So, last night I feel I pretty much secured my seat in hell.
In fact, last night, I spent a few hours there.
I picked up a Saturday night shift, which I have repeatedly, weakly, and fooling noone claimed that not even a direct request from the Holy Ghost himself could make happen. I've held my ground for a long, long time, ignoring pleas from several members of management and even a few of my co-workers with a sly, silvery smile on my face. Let them suffer. I'm out of this bitch when the real shit starts.
But, just like everyone else in this whole wide world, a whore gets broke sometimes, and you do what you have to do.
So, like I said, last night I picked up a Saturday night shift after a long, long hiatus from such....such.....absolute, stinking Hell.
It wasn't twenty minutes into my shift before I was offering sexual favors in exchange for trinket notions of help. I told one of the hosts, a young guy who isn't yet even old enough to legally embibe alcohol (I don't think, unless he's had another birthday without my notice), that I would do "nasty, nasty" things to him if he would go flag a table for me.
Bustling around in the kitchen, constantly wiping my brow and commiting atrocities like dipping the glasses into the ice instead of holding them in one hand and scooping ice into them with the other, I came up with a new phrase for swearing:
"Sperm count of the savior..."
As in, "Sperm count of the savior, it's hot as a two-titty fuck in here. Why don't we clear all that meat-flesh off the grill and go have ourselves a drink? Fuck these customers. Let them go home. I'm sweating and I need to wring out my bra."
Winker, the new guy (hey, Walter...are you reading? I know you are, you drug addict.), really busted a belly laugh at the blasphemy, but, I slithered off, the gaping gates of Hell opening in my mind's eye. Satan was leaning up against it, arms folded, grinning, "Well done, faithful servant."
Later, I approached the hot mouth where they stuff the yeast rolls for a brief period before we servers come clutch and grab them with tongs, and there (as usual) was a line. I walked up and spoke to them, "My mouth is so dry I couldn't spit on _____'s dick right now." _______ was standing right there, so was Lady Manager, grabbing rolls, I couldn't tell if she heard it, and so was my ol' friend Tip, who I just love to death and haven't seen in a long, long time and it kinda made waiting tables in the bowels of Hell on a Saturday night worth it. You follow her ass around a restaurant for a night, and you've really done something. You've lived. You'd just have to see her ass. Believe me.
She and I shared side work, which I didn't even hardly notice until nearly the end because I was delirious.
I sweated some more, sweated over people's food, sweated over their iced tea, their water, their Coke, sweated over their silverware as I rolled it, then sweated like the last piggy wee, wee, wee all the way home.
I slept like a hog with an apple trapped in its mouth, spinning slowly on a spit over a hot, hot fire pit.