Karl Koweski

the knuckle-headed son conundrum

the latest goat path my son has investigated
on his never-ending quest for gainful employment
has led him to the Waffle House, an isolated
oasis of shitty food on the south end of town.
out here on the perimeter of desperate sustenance,
meager resumes mean nothing to management.
they hired him to their wait staff following a five
minute interview comprised of nothing more than
shrugs, meaningful grunts, and zero eye contact.

I’m skeptical of the boy’s ability to last the
length of a shift slinging hash and cheese steak.
the knuckle-headed son conundrum defines
every interaction we share. I can’t accept the
social limitations he has placed upon himself.
I want him to find his happiness. I just don’t want
that happiness to be lying on his bed, playing
military strategy games on his laptop, subsisting
on a diet of chicken nuggets and scrambled eggs.

upon receiving the news of his latest occupational
adventure, I challenge him to show me how he
would go about taking a patron’s breakfast order.
“you like to roleplay with your dungeon and dragons
buddies, roleplay with your father, except instead
of pretending you’re a dwarven barbarian with a lisp,
you’re a Waffle House waiter and I’m a jangling
meth addict with a hankering for omelets and
eight dollars in assorted change in my pockets.

my son wavers, self-confidence has never been his
forte, despite having a farther of Herculean proportions.
finally, he squeaks out an ineffectual “hello,
welcome to Waffle House, can I take your order?”
and I scream GIVE ME THE BREAKFAST PLATTER
RIGHT NOW, MOTHERFUCKER! RIGHT NOW!
WHERE’S MY COFFEE? YOU GOT THREE SECONDS
TO GET ONE COFFEE, TWO CREAMS AND SIX
SUGARS BEFORE I TORCH THIS MOTHERFUCKER.

the boy seems shook by this exchange, and I can
only shake my head, sadly, and point out he doesn’t
even know how to fight which is a Waffle House
prerequisite since every other exchange will be
similar to the one we just played out in the kitchen.
anyway, lots of luck, I offer him, he’ll do just fine, though
every time I send him to the grocery store for three items,
he’s lucky to return with two, one of them invariably wrong.