Waffle House Confidential - #1

I didn’t ask his name. I’ll call him Corey. Corey with an “e” before the “y” because why the hell not. His name doesn’t matter. Well, maybe it does. I assume he didn’t get to pick his name and he sure as hell didn’t get to choose his family.

But, before I tell you about Corey, I need to tell you why you should care about Corey. 

What I’m trying to say is, it all started earlier that day in November. On my typical route, I was driving home from work when the empty gas tank notification sounded off in my car and the stupid little orange icon illuminated on my dashboard. My car was thirsty and, coincidentally, so was I. Stuck in the far left lane of a four lane sea of standstill traffic, I decided rather than run the risk of stranding myself on the shoulder of the highway like a character in a fucking Tom Hanks movie, I’d put the momentum of my day on hold and make a stop at the next convenient gas station I happened to come across. Like a ballet dancer sashaying through the opening night of the matinee performance, I moved my bulky jet black Chevrolet Tahoe from the far left lane into the far right lane in time to catch the upcoming exit. 

Just off the exit, I pulled into the closest gas station. The gas station was one of those giant, fluorescent monoliths. You know, the ones with 2 for $1 hot dog posters every damn place you look and a perpetual loop of some c-list celebrity talking on the screen at the pump. You know, the ones with more parking spaces than a drive-in movie theater. An enchanted white-trash oasis of sorts.  I picked a stall and started to fill my tank. 

As I always do, I did that taboo thing where I started pumping my fuel and as soon as my tank began to gulp, I made a dash for the convenience store located inside. 

I’d had a long day and still had a few hours before I could even consider dinner. After a quick lap around the perimeter of the convenience store, I settled on a bottled water, a bottle of whole chocolate milk, a peanut butter protein bar, and a Smuckers uncrustable (with strawberry jelly, of course).

Sluggish and beaten down by the idea that my day was still far from over, I approached the cashier with my snacks in hand. 

As I approached the register, I prepared myself for the customary interaction one expects when purchasing items from a convenience store. The kind of interaction where you tell the cashier ‘hello’ and set your items down so they can be scanned. In return, the cashier starts to scan the items and asks if there will be anything else. You usually tell them ‘no’ and then there’s a bit of an awkward pause until the cashier is done scanning the items and you can insert your card into the card reader. After all that, you smile and tell the cashier to ‘have a nice day’. The cashier usually returns the salutation. 

This time was different. I said ‘hello’ and waited, standing before the cashier, but the greeting in return never came. A tall and aloof young man stood at the cash register and never uttered a word. There I stood, feeling as if my existence were a nuisance. The cashier grabbed the items that I set on the counter. After looking at the bottle of water in his hand for a moment, he mumbled “this register is broken.”

I looked around to see if there was another register I should’ve considered before coming to him. As far as I could tell, he was the only cashier in the store and his was the only illuminated register. 

Confused, I stood for a moment longer.

“Umm.. where should I pay then?” I asked.

“Nevermind, man. I’ll do it.” the cashier said. 

I patiently stood and waited for him to finish the transaction. I grabbed my bag of items and thanked him for his help, just like I always do. 

Straight-faced and without interest, not even a caveman-like grunt, he stood silently. I turned around and walked back to my car where the gas finished pumping itself.

The interaction bewildered but didn’t upset me. It made me think about the number of people that he probably interacts with on a daily basis who might not appreciate him and what he does for them. I thought about how many people go in that store with their problems draped all over their external appearance to the world and treat him as if he isn’t a person at all. The number of people that carry all of the unfairness that life has dealt them and dismiss the opportunity to exercise a little humanity. The number of people that don’t think about this shit like I do.

Since I can’t be sure about what he goes through in a day on the job, it doesn’t make much sense to speculate. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt that he had every reason to act sour and chose not to take it personally. 

I remove the gas pump from my tank, hang it up, elect not to print a receipt, and proceed with the rest of my evening. 

Now, fast forward about 4 hours. 

I just finished my workout and everything else I had to take care of for the night. All said and done, if I had to guess, it was around 9:45pm. By that time, I hadn’t given a single second of thought to what I was going to eat for dinner. 

My fridge was as bare and cold as the interaction I had with the convenience store clerk just hours earlier. I’m not one for takeout and nothing within walking distance was open. So, I leaned into one of the staples of my late night dining repertoire. Waffle House. 

I showered, threw on a pair of slim fitting black jeans, a white t-shirt, a pair of brown, worn in chelsea boots, and a black baseball hat. I plugged the address to the nearest Waffle House into the GPS and off I went. 

When I arrived, it was close to 10:15pm. The parking lot was bare like a scene from a horror movie. Empty with the exception of one beat-down mid-size SUV with the engine off but the headlights on. The lights from the interior of the restaurant shone through the giant fogged window panes. As far as I could see, it was empty inside except for an employee or two behind the counter. This doesn’t deter me one bit. In fact, I’m shameless in my allegiance to Waffle House and I generally enjoy the calmness anyway. 

I parked my car and walked through the front door. To my delight, I was correct. I was the only customer in the place. Before I could get my second foot through the door, I was met with an exuberant “Hello!” from behind the counter.

Out from behind the counter popped an eager young man ready to accommodate whatever needs I came with. He wore a smile on his face from ear to ear just as proudly as he wore that Waffle House name badge, Waffle House visor, Waffle House apron, and “Army Strong” t-shirt. He waved at me and invited me to sit wherever I wanted. 

I sat in a booth right up against the kitchen area. With me, I carried the book I was reading at the time and a black, half-full composition notebook I’d been writing in for the previous few weeks. At the time, I had just discovered Waffle House as a late night sanctuary where I could sit and get some work done and enjoy a decent cup of coffee. All of the other coffee shops in town were closed due to the pandemic, so it was a find by default since they were one of the only places serving coffee as late as I wanted it. 

Over walked the server. The same guy that greeted me when I walked through the front door. Menu in hand, he asked “What are we having to drink, boss?”

“I’ll take a cup of coffee. Nothing in it. And a glass of water, please.” I replied. 

Less than a minute later, he returned with the drinks. 

“If you’re ready to order, I’m ready for you, boss.” he said. 

I rattled off my order. The All-Star Special. It comes complete with two eggs over hard, hash browns covered in American cheese and smothered with diced onions, 3 strips of bacon, white toast sans butter, and a plain waffle. 

“Coming right up, boss!” he said. 

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it makes me uncomfortable when people call me boss. He seemed like he was getting some joy out of it and I could tell it was his way of trying to make a good impression. I can’t fault him for that. Most people might appreciate it. He just doesn’t know that I have a hard time managing myself, let alone anyone or anything else to indicate I’m a “boss”. And, for what it’s worth, it’s better than no acknowledgement at all like the experience I’d had at the gas station a few hours earlier. 

Before he walked away to share my order with the cook, he took a long look at the book I placed on the table. 

“That book any good?” he asked.

At the time, I was reading a book called The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene.

“So far, yes. I’m only half way through it but I’ve enjoyed it so far.” I said, “You familiar with it?”

He responded by telling me that he’s never read it but many of the guys he was in jail with either had or talked about reading it. 

Naturally, obviously, I transitioned the conversation towards his experience in jail. You don’t just let a comment like that slip by without trying to pry for more information. Well, I don’t.

“Just got out 2 weeks ago!” he said. 

Initially, I was taken back by his admission but, at the same time, I respected the transparency. I calmly continued the conversation and we got into detail about how long he was in for, why he was there, and how he had plans never to return. Each word he spoke intrigued me more than the last. 

After talking about his time in prison, we started to talk about our families. He asked me where I’m from and when I told him I’m originally from Pittsburgh, excitedly, he responded by telling me he has family in Philadelphia. For some reason, everyone in the South thinks Pittsburgh and Philadelphia are in close proximity to one another. They aren’t. But, I digress. 

Originally, he moved to Nashville when he was young. Seven or eight years old but he couldn’t remember for sure. His mom decided to move to Nashville because, by her account, it would be easier to make money as a prostitute in the southern climate than it was in Philadelphia. I had no grounds to argue against her logic.

“Sounds like a smart lady. Do you see your family often?” I asked him.

“I haven’t seen my momma in about 20 years.” he said.

He went on to explain that even though she still lives in Nashville, the last time he saw her was at a bus stop downtown. She would leave him at the bus stop while she’d hop in and out of stranger’s cars through the late hours of the night. Then, one night, Child Protective Services showed up while he was sitting on the bench of the bus stop alone and took him away. 

“They didn’t even tell her they were taking me,” he said. 

That was the last night he ever saw his mom. 

“I have like 16 or 17 siblings, I think. I haven’t seen most of them in a while either.” he said. 

Hanging on to every word he said, I continued to ask him questions about his life. As long as he felt comfortable sharing, I was interested in listening. I was so intrigued by his story that I totally forgot to eat the meal that had been brought to the table in the meantime. 

We talked for well over an hour about our lives and all that he’s been through.

He told me about the worst parts of living in foster care. He told me about some of the best parts. He told me about the medications that he’s on and has been on since childhood. He takes over 10 different medications to regulate his mood and behavior. He told me about his hopes and his dreams. He told me his main goal in life is to become a social worker employed by the state who helps children in foster care. 

“I had a few good ones. Most of them don’t really care though. Some do but they don’t really know what it’s like to be a kid in foster care. I think if I could get through school and get a job as a social worker, I’d be able to help so many kids like me. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to feel like nobody cares about you. I know what it’s like to go to sleep at night thinking that nobody loves you.” he said. 

He went on to tell me that throughout his childhood he was in and out of over 60 different foster homes. When I asked him what that was like, he just kinda stopped for a second. For the first time that night, he didn’t have much to say. 

“I don’t really even know how to explain what it was like,” he said, “it was all I ever knew. It just was.”

We continued to talk and I shared some stories of my own. 

Somehow the conversation meandered onto the subject of ‘respect’.

“Wanna know how I learned about ‘respect’?” he asked me.

“Yes.” I replied. 

He was living at an elderly woman’s home. According to his description, she was single and in her 60s. She lived in a modest 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom ranch home on a corner lot in the suburbs of Nashville. She had a large backyard with a garden she cherished. He had just been relocated from his previous foster home to hers because Child Protective Services found out that his previous foster parents were keeping their foster children home from school and so they could complete household chores all day long.

“They would keep me home from school so I could mop their floors. I’d paint their walls. I’d repair their fence. You name it, I’d do it.” he said. “To be honest, I didn’t really mind. To me, it was better than being in school but apparently my teacher at school didn’t think it was ok. I think she’s the one who called my social worker and told her I was missing school so much. The next thing I knew, they packed me up and moved me into that old lady’s house.”

He took a deep breath. He was holding a coffee pot with a fraction of a cup and some grinds left in the bottom of it. He looked into the center of the coffee pot and swirled it around for a second or two. Then, he picked his head back up and looked at me.

He told me he was around 11 years old when he moved in with the elderly woman. He learned at an early age that it was least painful to have low expectations when moving into a new home. By age 11, he already knew how to work the foster care system and how to get what he wanted. He knew what buttons to push to get a family upset at him and he knew what he needed to tell his social worker to get her to relocate him to a new home.  When he moved into the elderly woman’s home, he joined another little boy who was already living there. She showed him to his bedroom when he first arrived. A decent sized room with a bed sheet hung from the ceiling directly in the center to divide it in half. He had his own twin bed dressed with linen that he had no way of knowing who else slept on, a nightstand, and his own dresser. Everything else in the house was shared by the other little boy and his foster mom, the elderly woman. The other boy couldn’t have been there for long, he told me. He knew because the foster mom was a single lady which meant that she was only permitted to have children live with her for a finite period of time. In other words, only married couples are permitted to adopt children, therefore providing them with a long-term home.  

“It stinks because I would’ve loved to move in with her but I knew that wasn’t possible,” he said. 

“Why do you think you would’ve loved to move in with her?” I asked. 

“She had this weird way of showing me she cared about me. I can’t really explain it,” he replied, “Out of all the foster homes I ever stayed in, it was like she was the only one who ever gave a damn about the person I’d eventually grow up to be.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. How do you respond to a statement like that? I don’t think you do. As much as I wanted to convince him that there were probably others that cared about him, I didn’t. I don’t know that and I’m sure as hell not going to try to convince him how he should feel. It would’ve been really god-damn easy for me to try to do that. A younger, less compassionate me might have tried. But, I didn’t. I just sat. And, I listened. 

“She was the first person to teach me about ‘respect’,” he said. 

Finally, he started to tell me about the first time he learned about ‘respect’.

“I was hungry. It was dinner time and she was standing over the stove cooking,” he began, “I asked her for a snack. I didn’t eat anything at all that day and I didn’t feel like waiting for dinner.”

He stopped. Then, he set down the pot of stale coffee he had been holding in his hand for the last hour or so while we talked. It seemed like a gesture to signify that what he was about to tell me really had a profound impact on him. He asked me if he could get me any more coffee or refill my water. I told him no as I sat waiting for the next part of his story about his lesson on ‘respect’. He chuckled, then continued the story. 

“The day before, I helped her plant a bunch of different flowers in her garden in her backyard. She loved that garden and I had fun helping her with it. Because she loved it so much, I knew I could use it against her to get what I wanted. I learned how to do this early on, remember?” he asked, “So, I told her that if she didn’t give me a snack, I was going to go to her garden and rip out all the flowers we planted the day before. I was going to ruin the hours of work we did. And, I told her, after I rip them out, I’m going to drag them and throw them all throughout the house.” he said. 

“Oh my god. You didn’t.” I said with a slack-jawed look on my face. 

“Come on, man! She refused to feed me a snack! So, yep. I did what I had to do. Didn’t leave a single flower in that garden. Covered the entire living room with dirt and ripped up flowers. Her couches. Her coffee table. The photo albums she had sitting on the shelves. Every square inch of that living room was covered in dirt. All while she was standing in the kitchen making that dinner,” he said.

He went on to tell me that he was well aware that his behavior was going to get him kicked out of her house and sent to another house. He told me after behaving like that, the foster parent would usually call the social worker and the social worker would have to find a new home for him to move into. So, what happened next caught him completely off guard.

After she finished cooking dinner, she wiped her hands with a dishrag hanging on the handle of the stove and walked over to him with her mouth straight and tight as a hyphen. She grabbed hold of him by the shirt and spanked his ass with enormous winding swats until he started to cry. That was the first time he’d ever been spanked. He knew that foster parents weren't allowed to hit kids and leveraged this information to his benefit. You can imagine how shocked he was as she was coming down on his ass without remorse.

As soon as she finished spanking him, she told him to wash up and get ready for dinner. 

As he was wiping the tears from his face and changing into a clean shirt, she called the social worker and reported herself for what she’d just done. 

After that, he, she, and the other little boy that lived in the house sat down for the best damn chicken and dumplings dinner he’d ever eaten. He ate every last bite and asked for seconds. For, he knew, there likely weren’t going to be any snacks in his near future. 

In the middle of their dinner, the social worker knocked on the front door. 

Knowing what he had just done, he begged and pleaded to the social worker to let him stay. The elderly foster mom agreed to let him stay and the social worker agreed to let him. He promised them both that he’d behave and he promised he understood that if he misbehaved again that he’d have to leave. The meeting adjourned and he was allowed to stay under the condition that he’d behave and follow the foster mom’s rules.

When the social worker left, they cleaned the dishes. Then, they all cleaned the living room together. 

“There are rules in this house. If this is going to work, you’re going to have to follow them.” his foster mother told him. 

“And, that my friend, is how I learned how to show ‘respect’,” he said.

He spent the next several months at her house. The best months of my life, he recalls. He stayed with her as long as the state would allow her to keep him. Then, he was relocated to another home where he never again had the opportunity to visit her house. 

“I still call her every Christmas, though.” he said, “I’m 26 years old now. I haven’t seen her since I moved out but I still call her every Christmas and she always acts like she’s happy to hear from me.”

As I sit here and write this, I’m still not convinced that what he learned that day can be considered a lesson in ‘respect’. But, I am convinced that in spite of everything he’s seen, he still finds it within himself to treat strangers with love and kindness, just like he showed me when I walked through the front door of that Waffle House. 

These days, when I feel like life is getting a little too hard,  when I feel like the world is unfair and no one has it as bad as I do, I like to take a moment and think about him. I think of his smile. A smile he chooses to show us all. When he has every reason not to, he chooses to smile.

As I continue to walk through life’s doors, I’ll choose to smile, too. 

I’ll smile just like Corey does.