Saturday mornings, after my jog I often will call someone to join me for breakfast. It is a pattern I have and routine can be comforting for even my chaotic mind. Anne had already called and told me she was in the mood for Waffle House. I am fairly certain they are everywhere in the US, but for those outside of the US, it simply amounts to greasy food, toothless waitresses and uncomfortable seating.

Still, there is something about the food that keeps you wanting to eat it. Perhaps it is the pure grease content manipulating the brain. I don’t often go, but she was craving and I can find something to eat anywhere. It was crowded - a Saturday morning standard.

I found a booth, ordered coffee and waited for Anne to grace me with her presence. The waitress I had was either new or nervous because she kept glancing at my coffee cup every time I would take a drink. I get stared at enough because of my height and, N says, because of the color of my eyes so I found it mildly irritating, but my coffee cup was always full and when Anne arrived a few moments later, I had already gone through three.

She commented on my clothing (oxford and slacks) and I told her I was going to the office after breakfast. Anne was in some peach colored girly dress that showed off her shoulders. (I love shoulders.)

We sat, ordered, and waited for the food to arrive. I listened to the men behind Anne order and was irritated. ‘4 eggs, no yolks on three of them. Cut the fat off of the bacon before you cook it and bring me just the meat. I’d like coffee, but I want whole milk, not cream and no toast. Don’t use butter, oil or any type of (lubricant?) on my food.’

I am a health nut, and obviously, so were they, but this is the waffle house - not a 5 star restaurant. I think it was the tone that struck the wrong chord. I’ve worked in the service industry and as such, even as I have been more successful career wise, haven’t learned to adapt that intolerant ‘Master to slave’ tone that you see altogether too commonly.

As such, I was quiet when my order was slightly off, my eggs were cold and my raisin toast looked like mini-cockroaches had nested there recently. I was silent, even pleasant, when she complained about being overworked and tired, and my coffee cup had still gone unfilled.

It was an off morning for her, the place was packed, and there was a line out of the door - I could afford her some patience. When she laid the check down and saw my coffee cup, seemingly for the first time, she went to get the fresh pot that had brewed. I can see the movement in damn near slow motion. She picked up my coffee cup and with the pot in the other hand, began to fill it. I felt her look at me and when I looked up, she met my gaze and proceeded to drop the entire contents of the coffee pot and mug over the table. The pot dropped and broke on the table before falling to the floor and I, I had the contents of that pot racing towards my crotch at breakneck speed.

Anne cursed and got up to wipe away the puddle that had found her dress, and I had it on my dress shirt and entirely down one side of my pants. (Still smell like coffee, even if the clothing has been discarded, as I am typing this in fact.)

Other than the skin that felt burned, I was fine. Anne was annoyed and tapped her foot while the old man, who serves as little more than the door opener, cleaned up the mess. She bitched about her purse, some designer thing, being wet on the bottom. The waitress apologized profusely, her eyes welled up, and I still had not lost my temper. Shit happens. I told her that everything can be cleaned up and she seemed surprised that I had not been harsher.

I didn’t even bring up the mention of taking something off of the check. It is the waffle house, breakfast for 200 would only cost me $50 and it seemed petty. I walked to the check stand and waited for a rather large black woman to finish talking to her boyfriend.

However, when she stuck her hand out (I am assuming for me to hand her the check and money) and still had not bothered to spare me a look, much less a cursory glance, I felt myself get angry.

Here I was, covered in coffee, hoping I don’t have a second degree burn, still hungry, having eaten only half of my FUCKING COLD EGGS, and she couldn’t take a moment of her FUCKING TIME to offer me some GOD DAMN CUSTOMER SERVICE?

And I told her so.

Anne even cringed when I glanced at her after having delivered a commentary that would have made someone just a little brighter, feel like shit. I think most of it passed over her head like an airplane - barely noted. As I left, with Anne dragging my arm, those men who had set behind Anne and ordered that irritating display of precision, smiled at me and I realized that I had made their day.

Fucking bastards.