I Will Survive
So there I was. Peering out to an endless sea of faceless patrons I gave two shits about
as pizza and beer slid down their throats. Nobody patiently waits for their server to stop by
anymore. The universal server wave is the new custom. It’s no ordinary wave though; it’s a
closed palm flutter that is only controlled by the wrist like they’re the Queen of fucking England
waving to thousands of toothless Brits as she walks out on her balcony. They don’t just wave like
her; they act like her too.
“Excuse me, but I am royalty. I demand impeccable service without any incentive of you
being rewarded for your tireless efforts to keep me constantly pleased and to listen to me berate
you. Here’s $3 for your time.”
Of course it’s not the actual dialogue between us but it’s damn better than the
bullshit script we’re advised to implement. They’re all thinking it too. I know they are, those
bastards. I forcibly smile at them as I futilely recommend healthy options to the people that lie to
themselves about how their mistakenly pregnant stomach isn’t perched on the edge of the table.
Oh, you wanted something healthier than pizza and hot wings? I’m so glad you decided on
coming into a fucking sports bar. Let me go ahead and divert your attention to one of our salads
that will clog your arteries with our homemade dressings that contain more fat and calories than
the majority of our pizzas do. As I ineffectively sway their ignorant minds another Queen of
England is spotted out of the corner of my eye. Why haven’t there been more assassination
attempts on her anyway? She’s as high as they come. Somebody has to put a price on her head.
It’s quite ironic, because her head is already on their money. Maybe that’s why nobody has tried.
They’re so used to seeing her face in their wallets that they don’t want any other fucker’s head
on there. I’m sure that it would be some hideous English next-inline royalty with teeth
perpendicular to one another shooting out the corner of his crusty-edged mouth. The numerous
terrorist organizations must find British bills too aesthetically pleasing to do anything about that
wrist-flicking wench. It’s at this moment I realize the disgruntled fatty is chockfull of anger
because he hasn’t been attended to in forty-eight seconds because I was too busy wondering how
to off the Queen Bee without getting caught. I withstand his rant and offer a free beer. That shuts
him up unsurprisingly. Beer seems to make everyone happy as it causes them to let themselves
go and introduce an immense amount of faux joy. It should be the currency if there is ever an
apocalyptic catastrophe that ravages the cities.
One way to deal with the surplus of hyenas that come in to make you bend over
backwards is to picture what kind of role they would play in a community that was destroyed
into an apocalyptic wasteland. An elderly couple sat down at one of my tables. His wife was
awfully nice and pleasant, whereas he just somewhat remained silent and, probably, obedient.
Then they immediately became shop owners of the badlands. The man became Oscar, who ran
an electricity shop that would charge other trinkets that no longer held a spark found amongst the
wasteland; just as long as passing travelers were able to provide items to trade for his services.
His wife, Mildred, sat in what was left in the lobby of the shop and made tea for various
voyagers as they waited for Oscar to produce an efficient electrical charge for their newly found
objects. Being an electrical shop, they were able to have items in the store that ran for days. One
of them was a record player but, because of the disaster, they were only able to obtain one
recorded single: Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.” This played over and over as Mildred did her
best to entertain the store patrons with music and tea. They lived before the disaster so they still
had a sense of propriety toward customers. I mean they weren’t barbarians. Oscar hated Gloria.
He simply despised her with all of her self-righteous heart. She sat there and told him how she
should have changed that stupid lock. He sat there and pondered what it would feel like to attach
a pair of jumper cables to his testicles. ‘Go ahead, Gaynor, tell me to walk out the door one more
time. I swear I’ll switch on this fucking car battery in my bathtub,’ Oscar constantly thought to
himself. But he was too great of a husband to express his nightmare to Mildred. All she wanted
was to please her guests. Many of the younger wasteland travelers very much enjoyed it as they
had never heard the song before. One offered to trade it for something of his. Oscar grew
ecstatic. ‘This is it,’ he thought, ‘Gloria’s about to be the one that walks out the door. So help me
God I will change that stupid fucking lock.’ Oscar’s salvation from this tyranny was in arm’s
reach. He could finally work in peace without hearing of some man that came from outer space
and wronged such a deserving woman. Tears of sheer joy began to form at the corner of his eyes.
He could not contain his excitement. It was Christmas morning before the apocalypse. Until the
unthinkable happened. A looming gray cloud peered over their shop at that moment. A grim
presence entered the atmosphere; one Death himself would be wary of: Mildred.
“Oh I’m terribly sorry, sonny, but that’s actually not for trade. Have a great day!”
Oscar had never considered a divorce before. His life drained before him. He would
never know happiness like that again. His legs gave out from beneath him. Luckily there was
a chair under him. He looked around for an easy out. He peered over the various trinkets and
objects that did and didn’t hold an electrical charge that he had gathered over the years of
rummaging the wasteland, all stored on rusty iron shelves with no means of organization. That’s
when he saw them: jumper cables. Oscar stood up and walked to the jumper cables that were
connected to a makeshift car battery. This was it. His final moments were nearing due to Gloria
fucking Gaynor. He grabbed the rubber-handled cables and touched the ends together to test
the spark. Just before he clenched his hands, opening the clamps toward what was left of his
manhood, the elderly couple paid their bill and walked out of the restaurant.
Nice tip too.