Jaded

Bus boy.

Or girl for that matter. If the opportunity ever arises don't do it. It's a shitty minimum wage job, in which you prance around on roller skates and wear this hidious pink apron.

As usual Mike was late for his shift, over almost an hour late. I was wiping up ketchup that a little rug rat had spattered all over, where the parent just laughed like a simian lunatic and took pictures like the child was performing some type amazing thing like doing a back flip while sitting down. Well, even that isn't worth a photograph, but you get the point. I was exhausted, frustrated, and just wanted to lay in my nice warm bed.

Oh yeah, I should probably introduce myself:

They call me Sam. Sam Rollins for that matter. No, I have no relation to Henry Rollins from Black Flag. I range from being that social outcast, to that chick in that one band The She He He's, the girl that is constantly in trouble, and maybe to some poor soul in the chess club I am the shit. I am way to tall for a girl and often misunderstood. I fit into the traditional role of being skinny, spastic, rebellious, cold-hearted, a high school loser, stubborn, uncomfortable, nervous, and I really am a smart ass playing dumb. Oh and I am a bit of a weirdo.

For the past few years my life has been scrabbled like the damn eggs I serve.

I write music, poetry, stories, and directions to the court house. I'm not going to lie, most of the time I walk around feeling either like a total idiot or Jesus. Idiot is definitely the more feasible answer though.

"Sam, can you go take table sixteen for me I'm swamped," said Pamela. Now normally I would do this task without a second thought due to the fact I get the tip, but there were maybe eight people in the whole damn restaurant. I guess that is to be expected of from a crack addict. Once when I went to clean the bathroom I found her snorting a line on the bathroom sink where god knows whats been done on it. She claimed to me that she dropped an earring on the floor and the powdery substance was powdered sugar from french toast. I kid you not that actually happened.

I began to roll to the back table trying to but an expression on my face that would be convincing that I love my job and all customers that come before me, until I noticed familiar faces from my high school that I could probably make a list of fifty or so supposed insults that come from their mouths. Some are based on jokes or theories of being offensive that are so lame that the average human would have a hard time comprehending. I guess this is to be expected from egotistical teenagers that think they're the shit because their the quarterback of varsity and head cheerleader? Before you jump to conclusions that I have the ever so cliche habit of hating the cheerleaders and jocks, I don't. If you think so you watch way too many movies. I talk to some of them and most are down to earth, but there always has to be those few movie based ones that act as if we are all their peasants, such as these ones.

I always find that the people that criticize me most are people who clearly wish they were not so lame as themselves.

"Oh great," said Chelsea Shmidget (or midget as I nick named her). The only reason I knew her name was that sophomore year Mike had a monstrous crush on her until she humiliated him in front of the whole gym.

You see, sophomore year the cheerleading squad had this game where they tried to make all of the high school loser guys believe that they had a huge crush on them, when it was just for their entertainment. They would have this make-out session under the bleachers by the football field and maybe sometimes if the guy was lucky enough he would get a blow job. I guess that was extra points or something. Whoever landed themselves the most lads and got the farthest with the guy won. Yeah, I really don't get it either. Mike's humiliation was soon replaced when Jackie Summers walked around with toilet paper with blood on it hanging out of her pants four hours later.

Anyway, I disregarded their lack of welcoming and asked what they wanted to drink. I went back and retrieved the two coffees and the single Pepsi that they asked for.

When I got back Chelsea claimed the coffee was cold, despite the fact steam was arising from it. I went in back and put that sucker in the microwave for three minutes. I had to literally grab the coffee cup with a towel to avoid getting burned.

They were just staying for a cup of coffee when I decided to give best friend Mike a call to ask him where the fuck he was. When I called he had "fallen asleep". That was usually code name for "After band practice Billie and I got high ate a bunch of food and fell asleep". I told him to get his ass down here so I could go home. I took off my idiotic uniform and put on my army coat and jeans with a "What war can do peace can do better" shirt underneath. I let down my long red hair with one random blue streak down from it's pony tail and went to go check on my favorite people.

They blew out some remark that I did not catch. I gave them a familiar look of confusion. This is where the insults that I was referring to earlier come in.

"She's referring to your coat," Chelsea's friend whos name I still did not know snarled raising an eyebrow. I looked down at and observed my attire admiring it myself.

"Yeah well, live with it or die I guess," I said shrugging my shoulders with an apathetic tone.

"What the fuck? There's white shit in my coffee. I want a refund," said Chelsea sliding her cup away in disgust. She wants a refund on a fucking $1.00 coffee? How cheap could you get? I looked in the cup and really didn't notice anything peculiar about it.

"Well, if there was something wrong with the coffee I would think that you would have said something earlier, not when your halfway done with it,"

"I want a refund!"

"Look we don't give refunds on half drunken cups of coffee!"

"There's white shit floating in it! I want a fucking refund!" She yelled. If she had laser vision her eyes would be burning a hole in my head right now. At this point though I was so chafed I wanted nothing more then to punch her in her freshly overly made up face. Being polite to the customer was becoming overrated as well, they weren't going to leave me a tip no matter how much of a gem I was.

"You know what?!" I said leaning down to her level and looking into her beady little eyes "You want to know what that 'white shit' is? I had the cook in back jizz in it you selfish little mother fucker!"

Next thing I knew hot coffee was poured over my head. The next thing she knew I had swung her out of her seat and was on top of her punching the living shit out of her.

"Sam! Sam! Get off of her!" I heard the familiar and annoying voice of my boss John. John went over and apologized and was compensating her for more then she deserved. She fabricated everything saying I threatened her and all this other crap. After she left John came up to me. His hands placed as if he was praying and his eyes closed.

"Sam your fired." he said calmly still in the same praying position. John is such a damn hippie. Seriously he has a Grateful Dead shrine in his closet. Don't get me wrong I dig hippies I usually fit "dig", "groovy", "boss", "righteous", "spiffy " into my vocabulary and I can often refer to people as being "the cats meow", but John was one of those hippies where you often speculate on if they'll turn into another Charles Manson. He always seemed to fit the words "rock n' roll" and "right on" in any conversation like "The bathrooms look right on!" or you'd often hear him mumble "rock n' roll". If you catch him in the right mood he'll often compare everything to the Vietnam War.

"John look I'm sorr-"

"No Sam enough is enough. Gather your things and get out." Right there I think was the most I'd heard out of him without a "Rock and roll" or "Right on" thrown somewhere in there.

So much for getting an actual mic stand before the end of 1989.

I did as I was told and left with the conclusive statement of

"Get a haircut, hippie."