"I'll make it up to you tomorrow," Paula said.
"Sure you will."
"Now, go roll some silver. Help get ready."
"OK."
Me, Alfonso, Laura Ann, and the other dipshits meandered through the dining area back to the kitchen, a monstrous space with 30 foot ceilings and stations for salad, homemade bread, silverware, plates, soda, as well as a long prep area in front of the cooking line for the expeditor, the one responsible for communicating between the servers and the cooking staff. The new arrivals scattered among the stations, a dipshit on bread, another dipshit on silver, me and Alfonso manning the soda station. We emptied the stacks of clean drinking glasses from the dishwasher racks and stacked them above the soda fountain with the enthusiasm of punk rock kids going to bible school.
"The Trolley? Really?!" I said.
"Sorry, my man," Alfonso said.
"This shift is already shot. I might as well go home."
"Maybe this is the day, the golden day. You never know. You might make some good tips."
"Yeah, right."
"You're such a sour puss."
"Fuck off."
Paula the Assistant Manager scurried into the kitchen, slightly frantic, clipboard in hand, looking around the kitchen, squinting and searching. Her eyes locked on us. She stepped up behind us, placing her hands on our shoulders, leaning in between us.
"So, can you boys work a double today?"
"What?" Alfonso said.
"Two servers quit last night and I just found out. I need you guys to cover. Will you?" I could smell her perfume. It smelled nice to me, not too strong.
"Yeah, I guess," I said, still moping.
"Tell you what. If you work doubles then I'll give you the primo sections tonight. How's that?"
Me and Alfonso looked at each other, smiling a bit, a little hope in the upturned corners of my homie's mouth. We nodded.
"Great!" she said. "I'll assign your stations now for tonight."
We watched her scurry off, her clipboard in one hand, her other hand over her belly where I knew a baby was sleeping. We shook our heads in disbelief.
"Another double?" I said.
"Another one," Alfonso said.
We continued to stack drinking glasses.
***
One of the few perks of working at Pasta Warehouse was special employee pricing for food. All employees received 50% off of the cost of food as well as unfettered access to the salad bar and homemade bread. With this in mind, a server could practically get a feast for a few dollars. For instance, a basic order of spaghetti with tomato sauce was $7.99 and it came with all-you-can-eat salad and bread. So for under $4, a server could get that dinner plate plus grab a to-go bag and plastic container and load the bag with loaves of bread and the container with a mound of salad. It was an extraordinary amount of food for a few bucks. If there were any perks at all for a server, then this was it.
Section 14 was a bust for Alfonso and the Trolley was even worse of a nightmare for me than I had even joked about. My customers were all families with extremely agitated and unruly infants and toddlers who didn't think the Trolley was as fun and exciting as their parents promised. They commenced to trash and destroy the inside of the Trolley with the determination and ferocity of feral chimpanzees in the heat of an African summer, ripping and pounding and flinging every condiment, fork, dining accessory, crayon, and placemat in every which way they could, not even the free ice cream cup could placate them. Alfonso's section, though all more decent and peaceful than the Trolley patrons, were angry as well, mostly because the restaurant was full and the food took just too long to come out. Hungry people, in general, are angry people. It's a fact.
So, tired and defeated, the only thing we were looking forward to, besides not talking to another customer that night, was the massive amount of discounted food we were going to take home with us and shove down our tired, poor faces.
SALUD!
We stood at the computer in the kitchen, the one for ordering food, placing our own food orders instead of orders for angry, unappreciative customers, giddy as we touched the screen, knowing our small reward for a shitty night was soon coming covered in some type of tomato sauce.
"Have you done all your side work?" Alfonso said.
"Most of it."
"Want to have a quick smoke?"
"Yeah."
We gathered our things, slid them in our aprons, and headed through the kitchen toward the back exit, passing the others busy with their side work, rolling silverware, collecting dirty dishes, stacking cups and trays, sweeping the floors, past Warren, an obnoxious mooch if there ever was one. Warren was considerably older than us, plumper, messier, slightly undone, and always, ALWAYS, out of cigarettes or ball-point pens. He noticed where we were going.
"Hey, HEY! You guys going for a smoke?" Warren said, abandoning his side work.
We nodded, sheepishly.
"Can I come too? Hey, can I bum a smoke?" he said.
Alfonso motioned for him to come along, raising his index finger to his lips, winking that he should keep quiet, and not be so goddamn obnoxious. Warren giggled quietly and followed us to the back.
Outside behind the restaurant, an empty alley stretched along the length of the back of the building, and we sat on the edge of a walkway that perched four feet or so above the ground, a landing area for deliveries coming and going or garbage hauling or temporary storage or whatever. A large, stinky dumpster sat toward one end of the alley, Paula's parked car sat toward the other end, and not much else sat in between. Alfonso stuck three cigarettes in his mouth, unhinged a clinky, brass Zippo with a flick of his wrist and a snap of his fingers, and lit them all at once, like a nicotine-crazed ninja. He handed one smoke to me and the other to the obnoxious mooch.
"Thanks," Warren said. "I owe you."
"You owe me dozens," Alfonso said, annoyed.
"I know, I know. How did you guys do?"
"Horrid," I said.
"I'm worried we won't make rent," Alfonso said.
"Ah, man," Warren said, a shit-eating grin sliding across his face. "I made a hundy. Not bad for a couple hours of work."
We peered at him, super annoyed, ribbons of smoke curling and twisting around our heavy heads, disbelief sinking our stomachs. We just couldn't believe it.
"You owe my 25 cents for that smoke, then," Alfonso said, holding out his hand, squinting his eyes, forceful. "I barely made $20 and here you are mooching my smokes."
"All right, all right." Warren handed him a quarter. "Didn't mean to gloat. Just saying. I got lucky. Had a couple of nice tables, gave me big, fat tips. Don't know what else to tell ya. I usually get stuck with the section for the geezers, old and stinky geezers who are cheap and demanding and deaf. That's what I usually get. You know what I mean?"
"I like old folks, you asshole," Alfonso said.
"Yeah. Do you talk about your grandma like that?" I said, playfully shoving Warren.
"My grandma's dead," Warren said, inhaling the last of his smoke then flicking the butt across the alley, its cherry shattering into a million sparks, falling to the ground like orange falling stars. "And yeah, she was cheap, demanding, and deaf." He jumped up and disappeared back inside the restaurant.
We sat there quietly for a minute, inhaling our smoke, exhaling the stress from our souls, enjoying the silence around us, and the city noises muffled in the distance.
"I miss my grandma," Alfonso said.
"Yeah," I said.
"Mi abuela sure could cook. Her menudo was the shit!"
"I bet."
A loud bang interrupted our serene moment, the metal back door of the building swinging fast and hard into the brick wall, wobbling and shaking on its hinges, a squeaky plastic cart bouncing over the threshold, pushed by one of the cooks. We looked back, caught off guard by the loud noise, eyes-wide like owls staring at the moon, and watched as Levonne--a hefty black man that seemed almost as wide as he was tall, a neck as robust as a ham, ar
ms like tree trunks, his nappy afro making the hair net bulge in weird places--pushed the plastic cart out the door and passed them, not saying a word. The cart was stacked tall with aluminum trays that looked very similar to the trays used for lasagna, chicken parmigiana, meatballs in marinara, raviolis, and the rest of pasta entrees served to the restaurant patrons, a dozen trays at least, wobbling uncontrollably as he shoved the cart toward the end of the walkway where the dumpster sat, its top open like a hippo sitting in a zoo pool with his mouth wide, waiting for food pellets from children. He parked the plastic cart as close as he could to the edge of the walkway, right next to the dumpster, and tossed the steaming aluminum trays into the trash, one by one, unapologetically, forcefully, quickly. When the last one hit the inside of the dumpster--the sounds echoing through the alley, grackles flying toward the stars or roofs of other buildings--Levonne wiped his hands on his apron and pushed the plastic cart back toward them. He skipped a little as he walked, a little joy in his step that we never saw in his face while he worked. It was strange to see.
"Your food is up," he said. "Get it quick cause the kitchen is closed. I'm going home."
We jumped up and followed him back in. We would be going home soon too.
Tears in Beers and Shit like That
I slid the key into the dead bolt of the door to my apartment, turned the door knob, and in we went, to-go containers from the P.W. in our hands, smiles on our faces when we saw Mr. Whiskers waiting for us by the door. He always waited for me by the door. He was a good cat.
"Hey buddy!" said I, leaning down to scratch his head. He purred loudly. "I bet you're hungry."
I turned the lights on and we made our way to the coffee table, setting our food on it, plopping on the floor, our dining area. Alfonso noticed a gang of slaughtered roaches on the floor next to the couch, still twitching, almost dead, flopping on the carpet. Mr. Whiskers pounced on them, jabbed at them for the last time, then promptly ignored them. He lost interest for some reason.
This was a typical haul for Mr. Whiskers. When he was on the prowl, he liked to crouch low to the floor, digging his claws into the carpet, his tail slithering side-to-side like a snake easing through a forest, his eyes narrowing into focus, his whiskers spreading out, stiff, quivering, waiting for bugs. The roaches made their way from the sliding patio door to under my couch and my dutiful cat would watch them, the bugs tip-toeing around dust bunnies and cigarette lighters and waded up hamburger wrappers and sticky bent straws. My apartment complex was surrounded by oak and cedar trees, straddling creek beds that fed Town Lake a couple of blocks away, making fertile ground for bugs and rats and mice and snakes. To say my complex was infested with vermin was almost a stretch (almost) but it was not unusual for roaches to make their way daily under the sliding door from the rotting wooden deck behind my apartment, and that was where Mr. Whiskers would lay, crouched on the hearth of the fireplace next to the back door, his eyes aimed at the bottom of the door where the sliding rails were, looking for tasty bugs, waiting to pounce on them and rip their legs off. He was an effective insect exterminator. The roaches under the couch attempted to make it to the kitchen like starving idiots. Mr. Whiskers wound up his hind legs, sprang into action, jabbing his front right leg under the couch, and pulled the roaches out, his claws ripping the roaches open in one swift motion. As the roaches flip-flopped on the carpet, Mr. Whiskers licked himself clean, setting his paw on the roaches whenever they bounced around too erratically, keeping them in check until their demise. He would leave the bugs to die, alone, in the middle of the living room--or actually, Alfonso's temporary bedroom--as a symbol of his love to me and my new roommate. Fucking gross.
"Looks like Mr. Whiskers was going to have a snack," Alfonso said, opening his container of food, a large pile of lasagna inside still steaming.
"Yeah, we were gone a long time today. Good thing I brought you some food, little buddy," I said, pulling a wad of aluminum foil from my container, unwrapping it, then setting it on the carpet. Some chunks of baked fish were in it and my cat devoured his dinner as quickly as he could. I pet him as he ate. "Good work with the bugs, too. Keep it up!"
"He could at least finish the job he started. One roach is still moving."
Mr. Whiskers walked away, leaving the room, the bugs, and us behind. Me and Alfonso enjoyed our warm food--the only food in the whole place, our only meal of the entire day--after another long day and very little money to show for it, a routine we were both getting tired of. Alfonso folded his empty apron, wrapping the string-tie around it, and set it on the coffee table. Outside, the sound of click-clacking began to echo in our cranny called a patio, large drops of rain hitting the wood planks of the deck, at first a few at a time, then quickly a torrential down pour, loud like pebble stones falling from the sky, bouncing off the wood and crashing into the glass sliding door. Then thunder crashed loudly, shaking the floor, car alarm sirens erupting from the parking lot, dogs barking. I leaned back against the couch (a black, orange, and green-striped pull-out couch I bought for $150 at a second-hand store a few months before), pulling a box of cigarettes from my pants pocket, lighting a smoke with Alfonso's brass Zippo lighter, sucking the cigarette to life, blowing a huge plume of smoke into the living room air. Alfonso leaned back from his food and repeated the same ritual. We sat together, in our silence, except for the sound of the rain hitting the deck, the rhythmic pummeling, menacing and soothing at the same time.
"Would you have a problem if I stayed here for a little while longer?" Alfonso said, hesitantly.
"Stay as long as you need," I said, enjoying my cigarette.
"Are you sure? You keep saying that but I feel bad about it."
"You shouldn't. Shit happens."
"True. True." He sucked on his cigarette and exhaled slowly, like an ancient dragon getting ready to slumber after a long day of torching villages.
"When do you want to go to San Marcos and get some of your things?" I said.
San Marcos was where Alfonso went to school, at Southwest Texas State University--which used to be called Southwest Texas State Teachers College a long time ago--the alma mater of Lyndon Baines Johnson, the 36th President of the United States. Johnson famously bragged that he was kicked out of Southwest Texas State and Alfonso sometimes inferred the same fate happened to him, although the truth was much tamer. He just didn't have the money to finish college; it was that simple. His parents wouldn't help him pay for school and, for whatever reason, he couldn't get a school loan. That shit happens too. He was stranded in an apartment he couldn't pay for in a town with not many jobs, which led him to Austin and the P.W.
"Hmmm. Maybe next Monday or Tuesday. That's when we're off next, right?"
"I think so. Sounds good."
"I'll pay for gas."
"OK," I said, pleased at the offer from him to pay for gas, a precious and scarce commodity in my life.
"I wish I knew what was wrong with my car."
"Yeah."
"It's been a good car for so long. Weird that it won't start."
"We could work on it instead of going to San Marcos," I said, taking a drag from my cigarette.
"No, I really need some of my stuff from my apartment. My lease will be up soon and if I don't go get some things, they'll padlock the door and toss my stuff."
"Shit."
"Yeah, fucking bullshit."
"When is your lease up?"
"The end of the month," he said, running his fingers across his tired scalp, the weariness in his bones showing. "You go off to college, you get a decent place and some help from your folks, then they get tired of helping you and set you free, then the shit hits the fan. I never thought I'd be in this spot, broke, no money for rent, one semester away from graduating. It sucks."
"Yeah." He was speaking the truth. Preach, brother.
"And I'm up to my eyeballs in debt and shit. I don't know what I'm going to do. I can't get a decent job without a degree but I can't graduate without a place to stay so I got t
his stupid job at P.W. to help pay the rent but I can't pay the rent because I'm not making shit. And now I'm stranded here in Austin cause my car won't start."
"Sounds like a country song!"
We both burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all, our miserable circumstance, our life rolling along in a clichéd fashion, just like a honky-tonk sing-a-long, tears in beers and shit like that.
"Yeah, it does," Alfonso said. "My life is like a goddamn country song. Great. That was not what I was aspiring to do."
"I was lucky my folks paid for my college so I don't have any student loans but I couldn't get a decent job after I graduated. All I found were minimum-wage office jobs. I had a hard time paying rent on minimum-wage. I thought waiting tables might be a better gig," I said, sitting back against the couch, smoking some more.
"Boy, were you wrong!"
We laughed some more, smoked some more, ate some more, played with the cat some more, and forgot about our shitty life some more, at least for a few minutes.
"Some days, I make good money," I said.
"Most days, I don't," Alfonso said. "I miss being at home sometimes."
"No worries when you're a kid, right? No bills, no responsibilities, no laundry."
"When I was a senior in high school, I couldn't wait to move away from home. I was itching to go! As soon as I could go, I went." He thrust his hand into the air like a jet plane taking off into the sky. "But now that I've been away for a few years, I miss home. I miss my mom, my family, my home. I never thought I'd say that."
"Yeah."
"I miss my mom's cooking, my abuela's cooking too. Now that the holidays are coming up, I'm sure I'll be thinking about it more, missing home more."
"Yeah, this is my first time being away from home during the holidays. I have to work every day except Christmas and I'm not even sure I'll have the time to go home on Christmas Day either."
Boys Page 7
