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!” 

Mildred said.

 

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.