Boys

by Scott Semegran

  "Come in."

  "Your mother wanted me to give you this," my dad said, poking his head in. He handed me a pill and a glass of water. "It's a painkiller."

  My dad was short and stalky and kind of pudgy in a way a bull dog can be those things except he didn't have a loveable side. He was all business all the time, no fun.

  "Thanks," I said, gulping the pill down with water.

  "What are you looking at?"

  "Huh?"

  "There, in the paper," he said, pointing. "What are you looking at in the paper?"

  "I'm reading the classifieds. For cars."

  "I'm not giving you a car for your 16th birthday," he said, staring at me.

  "Uh, OK."

  "You'll need to save up for a car yourself."

  "I know. That's why I got a job."

  "If you keep cutting yourself on the job, pretty soon you won't have a job. Shape up."

  "OK."

  He left my room and closed the door behind him. I stared at the door for a moment, making sure he wasn't going to come back in. He didn't.

  I looked down at the paper and the auctioneer continued his chant in my head: I have a 1979 Mazda RX-7 in very good condition. Let's start the bidding at $3,900. You, there, in the pink shorts, $3,900! How about $4,000? Who will give me $4,000? The little fella, there, good-looking kid, $4,000! Now how about $4,100? Who will give me $4,100?

  ***

  The water that shot out of the sink hose was scalding hot. Demitri was not kidding when he said the water was hot enough to melt dried tzatziki sauce off the plates and silverware. Tzatziki sauce, a combination of yogurt mixed with cucumbers, garlic, salt, olive oil, and other wonderful ingredients to make a divine sandwich dressing, although delicious served cold and fresh, turned to cement when exposed to air too long. It was a dishwasher's nightmare. I blasted the plates with the hot water to get that shit off but when it didn't work, I had a scraper to use, like a windshield ice scraper but smaller. Washing dishes and bussing tables in a restaurant was an eye-opening experience for me as a young man. I didn't have to work at Demitri's for long to realize that people were pigs, absolutely disgusting slobs. Not only was the tzatziki sauce difficult to get off plates, imagine getting that shit off walls or window blinds. Ugh.

  That was the majority of my work, washing dishes and bussing tables, although I also was asked to clean the restrooms, take orders, cook food, and prep ingredients. Every once and a while, I was also asked to be a taste-tester. I liked that job the most although it was pretty infrequent. Demitri had family members doing all kinds of things for him, cousins doing bookkeeping, his aunt doing his taxes, his sister managing the place, and so on and so forth. But one of his secret ingredients for success was his mother, who gave him most of his recipes and who also baked his baklava, which if you didn't know, is the most amazing dessert in the world--a rich, sweet pastry made of layers of filo filled with chopped nuts and sweetened with honey. Hers was to DIE for and I'm not kidding. She would bake a tray of it at her home then bring it in to the restaurant and sit the tray in the back area on the prep table behind where I washed the dishes. Every time she put the tray down, she would tap me on the shoulder and when I looked at her and the baklava, she would wag her finger in my face as if to say, 'Don't touch!' And every time she left, I always took a piece for myself to eat when no one was looking. That was the one thing that made washing dishes somewhat bearable: amazing baklava. I'd shove the entire piece in my mouth and enjoy it while I blasted dried tzatziki off dinner plates.

  A few days after my hand healed up, I was back at Demitri's, a rubber glove covering my wounded hand, washing dishes, bussing tables, and cleaning the bathroom. As I said, it didn't take me long to realize just how messy people were when eating out in a restaurant. I found all kinds of disgusting things, food smashed on the walls and under the tables, boogers and gum stuck under everything, tampons and wads of paper towels jammed in the toilet, urine in the bathroom sinks, turds smeared on the bathroom walls, and more too disgusting to talk about. It was a goddamn nightmare, if I say so myself. Demitri took it all in stride though.

  "As long as they're paying me for their meals, I look the other way for everything else--mostly," he would say to me.

  "What would make you not look away?" I asked one time.

  "Well, maybe murder..." Then he laughed so hard that I knew even murder could be overlooked for a price. "Now, go bus table seven. They just left."

  Table seven was occupied by a young family, a man, his wife, and a little baby; the man and the woman not much older than 18, the little baby a demon spawn. The parents looked like they had survived a horrific event, their hair matted down, their clothes in tatters, their eyes weary and their shoulders slumped. As they ate quietly, their baby destroyed everything it could get its little paws on, the salt and pepper shakers dismantled and emptied, napkins wadded and torn, sugar packets ripped and tossed, straws bent and jammed into crevices, food smashed on the table, and water flung on the floor. When they were done eating, they scooped up their baby and quietly left. Demitri laughed at me as I stood over their disastrous remains, table seven turned into a miniature representation of the city dump. It took me a good twenty minutes just to pick up the food and trash and another ten minutes wiping and cleaning the chairs, table, walls, and floor. The only thing worth salvaging was part of the San Antonio Express-News--the other city paper--and the only section that wasn't drenched in tzatziki sauce and olive oil: the classifieds. I folded it and placed it under my arm for safekeeping.

  When my shift was over, it was late in the evening and my mother wouldn't be coming to pick me up for about an hour so I ordered my free meal and sat at a small two-top by myself. I had fallen in love with their gyro sandwich and fries and looked forward to eating my free sandwich almost as much as receiving my paycheck. As I ate, I read through the classified section from the newspaper I saved from table seven. With a ball point pen, I marked each Mazda RX-7 that looked interesting or promising even though I had absolutely no way of buying it. But to me, it was like keeping my dream alive, my dream of owning that car, when I looked in the classifieds. Demitri watched me from the kitchen and eventually came over to my table. He cocked his head to the side and tried to make out what I was doing. He read some of the listings out loud.

  "1979 Mazda RX-7, red/black int, 5 spd, factory sunroof, clean, fun sports car to drive, cold A/C," he said, slowly and deliberately. "You looking to buy a car?"

  "Yes."

  "And you want one of those little sports cars?"

  "Yeah."

  "So you can get special lady in it?" he said, snickering. He slapped my shoulder pretty hard.

  "Maybe," I said, rubbing my shoulder.

  "Is that why you wanted to work here, to save money for a little sports car?"

  "Yes."

  "You know, it really doesn't matter what kind of car you have as long as you have a car that runs with an air conditioner that works. That's all you need."

  "But I like this car."

  "Sure. It's nice. When I go out on dates, I take the delivery truck, the one out front."

  "You pick up dates in the delivery truck?" I said, horrified.

  "Yes, the delivery truck. It has cold A/C and a cassette deck. Super nice!"

  I didn't know what to say because it was so weird to me but I smiled anyway, a forced smile like when an old lady calls you hot or good-lookin' or something. Demitri was very impressed with himself.

  "You have a driver license, kid?" he said.

  "Yes," I said. I lied.

  "Good, I may need you to deliver food some time, just so you know. You can drive stick shift?"

  "Yes," I said. I lied again.

  "Good. I'll let you know. Good luck finding a sports car," he said, then walked behind the counter. "I have to dump some frying oil out back. I'm leaving right after so I guess I'll say goodbye to you. Good night, jerk face!"

  He laughed really hard then disappeared to the back.

>   ***

  After I worked at Demitri's for a few weeks, my parents began to drop me off in quicker, more hurried fashions. At first, they parked right in front of the restaurant in a parking space, hugged me, told me they'd see me after my shift, and waited for me to go inside. Then they stopped parking in a space and just pulled up front to let me out, no more hug. Then they stopped at the entrance of the parking lot to let me out of the car and quickly turned around to exit the lot. It got so hurried that they were slowing down to a crawl and practically shoving me out of the car. Although I appreciated them taking me to work since it was six or seven miles from our house, I couldn't help but feel like I was a burden to them in some way. Asking me to get out of the car at the side of a busy street was a pretty good hint that they were trying to get back home as soon as possible, without concern if I made it inside of my work or not. One evening, after getting out of my father's pickup truck and watching him tear off, I decided to checkout some of the other stores in the strip mall. Demitri's was at the far end of the mall so I made my way under the overhang and perused the front of each shop, looking in the windows, checking out what and who were inside. There was a jewelry store, a nail salon, and insurance salesman--all the standard strip mall crap.

  One of the stores was a dancing apparel store called Capezio. They sold clothes for tap dancers and ballerinas and shit like that. As I walked in front of the store window, I saw a girl inside that I knew, a pretty girl from school, a really beautiful thing. Her name was Kirsty and she was in my math class. She was also on the dance squad at school and apparently into tap dancing since she was looking at some tap shoes. All I can say was that every time I looked at her, she crushed me, just swathed my heart with ooey, gooey, teenage emotional lustiness. Her smile was like a million stars twinkling in the night sky and my heart was the moon. I knew her well enough and had spoken to her a half dozen times so that when she saw me, she waved and motioned for me to wait where I was, to not move. I froze in place, nervous. She burst out of the store, her arms open wide, and hugged me. She smelled like strawberries and cream and laundry detergent, a delicious combination.

  "Sam! What are you doing here?"

  "I'm walking to work."

  "You work at Capezio?" she said, puzzled.

  "Oh, no no. I work at Demitri's," I said, pointing to the restaurant. "Over there. I bus tables, wash dishes, and things like that."

  "Oh! That's cool. You saving for college?"

  "No, a car."

  "Cool!" She placed her hands behind her back and twisted one foot nervously around on the cement sidewalk, then her mother rapped on the window, waving at her to go back inside. Her mother's hand-waving embarrassed her. "Oh God! She's so annoying," she said, rolling her eyes.

  "Yeah," I said.

  "Well, when you buy your car, will you take me for a ride?"

  "Yeah," I said, turning red in the face.

  "Great! See ya, Sam!"

  She went back into Capezio and I walked to Demitri's so I could start my shift. The ooey, gooey, teenage emotional lustiness returned and put a skip in my step. When I got to the front door, Demitri was sweeping off the walkway outside the restaurant. He had a big grin on his face.

  "Pretty, pretty girl," he said, sweeping in a way that looked like he was mimicking a waltz, like Mickey Mouse in that movie where the broom sticks came alive and danced around.

  "Yeah," I said.

  "You take her on a date?"

  "Not yet."

  "I'll let you borrow the delivery truck for your date if you need a car."

  I almost told him by accident that I didn't have a driver license but I stopped myself from talking. I went inside and started bussing tables instead.

  ***

  Later that night, the restaurant was busy as hell. We were packed, every table was full, and there was a line out the door waiting to order. It was nuts. I had been bussing tables and washing dishes pretty much nonstop for a few hours straight and it didn't seem to be letting up. The kitchen was going bonkers, cooking everything on the menu. Demitri seemed to relish it, the unexpected influx of paying customers. He wasn't very good at predicting when this type of rush was going to happen but when it did, he loved it. He ran around like a madman, cooking, taking orders, cleaning, restocking, everything. He was a one-man show which wasn't good for the rest of us working for him. When he saw a cook wasn't cooking fast enough, he would shove him aside and take over. When he saw that other tables were dirty while I was bussing, he would take the bus tub out of my hands and bus tables. He was crazy. Now that I'm older, I get what he was doing; he wanted to succeed. But back then, I thought he was just crazy.

  At one point in the evening--and I don't even remember when--I was in the back washing dishes and Demitri came rushing back there, his eyes open wide with panic, the calligraphy of veins in the whites of his eyes flaring brightly, and he screamed at me.

  "Sam! Sam! I need you to deliver some food! Come up front now!"

  Panic immediately set in. I did NOT know how to drive. I didn't even have a driver license. I didn't know what to do but I went up front anyway. I didn't want to get yelled at by my diminutive, freaked-out boss. Demitri shoved some plastic to-go containers in paper sacks, shuffling receipts, writing things down. He looked at me, frantic.

  "I have five orders I need you to deliver, most of them to the neighborhood right behind this mall. I'll load the truck but you got to go. OK?!" I nodded. "Come on! And don't worry," he barked to the waiting customers. "We have plenty of delicious Greek food for all of you!"

  He handed a bag to me and grabbed the other four bags, all cinched at the top. We weaved through the customers waiting to order and went out the front door, Demitri's arms flailing, the to-go bags swinging wildly. He opened the passenger door of the truck and tossed them in, grabbed my bag and tossed it in too. He handed me the keys and a piece of paper, a serious, grave look on his face.

  "Can you drive stick-shift?" he said, looking me straight in the eyes.

  "Yes," I said. I lied.

  "Good. Reverse is to the right and down. Got it?"

  "Yes," I said. I didn't understand what that meant.

  "Four of the deliveries are right back there, behind the trees." He pointed to a row of trees behind the mall. "The last one is farther up Castle Hills." He handed me the keys to the truck. "Go!"

  He ran back inside the busy restaurant. I opened the driver side door and got in the truck. The seat seemed low and narrow and the stick shift was a long stick that protruded up from the floor board with a replica of the Parthenon as the shift knob. There wasn't even a shifting pattern on the top of the Parthenon, only its ancient visage molded in plastic. And just as he claimed, there was a super nice cassette deck and knobs for A/C on the dash, a pretty nice setup. I didn't know what to do so I sat there for a moment, wondering if my lies had gotten me in a tough spot. Pretty soon, I saw Demitri's red face in the window of the restaurant, glaring at me. In a matter of seconds, he was back outside standing next to the truck. I rolled down the window with the manual turning crank.

  "What's the problem?!" he said.

  "I don't know how--"

  "The clutch needs to be in all the way to start it," he said, pointing to my left foot. "I forgot to tell you that. Push the clutch." I pushed it to the floor with my foot. "Now crank it!" I put the key in the ignition and turned it. The truck started. "Now go!" he said, running back inside the restaurant.

  The truck was parked in such a way that I could ease forward if I turned the wheel to the left. I didn't have to back out of a spot, thank goodness. First, I pressed on the gas and the engine revved wildly so I let off the gas. Then I slowly eased up on the clutch and I felt the truck want to go. I pushed the clutch back in and took a huge, deep breath. Knowing what I know now about driving a stick-shift, the truck must have already been in first gear because during the next hour, I never ever moved the stick-shifter. I didn't even think about it. I just kept both hands on the wheel, slowly eased o
ff the clutch, and pressed on the gas pedal when I needed to. The truck eased forward and I slowly drove the truck toward the exit at the back of the parking lot. When I felt I needed to brake the truck, I slammed the brake pedal with my right foot, screeching the truck to an abrupt stop. Since the clutch was out, the car would die, choking back to sleep. I repeated as Demitri commanded, putting the clutch in then cranking the ignition and it would start again. Like a mortally wounded tortoise, the truck eased forward slowly then lurched again to a complete stop. It was frustrating and totally embarrassing but I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't going back to tell Demitri I lied to him about knowing how to drive stick-shift.

  Little did the truck know that for the next hour it would be put through a torturous, grueling workout of its transmission that it had never, ever experienced before in its trusty life. A delivery journey that should have taken ten to fifteen minutes at the most took over an hour. A noxious fume of burnt lubricant and oil wafted into the truck and singed my nose hairs while a plume of grey smoke surrounded the poor truck as it started and stopped. My neck ached from all the whipping around it had to endure, slight whiplash. My poor excuse for driving must have been a strange sight in the quiet neighborhood.

  When I reached the first house, the driver-side front tire lurched over the curb onto the lawn while I tried to park. The truck belched itself to sleep. I grabbed their bags of delivery food and ran to the door, knocking furiously. A pudgy, old man dressed in a loose bathrobe--can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in one hand, a Pall Mall cigarette in the other hand, his thin, white hair sticking up like a cockatiel crest--opened the door. He looked over my shoulder quizzically at the horrid parking job on display in his front lawn.