Burnt Waffles

  The Waffle House back booth in Metter, just off I-16, was a full twenty-minute drive from my college crash-pad, but well worth the gas money to escape the 'Boro and have a quiet place to study, where I didn't know anyone. On this particular evening, I was preparing for a psychology test on motivational behavior. My waitress, Jenny, was barely twenty-one years old and the mother of a two year old little guy, us regulars knew affectionately as , "Little Joe." Without the slightest touch of makeup, Jenny was girl next door gorgeous. Sweet, genuine, country-girl fit, and walked circles around her co-workers, while taking care of  customers. The Murphys, also regulars, were a sweet elderly couple that always sat in the third booth from the door, always ordered waffles, and rarely spoke a word to each other. I had discovered this off campus study-hall just a few months prior, and after only my second visit, Jenny seemed like the little sister I never had and already knew that my "regular" was scattered-smothered-covered hash browns and a bottomless cup of coffee. Quick to notice, but slow to learn, I was there to re-write my lecture notes onto index cards for further studying, which seemed to help pound information into my thick skull. As I got started that night, I thought to myself, "Surely this stuff is more useful than algebra."

Regardless of where you sat at the Metter Waffle House, all regulars would eventually be treated to a visit from Jenny, to catch up on the latest local drama or just to see how they were doing. This night was no different. "Whatcha readin' 'bout?" she said with a curious country twang, as she delivered my hash browns, while sliding into the seat across from me for a few minutes. She was smart and really wanted to get back into college, where she had been studying nursing, when Little Joe came along. In her mind, working to pay bills, while raising her son were insurmountable obstacles between her and even one class a quarter. We were having a pleasant conversation about motivational behavior when, as fate would have it, the calm quiet evening was abruptly interrupted by the sound of screeching tires. "It's Donnie!", Screamed Shirley, from behind the register. I turned in time to see the driver slam his conspicuously clean, jacked-up diesel super cab, into park, while almost simultaneously snatching open the front door, like an orangutan swinging from vine to vine. Jenny stood up, by my booth and took a few hesitant steps away from the door, where a loud, over-grown, daddy-did-good-on-the-farm type, invaded the room, quickly changing the vibe inside. Jenny's face was filled with raw fear, as she nervously brushed off her apron and fidgeted with her dish rag. He glared at me like a baseball catcher staring down a base runner with a big lead off of first base, while walking purposefully towards Jenny and yelling at her about something he couldn't find. "Easy Greg....easy", I told myself, as he continued towards Jenny. He had that wild-eyed look about him. Calmly, I glanced down at my table: fork, knife, ink pen, hot coffee, plate of food, and a napkin dispenser were my immediately available weapons, should my involvement in this quickly escalating situation become inevitable. "Is this her brother, cousin, boy friend, Little Joe's dad, neighbor, former employer...?" 

The very best notes or lecture series on motivational behavior paled in comparison to the case study that was unfolding around me, which featured all sorts of motivational behaviors. As Donnie arrived at Jenny, he thrust his scowling face right into hers, firmly grabbed her upper arm, and began walking her towards the front door. The urge to act was strong and instinctive, and I had to force myself to stay seated. "Maybe they were just going outside to exchange heated words," I thought. As the only man under the age of sixty at Waffle House that night, I knew I was it, when it came to any effective intervention. Unbeknownst to me, Metter's finest was on the, as Shirley had quietly called 911, as soon as she saw Jenny's ex boyfriend whip his truck into the parking lot. "I guess you think you're real funny, Huh!" He shouted, as he led her through the doors and into the parking lot. Jenny begged with a pitiful scream, "Donnie, please don't do this Here!" It hit me like a cannonball to my gut, that Jenny was no stranger to this sort of aggression and abuse. He flung her around and her back hit against the bed side panel of his pick up, as she gasped loudly and shrieked in pain. I had already taken four or five steps before I was fully aware that I was up and walking. A full dose of adrenaline was gushing into my bloodstrem, causing my thoughts to cloud, as I watched myself reach for the door.  Having wrestled in high school, my preference was to take this meat-head to the asphalt, where I liked my chances, but he looked like the kind of guy that would have a gun or knife either on him or very close by. As I walked through the Waffle House doors, I could see him raring back to hit Jenny and Jenny looked over at me. "Don't come out here!" Jenny screamed desperately. Her cheeks already a mess of smeared mascara tears. He let go of her to get his eyes on who she was talking to, while reaching towards the back belt-line of his pants. His shirt was untucked and, sure enough, he promptly produced a 3-4" fixed blade knife, which he gripped in his right hand.    

   Although I had always been able to handle myself pretty well, I did not enjoy fighting and I was certainly not familiar with defending myself against a knife attack. Nevertheless, I continued walking towards Donnie. "This is gonna get bloody," I thought, but I was not going to run and I sure as hell wasn't going to let him get anywhere near Jenny again. I was in one of those frozen moments, where time slows down to milliseconds and you see and hear everything in crystal clarity. At this point, we were about fifteen feet from each other, as I struggled to come up with a plan, or at least a decent first move. Neither one of us said a word. Plowing towards a larger holding a knife was not very bright. Just then, and in the nick of time, Metter's finest arrived on the scene and barreled into the parking lot with head and blue lights shining right on Donnie. In an instant, it was clear that they both knew him and he knew them. Suddenly the tough guy act was over and in a few minutes he was cuffed and stuffed into a police car. The whole ordeal was over. Shirley scurried back inside to check on the Murphy's waffles. Jenny came over and offered an unnecessary apology then crawled into the front seat of the other squad car, as an officer offered to take Jenny to her parents house. As the police car pulled away, I began slowly walking back inside and towards my booth. The smell of burning waffles filled my nostrils, as I heard Mr. Murphy complain, "Shirley, you know we don't like our waffles burned." In a few minutes Shirley topped off my coffee and relished in telling me the entire back story of  Jenny and Donnie. I saw her mouth moving, but her words were unintelligble, sounding more like the steady zapping of bugs flying into a bug light on a warm summer night. Eventually, Shirley returned to her duties and I returned to my thoughts. Thoughts about people and what motivates them to do the things people do. As I sat there, I thought about each person involved and considered what may or may not have motivated us to behave the way we had behaved. Then my thoughts drifted back to broken relationships, lost friends, and family problems and I weighed what may have motivated the behaviors in those situations. That was the night. The night I learned about motivational behavior. That was also the night that I began making my own mental notes about people and what motivates us. I've never stopped.   

Black Friday Football Madness

So there you are, in apparent gridlock on the sporting goods aisle, surrounded by a nameless and faceless mob of Black Friday shoppers that deep down you wish had stayed home or didn't event exist. From your vantage point, you can see the shelf where only seven something or others, which Jimmy and Jenny really want for Christmas, are left for the taking. Like Coach Ridings and his crew you have a plan, but progress is slow as you meander through the shopping mosh pit like a spawning salmon desperately struggling upstream. Your heart  skips a beat and an involuntary gasp escapes your lips, as you watch helplessly the number quickly dwindle from seven to four something or others. Your pushing pace increases slightly, as you lean into and push past the horde of shopping zombies in your path. Then suddenly there were three on the shelf and there's still fifty feet between you and finally nabbing one of those something or others. The ugly human law of supply and demand plays out further as a coughing zombie barking into her cell phone grabs one of the something or others while asking the person on the other end of the call, "do we need one of these something or others..?"  With the restraint of a Monk at a football pep rally, you subdue thoughts of slapping her cell phone high into the air like a majorette's baton or better yet up against her gaudy earring. Clutching your playlist like a cheerleader holding a pom-pom, you ponder why you chose this madness over watching the Bulldogs in the Brickyard. Then it hits you what a terrible waste it would be to have endured all of this and not come home with the hardware! 

A rude line of five shoppers is all that's left between you and the last two something or others. In a nanosecond, you survey the field and weigh your options. Although you're no spring chicken, you've still got some old school jet fuel in the tank and an end run like Rashad Sturgiss or Tyrique Braswell is definitely open, but how much sweeter would it be to lower your shoulder and barrel right through the line like Billy Mance or Micheal Thomas! Like a Navy jet launched from an aircraft carrier's catapult, you jolt to the corner and take the edge and have open field now between you and those something or others. With outstretched hands like Christian Tutt, Trey Parker, Brian Smith, Patterson Hutto, or Jacorey Crawford you strive to land a something or other with only twelve minutes left to save $22. 43  

In an instant, a shopping zombie walking by the items turns on a dime and while executing a beautiful spin move sweeps away the last two items and looks at you with all the Christmas warmth you could expect at a whipped up shopping free for all. It all went down in slow motion with Christmas music crammed down your ears like a toddler eating a hand fulls of spaghettios. Feeling utterly dejected, you pick-up a pair of cheesy Christmas socks and a pack of gum on your way out so you've got something to show for your incredible waste of time and energy. As you get back onto I-20 to head West to Thomson, you forgo the Christmas tunes and dial up 101.7 to catch the score of the Thomson game. It's still crackling as you pass Belair road and you can't make out much of the broadcast. As we all do when driving you think and your thoughts begin to wonder for a moment how things would have been different had the Thomson offensive line been clearing a path for you at the store.  Ford Whatley, KT Woods, Myles David, Phillip Williams, Will Roberts, and Walker Tharpe would have rolled through that place like boulders down a mountain side hitting a cluster of cars at the Sprint in Thomson on a Friday afternoon and you could have easily scored that something or other. While waiting to hit the Grovetown exit and better reception from WTHO, you also entertain how satisfying it would have been to watch the Thomson defensive crew make short work of that crude hooligan that pulled those last few items off the shelf. You imagine him being stood up and taken rudely to the tile by Jaquez Hart, Daivon Randall, Nick Moss, Justin Bradshaw, Billy Youngblood, and Nick Becerra.

At last, the broadcast is coming in clearly now and you can tell by the excitement in their voices that the DOGS are either winning or on the jagged edge of doing something great. You beat the steering wheel as you holler, "What's the score what's the score!!" Desperate to salvage some meaning to the evening, you pick up speed in hopes of arriving in time to catch the last quarter or so. It turns out you've got time to make it back and catch about the last 10 minutes of the game and it's then that you just want to kick yourself like Dakota Gergen "Jer-jen" on a 52 yard game winner for even thinking about skipping this game to buy some stupid sale priced something or other.  

Go Dogs!!