Ruptured Structure

Waffle House. When’s the last time you’ve been to Waffle House? Want a third world experience in your own backyard? Go to the House.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the former inmates flipping the bacon, the crusted material on the chipped coffee cups, the dubious matter in the grout of the tile and sludged into the corners beneath the pleather seats; I don’t even mind the 8 day old rags the color of grandma’s underwear used to swab down the tables that leave that stray dog smell. The food’s not even terrible, if you ignore the drawers from which they pull the bacon and sausage, sometimes stringing behind them indeterminate fatty material in cellophane covers. But the experience I just had with my 6 year old–it’s his birthday today, and rather than fly to Calcutta to watch some underfed guy squat with the runs in an alley, he chose to go to Waffle House for their famous waffles.

We walk in and sit down. So far so good. I ignore the quarter straw wrapper cemented with egg to the menu, and make my choice from the other side. My son gets his waffle. I butter and cut up his waffle and commence to eating my too-runny eggs, trying to steel my stomach for possible E. coli outbreaks. But then, Eric asks to use the bathroom. He has that look in his eye, the faraway gaze of a dog on a mission, and I know that I’ll have to take him. I’d send him alone, but I know what the Waffle House bathroom experience can be like. We take the slow walk back, past the overfed and underdressed women sitting at the linebar, past the table of high school students on break on their way to the beach, past the badass mofo in the hairnet taking a break by leaning near the john door. On the brink of entering he has an ominous and hazy memory and says, almost out of context, Mom says the bathrooms here can make your poop dirty. When we enter the room, it’s like stepping into an 80 degree meat-locker, only not so lovely. There’s shit on the floor. Not “shit” on the floor, there’s shit on the floor. Don’t ask me how I know. So we walk with purpose, two soldiers on a mission, avoiding the bigger mines for the lesser ones. It’s no suprise that there’s shit also in the toilet, and around and on the toilet. It’s a wonder men bother at all with the niceties of modern plumbing anymore. So I steel myself to use the handle and flush. There’s a fuss made by the pipes, a dramatic show of business, but the three fat and squirrelly sausages merely make a game of ring around the posy, occasionally holding each other’s hands for effect. I’m disturbed, but, hey, I’m 41 years old. I’ve been to music festivals and I’ve lived in a dorm. My 6 year old, on the other hand, turns feeble. It’s more than his constitution–which I think is fairly tough–can handle, and he begins to gag. I say, Close your eyes, little fellow, and aim in the general direction of the bowl. He says, I’m going to be sick and he begins that loud barking, belching wretching thing. I say–because though I’ve never been to war, I’ve seen in movies where the field commander grabs the green soldier by the lapels and screams in his face, Own the Pain, Own the Pain, and think I can make this work–so I say, Don’t Puke. He’s a good little guy, he really is. He tries to comply. He puts his hand over his mouth. But the urge is overwhelming, he lets go a Diet Coke and Mentos heave, compressed by his hand over his mouth, and what comes out from the cracks of his fingers is a destructive shrapnel of waffle and orange juice. On me on him on the floor. I should say at this point, the overall effect to the bathroom is minimal. I hand him some toilet paper–good luck finding a paper towel–and turn on the sink. Of course, there’s no soap. Yeah, there’s a soap dispenser, so you can put your hand all over the fecal-encrusted device, there’s just no soap. The fact that the dispenser is hanging under a sign that says Employees Must Wash Their Hands gives me only a slight pause. We pat dry with toilet paper our shoes and clothes and my little trooper says, gleefully and without irony or guile, Let’s go eat. He’s worked up an appetite, apparently. Hell, why not. My adrenaline is going, I feel like I just survived an attack from the enemy and this may be my last meal on earth. So we return to our table and eat with that kind of conspiratorial silence men on the run have. And then, settling in, my little guy says, That was really gross. The shock is wearing off and he starts to gag again. I put down the fork, pay the bill (11.41, without tip, not bad: dinner and a show) and off we go. “Mom is right,” he says, “I don’t think we should eat at Waffle House anymore.” Happy Birthday, you sweet, smart little fucker.

Now I know that most of the above is a result of us and not the “restaurant.” But I have a feeling that it’s not an unusual scenario. Something to think about next time you hear, Welcome to Waffle House.

–The Central Scrutinizer

This entry was posted Tuesday, June 26th, 2007 at 11:45 am and is filed under Miscellaneous, The Central Scrutinizer. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.