This is a true story, though it may have been embellished just a bit by taking pieces from several occasions where I immersed myself into the world of Waffle House at 2:30 AM…or so. For those who have never had this opportunity in life, prepare for a little cultural learning experience whether you find yourself at ground zero in Norcross, Georgia, or on virtually any interstate exit anywhere else on the planet. This dining adventure and free entertainment adventure might have occurred in Franklin, Indiana…your results may vary.
After an exhausting week of delivering sales training, my short flight from Pittsburgh to Indianapolis ended incident-free if you count no beverage service due to excess turbulence as incident-free. All I wanted was a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, and my mood would be redirected into finding food. It was nearly 1:15 AM when we landed as flights had been delayed due to weather, which meant the airport bar and any other establishment that might serve food were closed. My mood did not get any better.
Plan B? Find someplace open 24/7. Easy choice! Waffle House on my way home. Since Waffle House did not serve adult beverages, my mind shifted to the next best thing…some of the best hash browns in the world, and all I really wanted was a double order scattered on the grill and smothered with onions.
Besides the hash browns and world-class waffles, where better than Waffle House can one expect to experience humanity in all its splendor? Every Waffle House offers a unique cultural experience skewed to match the regional biases based upon local geography. To get the full impact, however, make sure to visit later in the evening, from midnight to around two or three in the morning; that way, the experience is flavored appropriately with the salt of the earth…among other spices.
When I walked in, the place was packed except for a booth in the far corner from the door, right under the sign that requested reserving booths for two or more. It was now 2:17 AM. Being careful not to eyeball anyone directly, I contemplated the cast of characters that validated that another memorable mealtime event was soon to be had. All I really wanted was a double order of hash browns.
Somehow, I knew that a full breakfast would soon be ordered. I quickly became swept up into the momentum of short-order heaven, greasy smells from the grill, clanging steel spatula flipping hash browns, and my belly growled in anticipation.
Sugar and spice and a butterfly tattoo spilled out of a yellow and brown uniform with one top button too many undone. She was Krystal with a “K,” the waitress from any nightmare of your choice; Krystal leaned over my table and spat an automatic greeting in my direction, “Mornin’!”
It truly was morning, but I was there at 3:30 in the afternoon and greeted with “Mornin’!” Waffle House is one of the few places on earth that never seems to move out of mornin’ and into the rest of the day. Maybe it’s the world-famous breakfast waffles. Maybe only Rod Serling knows for sure.
“Mornin’!” I replied, managing the local dialect quite admirably.
“Whaddaya have, sugah?” asked Krystal with a “K,” lifting her pad, and pencil at the ready. She was abusing a piece of gum that had to be at least six hours old. Teeth flashed as she mauled it with the enthusiasm of someone on crystal meth – then again, she may have had a few cups too many of their freshly ground and brewed coffee.
“I’d like two eggs over easy, a double order of hash browns with onions, an order of bacon, some raisin toast, and some grits on the side.”
“An’ ta drink?” questioned Krystal with a “K” snapping her gum.
“Some of that delicious coffee would do me right,” I said, trying to add some fun.
“Hmmph, you ain’t been here b’for have ya?” she snorted accusingly, indirectly alluding to the reputation of the coffee with a question, and not expecting an answer.
“After what I’ve been drinkin,’ it ain’t much going to matter,” I lied with an authentic drawl, trying to get synchronized with the whole drunk or stoned, redneck, hayseed, hillbilly thing.
“You an’ ever’body else in this dump. Thank ya, hon!” she said, snapping the gum that resonated as though it had the consistency of silly putty.
It really did not matter if you were in Norcross, Georgia, world headquarters for Waffle House, or in south-central Indiana; either place was going to be thick with rednecks and hillbillies twenty-four-seven. Just as sure as gravity, you could bet on it any time of day or night.
The butterfly appeared to flap its wings when she drew a breath, flexing the muscles in her chest to call in my order. “Billieeeeeeee,” she bellowed without turning away to face the grill cook, “Order in!”
Billy, the short-order cook, turned with slow deliberation and shot a hateful look in her direction. The only thing missing from his attire was the nub of an unlit cigar that had been chewed and sucked on for most of the night. It was hard to tell if the stains under his apron and adorning his t-shirt were recent or part of a more permanent landscape.
What did not show beneath the apron, by my best estimate, was about two inches of bare belly pooched out between his belt and the bottom of the t-shirt. I prayed to God that he did not drop anything because there would be a class-four butt-crack going on the instant he bent over to pick anything up. I would guess he had been clean-shaven about three days earlier.
His paper hat, sharply creased front and back, hid most of the hair that maybe had been shampooed when he shaved…three days ago. The jury was out on how many teeth were still in his head.
Billy did not speak. He grunted. It sounded somewhat derogatory, but I would not swear to anything that would condemn a man brandishing a long-handled, stainless-steel spatula. Something nonverbal in his stance told Krystal to call in her order. She never looked at him, only paused for an obligatory count of three before bellowing the order for all to hear.
“Double plate like one – over easy – scattered and smothered – drop one bacon – raisin – grits in a bowl,” she fired at him, turning to confirm he heard, one fist on her hip, while her other hand held her order pad out in front of her like she was reading him the list of everything that was wrong with him. There’s not a lot of love going on right then.
It got better.
The twin brother of Jesus Christ, or maybe it was Charles Manson on parole, hard to tell which, sat hunched over a cup of coffee at the far end of the counter glaring at everyone that walked in. Steel blue-grey eyes that only an Alaskan Husky should have cut right through to your soul. Frame those piercing eyes with the heavy beard and long, thick hair parted down the middle half hiding his face, and you were left with an image that would stick with you for a while. He was scary-looking. I was convinced that somewhere on his person was a huge knife. He had to be carrying a knife – a huge freaking knife or some other implement that he could use to cut out your heart.
By now, Billy had seven orders in queue. He was a pro, slinging hash browns expertly with that wide spatula while flipping eggs over gracefully in an omelet pan with a flick of his wrist. The spatula clanged to the grill to remove previous order debris as he dumped a ladle full of shortening into another omelet pan and broke eggs into it with a single hand, one right after the other. His skill at breaking the eggs was nearly enough to distract you from the application of the shortening called Lo-Melt.
The lubricant came out of a vast can sitting at the rear of the grill [to keep it from solidifying] and had the coloration of Quaker State motor oil with about eight thousand miles on it. I’d bet that cholesterol looked like that in its liquid state. I took a long drink of my coffee to shake off thoughts of how quickly I could clog an artery.
Over half the booths were filled with Gen-X/Yers and a few Millennials in varying degrees of intoxication on who knows what. The remaining seats were filled with flannel shirts and overalls stuffed full of drunken hillbillies. They all were smoking. Chances were good that I was going to inhale the equivalent of half a pack of cigarettes and never have to light a match.
The fact that I did not smoke was irrelevant. Everyone at Waffle House smoked one way or another. It would take a few years, but smoke-less held no favor at Waffle House.
I have been in some all-night food joints where you ran the risk of fighting over a wayward look or a misinterpreted sideways glance – but not here. Everyone was too drunk or stoned to put up much of a fight.
The good news was that Waffle House did not serve alcohol, so no one would get any worse off than they were when they arrived. The bad news centered around Jesus and his Bowie knife sitting on a stool at the end of the counter between me and the only way out.
Despite the lack of alcohol service, there was some risk to the un-stoned and un-drunk just by drinking the coffee. A fellow could get pretty fired up on three cups of Joe. I hoped for my sake that Jesus was stoned rather than fully caffeinated.
Krystal, with a “K,” came by to show me her tattoo again, along with an offer to refill my coffee cup, “Shug, you want some more of this delicious coffee?” she spat at me with more sarcasm than necessary. She still worked overtime on the gum.
It was not until after I responded to her request that I realized how much risk I took with my reply, “Hit me, Krystal!”
This time, she leaned over a little farther than necessary to ensure I got a good look at the butterfly. She was not bashful about it, and I swear another button had been undone. Despite looking away, I wondered to myself if I had offended her by not being more attentive.
“Yer order be right up, hon!” she said, slowly straightening up, flexing the wings for me one time to punctuate that she knew I could not help but take a glance.
Before I realized I spoke, the words came out, “That’s a real nice butterfly.” It must have been that first cup of coffee that pushed me over the edge, or maybe I really did not want to offend her, or maybe she was wrapped too tight and way too close to go postal for being ignored, not sure which, but held my breath for a couple beats.
She grinned and said, “Why thank you, sweetie. I got me seven more tattoos.” And she winked.
Holy crap! Her whole demeanor changed, and that unsolicited disclosure hung out there, dangling like bait, waiting for me to rise and take it. She did not say where the tattoos were and offered no clues. She just watched my face and waited – grinning and smacking her gum. I did not ask. I did not dare. I glanced nervously away from her stare and noticed Jesus looking at me with those I’m-gonna-cut-your-gizzard-out eyes. It would be my luck that he was her boyfriend and did not take kindly to strangers fantasizing over his girlfriend’s butterfly, never mind the other seven. Fantasize, I did not, but how would he know?
“Krystaaaaaal!” Billy croaked. “Got ANOTHER order up!”
She whirled and snapped at him, “Jaaaaysus H. Christ, Billy. Ah’m a standin’ right chere, and it ain’t likely ah’m deaf neither.”
“Then pick up!” he grunted angrily. I think he added another expletive to the end of what he said, but I would not swear to it once again. He still wielded the spatula, but by now, I figured that he was not brandishing it at me; instead, it was his only line of defense against a raging Krystal with a “K.” If put to the test, and they got into it, I would have to bet on her coming out on top. Chances were that Jesus would be over the counter in a flash to gut poor Billy with that big ol’ knife. If it happened, I decided the ensuing ruckus would be my best chance to bail for the door.
She turned back to me. “Sweetie, yer food’s up. Ah’ll be right back,” she said with an unwanted affection in her voice. Oh lord, she was falling in love, or worse, she was hell-bent on showing me the rest of her tattoos. To think that all I really wanted was a double order of hash browns.
Krystal headed toward a line of plates waiting to be delivered. Fortunately, she went to one of the other booths first. I hoped the extra time would help her forget I even mentioned the butterfly. I should be so lucky. A mental note was made when Billy never turned his back on Krystal, adding credence to the fact that the spatula was a weapon of defense. Jesus continued to stare at me.
Finally, Krystal, with a “K,” showed up carrying my order with several plates lined up her arm. She served my meal, leaned over, resting her palms on the table, and asked, “What else ya need, hon?” The butterfly flexed twice, too many buttons still undone. It flexed once more and then twice more. Could it be Morse code? I knew she was still hoping that I would ask for the nickel tour of the rest of her tattoos, but instead, I asked her for some butter for my grits and dared not look at Jesus.
“Wha’s all this shit on the jukebox, man?” whined one of the pimply-faced Millennials, loudly voicing his displeasure at the mostly C&W play selection.
“Watch yer mouth, boy,” came an angry retort from a table full of flannels and baseball caps that advertised fishing lures, farm machinery, and a couple of local NASCAR favorites.
The kid whirled around, flat-brimmed hat sideways on his head, as one of the other flannels voiced his offense. “Di’nt yer momma never teach you no manners?”
“Ah got some manners for y’all right chere,” the punk said, taking a couple bouncing steps toward the table of flannels and grabbing a handful of the sagging crotch, the universal gesture of something not very nice.
I was unsure, but the situation could be rocketing toward critical mass and about to turn ugly at any second. There was a good chance I would not have a chance to eat. Jesus shifted his death stare from me to the flannels and then to the punk with the pimples clutching a handful of sagging crotch. I just knew he wanted to cut somebody badly. And to think that all I really wanted was a double order of hash browns.
The Jeff Gordon cap stood up, the top button of his overalls hanging open, and he stepped toward the disrespectful kid. With attention turned away, I thought this could be an exciting moment brewing, and I had a front-row seat to sit back and watch this hayseed beat the snot out of this disrespectful little punk.
“Y’all sit the fuck down or get the fuck outta my diner!” hollered Billy, punctuating the expletives I know for sure I heard this time by slamming the long-handled spatula down on the counter about two feet from Jesus…who flinched, spilling his coffee into his lap, and everything came to a complete stop. Everyone froze. It was impossible to tell what was going to happen next. All eyes were fixed on Jesus. I just knew he was going to blow hell wide open, and somebody would die. And to think that all I really wanted was a double order of hash browns.
The current situation blew my earlier theory that everyone was too drunk or stoned to cause trouble. No longer did I wonder if there would be any trouble. Now, it was a question of how much there would be and whether we would lose a vital organ in the process.
Jesus stood up with slow deliberation and headed toward the bathroom without saying a word. Everyone and everything refused to move back into real-time. As the outer door to the restrooms closed behind him, a sense of relief seemed to descend upon everyone. Attention returned to the impending dismemberment of the kid by 270 plus pounds of flannel.
“Ah said, y’all sit the fuck down!” Billy repeated his demand, the veins bulging in his neck, pointing his spatula at the pair standing near the jukebox.
They both looked at him like they had some history with that spatula, and the number twenty-four car slid back into his seat. The kid stomped out of the front door in a huff, turning around far enough to flip the bird at the table of flannels.
John Deere quickly moved to get up and give chase, and the kid broke into a run and dove into a beat-up old Neon to make a hasty exit. The flannels howled, congratulating each other on dispatching the disrespectful little brat.
Billy just shook his head. Krystal stood staring at the whole scene, switching her glare from the departing kid to Billy and finally onto the flannels, fists firmly planted on her hips and pummeling her gum with renewed vigor. Jesus was nowhere to be seen, and I took the opportunity to dig into my meal while things stabilized.
The last piece of raisin toast mopped up what was left of my eggs. Krystal, with a “K,” her butterfly, and seven more tattoos yet unseen, had been by twice to refill my coffee. While I focused on my meal, Jesus returned to his seat at the end of the counter. I looked up just as Billy poured him a fresh cup of coffee. No telling how many cups had preceded the one emptied into his lap. There did not seem to be any bad blood between them despite the near miss with the spatula and the resulting spill. That was a good thing because if there had been any retribution due to poor Billy, I would have been a witness, and we all know what fate lies in store for the proverbial loose end.
Two more hillbillies came in and sat down at the table adjacent to mine. Krystal, with a “K,” came over, showed them her butterfly, and greeted them with her standard, “Mornin!”
“Mornin’ Krystal. How you doin’ sweet thaing?” drawled one of the hicks, so drunk his eyes were mere slits.
The other one, who looked drunker than the first, said, “Shay Kryshhhtal, when you gonna’ show us th’ rest of them thar tattoos?”
She cackled and said, “Y’all boys got a snowball’s chance in hay-ell to see what I got a hidin’ under this here uniform. Only a right special man’s gonna get ta see what I got. And y’all can believe this…it ain’t gonna’ be neither of you two hayseeds.”
She turned her head toward me and winked again like I was somethin’ right special. A chill went up my spine, causing the hair to stand on the back of my neck. Jesus saw the whole thing, wink and all, and glared at me with a renewed sense of impending violence. I laid a twenty-dollar bill on my twelve-dollar ticket and headed toward the door. I took great care not to look at Jesus on my way to the parking lot.
As I got into my car, it was hard not to look back through the window at my latest brush with…culture. Krystal, with a “K,” waved at me and blew a kiss. Jesus had twisted around on his stool, watching every move I made. The flannels were watching, too – grinning.
In the final analysis, I counted myself lucky to get out of there with another early morning breakfast at Waffle House under my belt, only one of eight tattoos verified, and no visible signs of bleeding. And to think that all I really wanted was a double order of hash browns.
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