My Week For Freaks

Yep. This is it. My week for freaks. Or upon closer scrutiny, maybe a bit more than just my week. C'est la vie. Let's move on to specifics...

This little fable again takes place in my restaurant. Yes, the home of the authentic Dutch pannekoeken, creepy married pervos with a fetish for the homeless, crotchety old men (actually in residence for the next month - yay!) and now...very strange, possible transvestites. Possible mind, not definite. Which is actually quite a lot odder than your actual full-fledged trannie. Or is it tranny? I'm never sure.

There also seems to be a pattern emerging with the onset of the slow season. As the tips go (sadly no customers means no tips) the freaks rush forth to fill the void. Poorly I might add. Freaks are no substitute for sweet, sweet cash. Nope. No way. The latest thing seems to be the first customer of the day. Freak. Creepy married pervo was the first customer of that particular day. Crotchety old man...yep. And now, strange, possible tranny.

She(?) came in a couple of days ago in the wee hours of the morning (okay, in some circles 7am is not the wee hours but I don't frequent those circles) looking quite scabby and featuring a breathtakingly, unattractive, halloween-esque wig of the likes I haven't seen since I dug out my old vampire wig from the far reaches of my tickle trunk many moons ago. Ratty tangles and all. She was tall and had these super, super skinny legs with long, deep red scratches down the shins. And strange, skinny man hands. But pale. And kind of damp looking. Like she'd been holding them under water for a good length of time. Clammy. It's a good word. Clammy.

The first thing she asked about when she came in was using the washroom. She said she had to go inject her medicine because she was a diabetic and had to give herself a shot before breakfast everyday. Then she came back and ordered 2 hot chocolates with whipped cream. And poured heaps of ketchup on her hash browns. In a not so diabetic fashion. I don't know much about the diabetics but I'm reasonably sure that if you get to the point where you have to give yourself injections before eating that perhaps hot chocolatey goodness would not be on your list of things to consume. Leading me to believe that what she was shooting up in the bathroom may not have been medicine in the strictest sense of the word. Not to mention the shaking and the twitching that seemed to cease immediately after her bathroom visit.

Now, the freakest thing about her, from my perspective wasn't the freakish, clammy man hands or even the shooting up. No. It was the teeth. Or maybe the eyes. Or quite possibly the caked on dead white face powder that made her look as though her skin were flaking off. No wait, it was definitely the teeth. I mean, I'm pretty sympathetic towards those who are toothily challenged (that's not quite what I meant I don't think...it's not that she didn't have teeth, she did. they were just really crazy), but these teeth were beyond all logic. They were kind of pointy (not just one or 2 of them - all of them) and had weird little gaps between them (not just the front ones - all of them). I kept having visions of her lunging at me with the rending and the tearing and the gnashing and the whatnot. It was scary. As a matter of fact, it was so scary that I think I'll just have to stop talking about it now altogether so that I have some hope of falling asleep sometime before next year. I've got both the heebies and the jeebies in a big, big way.