Busboy

Short Fiction

By Stephen Geez

 

Busboy.

 

André, the punk-ass busboy.

 

Scratchy black pants, stiff white shirt, cheap dark shoes. Sixteen years old, embarrassed to be here, he sits in a booth in the back, waiting for paperwork and some here’s-what-you-do.

 

P.O. set this up, said only way outta this place is to find a better job hisself. Got tomorrow and the next day off before a five-day schedule kicks in. Bet he’ll have something better before having to show his face for a second day in this place. Judge said gotta work full-time now, then part-time and GED classes in the fall, or serve that suspended year. Catch a new bit and he’s gone for even longer. That was last week. Probably shoulda started looking for his own job then.

 

Moms cried when she showed him the clothes she bought him—proud of him, she said, bring in some money, help out, maybe get some insurance to share her car. Teenage boys cost a lot.

 

Restaurant-style food joint in the mall, booths and tables and stools at a counter, waitresses running trays, two cooks behind the lights, order slips clipped to a turning-deal, Lenore at the register on your way out. It’s humiliating, working at a place like this, these kinda people, right by home where everybody he knows can see him. P.O. says people respect honest work. Yeah, right.

 

Ain’t no respect here: cleaning up after slobs, bussing tables, washing dishes, working like a dog, customers lined up hurry hurry hurry up wipe that down get the seats. Waitresses gotta make that money.

 

Lenore brings the papers. Sour old bitch doesn’t like him already, that mean look on her face, wasting her time on a punk she can tell won’t be back after today. Got that right. Fill this out here and here and sign there and both of these. Punch in here, but not till it’s time. Aprons in the box. Wilbur here’ll show you what to do.

 

Wilbur, now that’s some piece of work. He’s, like, ninety years old, probably retarded, too. Lives his whole life, and this is all he’s done for himself? Dale’s the other busboy, eighteen or nineteen, just leave him alone and stay out of his way. Dale seems really cool, making the best of it, moving too fast for anyone to notice who he is.

 

Wilbur takes forever explaining what to do. How hard can it be? Like, stack dishes in the gray tubs—not too loud—then wipe everything down with a clean-looking rag. Leave tip-money on the table. Don’t mess with the tips. Waitresses will pick ’em up, except sometimes they leave good ones there long enough for the next group to see what’s expected. “Greedy bitches,” Dale calls ’em.

 

Filling the gray tubs, wiping up people’s mess, shoving tubs through the window, loading dishes in the racks, spraying off the mess, putting racks in the washer, stacking hot dishes, hauling stacks to the kitchen and waitress stations.

 

Dale likes to empty his own tubs, and André finally figures why. Dale sometimes fishes a quarter out the bottom, maybe two dimes. He’s slick until you know what to watch for. Wipes the table, pushes the money aside, covers a coin or two with the rag, slides it into his tub. Anybody ever sees it—oops, sorry. Working too fast. My bad.

 

New guy better lay low for a while, though, everybody watching to see how he works, see if he’s going to last. Wilbur keeps telling him good job good job, like what that old man thinks matters.

 

Waitresses slip into the back for quick breaks, bathroom, a few bites, sips of Diet Pepsi. They introduce themselves to the new boy: Hi, sugar, I’m Loretta Cindy Tisha Jean Emma Abigail. Each offers advice, acts friendly, grateful he’s looking out for her section. Don’t worry about Lenore. She’ll be on you for messing up, but when you do your best she looks out for you. Abu’s the owner, mostly stays in the office, pushing piles of paper and talking how keeping this place open is a miracle.

 

Tisha comes back, calls her sister. Can you watch the kids again tomorrow? Got offered an extra shift. She looks up and sees André watching, looks embarrassed. Got two little ones, she says, running up doctors’ bills on the youngest, money hard to come by. Don’t get to spend much time with her babies for working so hard to take care of her babies.

 

André’s mom has said something like that once or twice.

 

And now he’s stacking dishes in the gray tub and feeling kinda not cool about asking Moms for money all the time, about that look on her face when she digs through that purse, calculating what she absolutely needs, what she can spare, then hands him more than she can afford. She cried the last time he got popped, worried about money for a lawyer, wondering what she’d done wrong or didn’t do right.

 

And he’s wiping down the tables, eyeing that money, moving it around with his clean-looking rag, thinking how some extra quarters, maybe two dimes here and there would add up, a way to hand his check to Moms and still keep some for himself; but Tisha appears, helping him wipe the seats, her table in her section, a chance to grab that good-tipping group next in line if André finishes before Dale gets Loretta’s booth ready. Tisha’s quarters pay doctors’ bills.

And that smug-ass P.O. shows up, sits at the counter, eats chocolate pie, smirks while André busses the counter, never says a word. Yeah, come by next week for more pie; won’t see this guy here. One day as Lenore’s dog and he’s through. Any job’s better than this.

 

People from down the street come in, recognize André. The mom and dad and little girl and that boy in eighth grade. They smile, offer a wave on the down-low, keep looking at the dog running around, cleaning up after others. Real low class.

 

But when André busses the next booth over, the man stands up, sticks his hand out and shakes, respect in his eyes. Good to see you’ve become a working man, he says; and the eighth-grader wants to know how old he’s got to be to get a job here someday, make his own money. Girl thinks André’s pants and shirt look cool.

 

And the line grows longer, the pace picking up, everybody frantic, money to be made. Some customers come by to look, then decide the wait is too long. That takes money off the tables, leaves doctors’ bills unpaid. Abu’s running the register now so Lenore can work the stations, fill glasses and plate desserts and make salads so the waitresses move faster. Lenore doesn’t even get tips, but it’s like she wants to make sure her girls make every dime they can. Dale’s working like a blur, throwing glances at André, a challenge. Some of the girls look pleased when Dale gets to their tables first; André’s not turning ’em over fast enough.

 

But, see, André’s smart, and he spots ways to be quicker: two hands, spare rags, half and half, double-tubbing, lots of possibilities. Just like that, everybody’s impressed, and Wilbur can stay in the back, keep the racks moving. Cooks are slinging like a blur, order slips spinning that turn-deal, Abu punching keys and counting change and maybe, just for a minute, not worrying about how this place stays open.

 

And Dale’s going straight to the pocket now, a quick belly-scratch under his apron, but André can see what’s up.

 

Wilbur keeps looking out that little window, hungry for more tubs. Lost his wife, Tisha whispered over sips of Diet Pepsi earlier. Doctors’ bills, funeral costs, needed money at first, but now maybe it’s something to do, someplace to go. Even stops by on his days off, she says, hangs out for a bit when it’s slow. Everybody likes Wilbur. Don’t even think about giving him a hard time; Lenore’ll open fire and make you wanna be somewhere else.

 

The rush eases a bit, and Diane Stapleford comes in with her mom, booth in the back. He’s had it for her since, like, sixth grade, but she never gives him a look, too good for him.

 

Except now she’s looking hard, watching him, smiling and winking whenever she catches his eye. Her mom whispers something to her, and they both giggle, Diane blushing.

 

Come over and watch a DVD, she says when he’s close by. And suddenly the humiliation of working like a dog in scratchy black pants and stiff white shirt looks more like just being a responsible person, like acting grown up, like a young man looking after his mom, a young man who would look after his girl someday.

 

And Abu calls Dale into the office, the bigger cook and Lenore right behind him. Other cook takes Dale’s coat from the back and hands it in. And Wilbur watches it all, looking sad like someone hurt him bad. Old man’s about ready to cry, like everything’s his fault, like he didn’t show Dale the right way to do this job.

 

Like it hurt him to be the one had to say something to the boss.

 

And Dale’s out the door, cussing and flashing the bird. The waitresses look sad but relieved.

 

Tisha’s the first one to clock out. She catches André in the back and whispers how proud she is of him, then presses eight dollars into his palm before grabbing her coat and hugging Wilbur on the way out.

 

Loretta slips a bunch of ones into his shirt pocket, Cindy a roll of dimes, Jean a five-dollar-bill. One of the cooks brings him and Wilbur big plates, sandwiches and onion rings and garlic pickles.

 

Emma and Abigail come off another five apiece, but they stay to help clean up, fill ketchup bottles, rack pies, load machines, set up morning coffee, wrap silverware. Abu comes out from the office, looks around, makes eye contact with the new busboy for the first time. He nods, then heads back to the office.

 

And Wilbur looks proud.

 

But André’s thinking about Diane Stapleford, about watching a DVD and telling her about this crazy place and double-tubbing and Wilbur and Tisha and how Lenore’s not really so mean.

 

And Lenore comes into the back, says she knows André probably has plans tomorrow, like she can read his mind about looking for a better job. Still, with Dale gone now, they’re short-handed.

 

Can you work tomorrow? Lenore wants to know. Maybe next day, too?

 

André’s mom sure could use some help on the money-tip. And André thinks maybe he could take Diane someplace tomorrow night and pay their way.

 

Emma and Abigail are watching, hoping he’ll say yes.

 

P.O. made him come here, but now these people want him to come back. Scratchy black pants, stiff white shirt, cheap dark shoes, sixteen years old.

 

Eleven o’clock tomorrow.

 

André the busboy.

 

Working man.

 

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