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INT – PANCAKE HUT – TABLE SIXTEEN – NIGHT

JEFF looks to his straw drowning in a pool of spilled Coke. 

‘Ice Ice Baby’ DOES NOT play.

JEFF

Somebody’s going to have to invent a weighted straw.

EVETTE approaches his table and notices his dejection.

EVETTE

What’s wrong?

JEFF

Well, I guess I should be happy, my asshole boss finally got fired.

EVETTE

That’s good news.  My asshole boss gave his notice too.

JEFF

I was hoping to at least get a shot at being the manager, but they’ve already given it to the cousin of the owner.

EVETTE

I wouldn’t want to be the manager of Pancake Hut; you’re not allowed to keep your tips!

JEFF

You can’t?

EVETTE

Nope.  But I’ve seen Denny take money from the tip jar anyway.  It’s supposed to go to the dishwashers, but if he takes it, they can’t say anything.

JEFF

Why not?

EVETTE

He’ll have them deported.  

JEFF

You’re right.  What an asshole.  Nothing makes sense anymore.

EVETTE

Oh come on Jeff!

JEFF

I’d have loved to be the manager.

EVETTE

But if you had manager’s hours you wouldn’t have any time to write.  Or—worse yet—come in to see me!

JEFF

I guess you’re right.  Evette, you are the only thing in life that makes sense to me.

EVETTE

Hey, none of Picasso’s art made sense!  As your new muse, perhaps I should take offense to that.

The faint strain of Jonathan Richman’s ‘Pablo Picasso’ plays over the restaurant’s sound system.

--END--