that from you.”

“yeah.”

“hey man, you got a smoke?”

for some reason, i did. i don’t normally carry cigarettes since i don’t normally smoke, but it’s a habit i’ve been working hard to pick up. and i’m really dedicated when i get something into my head. also, i’d found a pack in the back of my cab when i was cleaning it out that morning, so i'd hung on to them. you can never tell what can be helpful in tight situations.

he sat and smoked two cigarettes, telling me how he became a mopist [that’s the textbook term he learned in court-ordered therapy for his weird sexual proclivity] and how he’s learned to control it [also from therapy].

just over his shoulder, i saw the cops entering the diner. “hey look,” i said, “there goes a blind lady down the street.”

“for real?” he said, barely able to contain his excitement. “maybe i should go introduce myself.”

“yeah,” i said, “get right on that. you better hurry, though. she’s walking down towards the corner.”

with that, he bolted from the booth – machete in hand – and right into the flurry of police batons and stun guns that awaited him near the register. i left a ten on the table and walked on out the door, trying as best i could to ignore the thanks and praise from the people in the place and the vows of revenge from that no-good friend of the Doktor. my good deed for the day was done, and i needed to find a morning paper before i could rest. i needed to get back to the brutal and savage truths of the world of professional football.

as i was leaving, i could have sworn i heard a lonesome whistle and a tumbleweed rustling in the corner. “who was that masked man, momma?” i could hear a wide-eyed little girl wonder.

“darling,” said her mother, “it’s better the world never know.”