A Goddamn Enema

At the diner, I try not to get overwhelmed when the dishes start to pile up. I take each dish in my hand, and direct my energy fully to it. This is the only dish in the world, Curt. I talk myself down. The diner is sensory overload, every minute that I am there. People chatting about meaningless things. Dinners and breakfast plates with silly names being shouted out, endlessly. Louder than necessary if you ask me.

If there are no customers, Belle Star talks just to hear herself talk. "That son-of-a-bitch the other day Curt," she said to me yesterday, "that son-of-a-bitch had to get a f**kin' enema and he sits his a** down on that f**kin' stool and starts to tell me about it. A goddamn enema."

Belle Star repeated the story to me that she had no desire to hear herself. A goddamn enema.

I don't know how I can like people so much and yet have such a hard time being around them. Is that normal?

Today, I asked Belle Star if maybe I could do a little cooking at some point. Just to break the monotony. "I make butter at home!" I said enthusiastically, perhaps awkwardly. I tried to sell myself, something I'm not very good at.

"You want to cook, Jimenez, you crazy f**k?"

With Belle Star's encouragement, one of the servers let me throw together a couple salads for her. She is in her twenties and dresses like she thinks she weighs 100 pounds and not 150. She flirts with me persistently. She thinks she is doing me a favor, like it is a special thrill for this 51 year old man to be flirted with by such an impressive young specimen.

Curt Jimenez, this is your life.

Son-of-a-bitch.

At the diner, I try not to get overwhelmed when the dishes start to pile up. I take each dish in my hand, and direct my energy fully to it. This is the only dish in the world, Curt.

A goddamn enema.