Helen of Waffle (Tape 12 excerpt)
The following excerpt comes from Recommended If You Like, a novel available for $0.00 by Adam Voith. You only need to know that Roadside Monument was a three-piece punk band in the 1990s made up of Doug, Johnathon, and Matt. They were likely the least successful band on Tooth & Nail Records, a label they were incredibly ashamed to be on. James was the closeted publicist at Tooth & Nail, and Roadside’s biggest champion there. The narrator is Anderson Humphery, otherwise known as The Christian Humper. The entire novel is made up of transcripts of The Humper speaking into a tape recorder.
Nobody was talking about how gay James is, but when we walked into a Waffle House outside Tacoma, he was a billboard for homosexuality. The Sexi Mexi. Sometimes the guys said it with a lisp. Apparently, Tooth & Nail bands and employees used the name, but I guess no one asked what kind of sex.
Inside, we stood by the wall of windows stretching across the front of the restaurant. There was one group waiting ahead of us, a family of four in matching stonewashed jeans. The whole place was stonewashed. The sight of any single one of us might have tripped the redneck alarm, little freaks in their midst, but James put us at a real disadvantage.
The tables and stools at the counter were full. One waitress—old, pissed, running the show—saw us and shook her head. Two other waitresses in orbit around her looked too young for jobs and made themselves small as she barked. The family ahead got the first open table. When someone got up from the counter, a guy who’d arrived alone took the stool without waiting. When a second table cleared, we were skipped for a mom with twin boys waiting behind us, and then for a rickety couple who weren’t even through the front door when the next table opened. The old waitress waved them in through the window as they lumbered from the lot.
I tried to get the attention of a line cook but they avoided my eye contact. I asked one of the young waitresses if we were doing something wrong. “Talk to Helen,” she said, tilting her head toward the boss.
Several diners finished and stood up from the counter around the same time. This opened five stools, two at one end, three at the other. We paired off and grabbed the spots rather than waiting for a table. Doug, Matt, and Johnathon took the three-stool set, and James and I sat at the opposite end.
Now we had Helen’s attention. She planted herself in front of James and me holding a dripping rag. “You wanna move your purse?” she said, eyeballing the lavender tote bag James had set on the counter.
“Ooooo-kay,” James said, grinning, giggling, pulling the bag to his lap.
After slopping her dirty rag around, leaving a layer of beads and streaks, Helen of Waffle tossed paper placemats down. They soaked up the water and went pulpy.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “did we violate Waffle Regulations or—”
“Who seated you here?” Helen fired back.
“Oh. I assumed the counter was first-come, first-served.”
“It is. But you split up your group. You’re five, right?”
“We’ll pretend we don’t know them if it helps,” I said. “We hate those guys.”
“Funny,” Helen said. “What if a group of two behind you needed these seats? That fair to them?” James and I looked at the door. No one was waiting. “Never mind. What do you want?”
“I’ll need a few minutes, please,” James said. He still had his goddamn sunglasses on.
“Fine. Drinks?”
I asked for Dr. Pepper.
“What about you, ma’am?”
“Water for me please and thank you,” James said.
Helen walked away.
“You catch that?” I said.
“I mean, yes, but which part are you referring to?” James scrutinized a photo of scrambled eggs.
“Yeah, obviously all of it, but what about her calling you ma’am?”
“What?”
“She fully called your bag a purse and then called you ma’am.”
“I think she said man.”
“No way. She called you ma’am.”
“But like, why would she do that?” he said. “You doing breakfast for dinner? This picture of ham is nasty.”
“James, I think we’ve got discrimination happening here.”
James looked around the place. “Where?”
“James. I think maybe they don’t want you in here. Like you specifically.”
“What do you mean?” he said. “Oh my God. You think they hate Mexicans?”
“James.”
“What?”
“You’re gay, right?”
“Oh my God.”
“What? Are you not?”
“Oh my God. You didn’t just ask me that.” He was blushing but cheesing, near beaming. “You don’t understand. No one asks that. The Roadside guys have never asked me that.”
“What? How? You’re super-duper gay.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I called this out on a tape. Right after we all met.”
“And somehow, not a word,” James said. “Not from anyone.”
“So, you’re in the closet?”
“I mean, I was.”
“They’ve got to know,” I said. “Or they’ve got to be suspicious.”
“Maybe, maybe not. People ignore a lot, Humper.”
I’m personally stoked James is gay. I always look for shots at redemption. My unforgivable sin was John Oldham from church. He was a few years older than my buddies and me. Before any of us had a license, he carted us all over town in a convertible Yugo Cabriolet we called Cabbie. We’d roll with him after Sunday morning service, he’d scoop us before Wednesday night youth group, and if we wanted to rent movies, grab fast food, or get to somebody’s house with a trampoline, Cabbie was available on Saturdays too. With the top down in good weather, we’d sit up on the trunk like guests in a parade with our dirty shoes on the fabric backseat. When John came out to us, his chest heaving, we said, So sorry to hear this, and of course we can’t hang out anymore.
“My gayness fully helps the label,” said James. “MxPx get played on the commercial station in Seattle, and it’s only because the program director has a crush on me. Each time he spins it, he shouts me out on air.”
“Do you have a secret boyfriend?”
“No, but I’ve been with guys. Back home, before I moved to Seattle.”
“You were openly out?”
“God, no. In my parents’ house? Are you joking?”
“So, you had to sneak around? What was dating like?”
“I’m not sure you can call it dating. Like, my mom would hide the JCPenney catalog from me because women in bras and underwear. But it’s like, Bitch, please. I’m already riding my little BMX bike to the adult bookstore by the highway, giving handjobs to middle-aged men.”
“Damn!” I had many more questions, but the band guys had abandoned their stools.
“Dude, this lady’s never taking our order.”
“She won’t even look at us,” Johnathon said.
“We got as far as drinks,” I said, noticing they hadn’t arrived. We bailed, piled back into the van, and hit a McDonald’s drive-thru.
Adam Voith is a writer and publisher.