We weaved our way through the dining room, fielding odd looks from the other servers and bussers, walking in a way that emoted heavy guilt, as if to express that we knew we were busted, even though we had no idea what Dan the G.M. wanted. It was just more fun that way.
Inside Dan's office, it was sadder than ever. The stacks of papers and three-ring binders surrounding the office were higher than our last visit and we could feel his desperation, heavy in the air like a dense fog crawling over Town Lake on a humid, May morning. His arms propped up on the desk, he held his head in his hands, his face buried deeply into his palms. It was a sad sight, a grown man decaying in front of our eyes, his manhood wilting feverishly. Our footsteps activated the loose boards in the floor, the sound startling Dan to attention. He motioned for us to sit and we did. The view of the dumpster in the back alley on one of the security monitors mesmerized me; I was entranced and feared that I may have been seen out there, doing the deed.
"Good morning, boys. I'm assigning you to delivery duty again. You two all right with that?" Me and Alfonso perked up and sat up in our seats a bit. "I'll take that as a yes. Levonne will have your delivery ready for you in ten minutes along with the directions but I'm sure you'll find it again. It's the same address as last time." Alfonso laid his hand in front of me and gave me some skin, me then turning my palm upright so Alfonso could slide me some skin too. "Will you two get going, please?!"
"Yes, sir," we said simultaneously, leaving the sad office.
Weaving back through the dining room, we passed that mooch Warren as well as the other mooch Paul and that bastard Fred, toward the kitchen and our escape. I caught the eye of Laura Ann who was wiping down her tables and placing rolls of silverware on the clean table tops. She mouthed the sentence, "Where are you going?" I winked at her then disappeared into the kitchen with Alfonso.
***
The cabin of my beat-up Civic was filled with cigarette smoke as the grimy beat of Masta Ace's Born to Roll rattled the small speakers of the stock stereo system. We loved to blast our favorite tunes while driving around in my hoopty-mobile, the loud music camouflaging the sad sound of the engine wheezing and misfiring, its imminent demise just months away. Any signs of sadness or uneasiness on my part were gone, out the window along with the yellowish gray cigarette smoke, and replaced by gangsta, macking, karaoke rapping. We both knew all of the lyrics to this particular bad ass, hip hop classic. During the refrain, I said loudly, "It's the same house, right?"
Alfonso gave me a thumbs-up. Soon, my dusty Civic crossed over the South First Street bridge, over Town lake, passed the joggers, and past our apartment complex. Alfonso pointed at the complex and said, "What do you think Mr. Whiskers is doing?"
"Who knows. Licking his butt, probably."
"That doesn't sound good at all."
"It doesn't, does it?"
It was a hot day and the hot air rolled into the car windows with the heft of ocean waves, humid and dense, pushing things around on the seats and on the floor. Not far down the road, I turned right into Sarah's hood, slowed down to a crawl, turned the rap music off, rolled down my window all the way, and watched for kids or pets in the street. I rubbed my eyes and looked around and couldn't help but feel I had experienced this exact routine before, which of course I did, but marveled at my déjà vu nonetheless. Alfonso tossed his used up cigarette out the window and sat up.
"What do you think you'll be doing in ten years?" he said, running his fingers through his hair, trying to give it some shape, something other than a windblown mess.
"Shit, I don't know. I don't know what I'll be doing tomorrow."
"True. True. But do you ever think about what you'll be doing after our illustrious careers as servers are over?"
"Sometimes, I think what it would be like to make a living as a writer?"
"A writer?!" Alfonso slapped his knee and his head flew back into the headrest, a thunderous guffaw then belly laughter erupted from deep inside him. He could barely contain himself. "Why, I've never seen you write anything but someone's order on a notepad and even with that, you have shitty handwriting. Almost as shitty as Levonne's handwriting, I would say."
I found a place to park and pulled my hoopty over, parallel parked liked champ, turned the engine off, and turned to my friend. I was pretty annoyed.
"I studied literature in college."
"So? I studied political science in college but I'm not going to be President."
"Why not?"
"Cause that's a pipe dream for a Mexican, that's why."
"Well, I do think of a career as a writer. I hope to do that someday," I said. I leaned over and pulled a handle on the floor under my seat, releasing the trunk lid.
"I have some advice for you then?"
"What's that?"
"You have to actually write something to be a writer."
"Fuck off! I'll get around to it."
We opened our doors and got out. Sarah's house was just a few doors down and the neighborhood street was filled with playing children and barking dogs and bouncing balls. We gathered our delivery from the trunk--several bags of food cinched at the top, quite a bit more food than our previous delivery--and walked towards Sarah's house. There was a joyous bounce to our walk, almost like a skip, and we knew it. Without realizing it until we looked at each other, we were looking forward to seeing Sarah again and hopefully spending a little time in her company, even if it meant just sharing a smoke, or two, with more rum, hopefully. Reaching her house, we crossed the immaculate lawn, pushing and shoving each other with our elbows for the lead, and leapt for the front door. I pushed the "One Love" doorbell first then smirked at Alfonso.
"I won, bitch," I said.
"You're the bitch," he said, bitterly.
"Whatever."
"You didn't ask me what I would be doing in ten years?"
I turned to my friend and said, "I know what you'll be doing in ten years: P.W. assistant manager."
"Fuck you, bitch!"
The door opened, Sarah standing there with her pearly white smile and wearing a brightly colored dress. We weren't expecting that so quickly. We attempted to gather ourselves in a more professional fashion.
"Who are you calling a bitch? I hope not me," she said, giggling at the notion of us calling her that.
"Oh, so, so sorry, ma'am," Alfonso said, embarrassed. "We were--"
"And don't call me ma'am. My name is Sarah and I'd prefer to be called that, especially by you two boys. I thought we were friends?"
"Yes, Sarah, we are. We have your delivery for you. Can we come in?" I said.
"Of course, come in," she said, opening the door wider, motioning for us to come in the house. "You know I requested you for the delivery, don't you?"
Me and Alfonso stepped in the cool house, carefully maneuvering around Sarah so she could close the door. She greeted us with a warm, gentle hug. We blushed, a bit.
"Our G.M. didn't tell us that. He just sent us on the delivery," I said.
"Yeah, he never tells us anything important," Alfonso said.
"Well, quit standing around. I have someone I want you two to meet. Come in the kitchen." Sarah pushed the two of us toward the kitchen then she led the way. We followed her, stepping in tune to a reggae song playing softly from some small speakers on a window sill. "Are you boys hungry?"
***
Me and Alfonso entered the breakfast area off the kitchen and saw a man we had never seen before sitting at the table. A bottle of rum sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by small glasses. The man's glass was full of rum. Sarah patted us on our backs and motioned for us to sit down.
"Boys, this is Arthur Singleton, one of my neighbors, a kind man with a generous heart and a pleasant smile."
Arthur extended his hand to us and we took turns shaking it. Even though Arthur was older than us, he still had a grip to his handshake that was as firm as a vice on a steel rod.
"Nice to make your acquaintance," Arthur said.
&nbs
p; We nodded then rubbed our crushed hands. Arthur chuckled a bit before taking a swig from his glass. He was stout like a bull dog, his wrinkled, thick neck protruding out of the tight neck hole of his Hawaiian shirt like an oak tree stump. He was in great shape for his age, being that he looked considerably older than Sarah by at least ten to fifteen years. Despite his age, he still had a thick head of hair, white as snow on a mountain top and cut into an angular peak at the front and a flat plateau at the crown of his head.
"Arthur lives in the house right next door. Our yards practically hold hands."
"That's the truth," he said, smiling. "I used to cut Sarah's lawn before my sciatica decided it was time for me to stop."
"Now we use a lawn service."
"Those Beaners sure know how to make our yards look like a golf course." This comment caught Alfonso off guard and Arthur noticed, assuming the color of his skin was similar to the Mexican fellows who cut his yard. "No offense, son."
"None taken," Alfonso said. "Those Beaners sure can be lazy, too, when they want to be. They're probably cousins of mine. Lazy bastards. I'll take some rum, too." He raised his glass and Sarah filled it as well as my glass and her own. Arthur was still nursing his rum.
"Sarah," Arthur said, quietly. "Do you mind telling these boys about my condition?"
"Oh... certainly. Arthur suffers from a curious cognitive condition--a by-product of his time in the military--that keeps him from filtering his thoughts sometimes before he speaks. He's not a racist or anything. He hopes you understand."
Arthur nodded his head approvingly to Sarah.
"What war were you in?" I asked, sipping my rum. The burn of the alcohol in my throat pleased me very much.
"I served during World War II. I was in the Army."
"Yes, and as a token of my appreciation, I have Arthur over for lunch as a way of saying thank you for serving our country."
"Now, Sarah, you know that's not true," Arthur said, then lowering his voice and shifting in his seat uncomfortably. "Everybody knows that I lost my entire fortune and that's why you have me over for lunch."
"Well, Arthur, my way of explaining our lunches sure sounds nicer. You know? Not so bleak and all," Sarah said. Arthur smiled then took a sip of his rum. Sarah turned to us and said, "Arthur is quite the story teller. He loves to tell his stories. They are truly amazing, actually. He's lived a very colorful life. Do you mind telling them a story, Arthur?"
"No, not at all. I do have quite an interesting story to tell. Are you boys interested?"
We looked at each other then looked at Arthur. We nodded in approval.
"How about I start serving some food while you tell it?" Sarah said, getting up from the table and walking toward the oven. "You boys are staying for lunch, right?"
"Yes," Alfonso said.
"Yes, we are," I said.
He Sounds Like a Super Hero
"In 1942, I was 17 years old when I was drafted by the Army. I was pretty big for my age so when I showed up at the recruiting office, they had big smiles on their faces. Up until that point, I had done nothing but play sports, football, baseball, wrestling, and shoveled food into my face. I was a big boy, not big like tall, but big like muscular. I was a strapping young lad as they used to say. Those Army bastards knew exactly what I was when I walked through their door. I was going to be a fighting machine: their fighting machine.
"They weighed me and measured me and while they were doing that, they kept asking me, 'How many Nazis are you gonna kill for Uncle Sam?' And I kept telling them, 'I'll kill 'em all.' They got a real kick out of that. They were some real knucklehead bastards," Arthur said.
He had a peculiar cadence to his voice when he told his story, like an actor from a 1940s movie, kind of fast and sharp and punctuated with outdated obscenities. We got a kick out of listening to him tell his story. We slowly ate our food as we listened, our eyes set straight on him, sipping rum between bites of lasagna and baked chicken parmesan. We were mesmerized. Sarah got a kick out of watching us watch Arthur. He hadn't had that much attention in years. None of his family came to visit him anymore; Sarah's family didn't visit her either.
"All I had on me was $3 that my dad gave me, a photo of my girlfriend Maggie, and a Bible my grandma gave me. That's it. They threw me on a bus and the next thing I knew, I was on a plane to Fort Bragg to train to be a paratrooper, one of the type of soldiers that were thrown out of a big plane, ready to fight, guns a blazing from the sky. Most of the guys I was with were pretty gung ho about killing Germans. I was too, I guess. Mostly, I wanted to see the world, even if the world I was going to see was on fire. I hadn't seen much outside of Amarillo, Texas and the idea of going anywhere was exciting. I had mostly seen the world through movies on the big screen. I wanted to see the world with my own eyes.
"My short time at Fort Bragg was pretty fun to me because it was a lot like football practice, running laps and climbing on obstacles and tossing stuff around and swinging from bars and laying in the dirt. And eating the food there was a lot like the food from the high school cafeteria, all sorts of gloppy and runny and not so good at all. The only real difference from high school was that there weren't any pretty girls around, actually, there weren't any girls at all. Only men. And let me tell you, that's rough for a 17 year old strapping lad. In fact, I don't think I choked my chicken as much as I did at Fort Bragg for the rest of my life. Sorry Sarah."
Sarah smiled and nodded. "It's OK, Arthur," she said.
Arthur looked at our two friends, pointed to his head, pressing his index finger to the temple of his skull, and said, "No filter."
"No problem," Alfonso said, eating his food, sipping his rum.
"Yeah, keep going," I said.
"OK. I'll keep going. Gimme some more rum," he said, raising his glass. Sarah poured him some more. "No girls, all men, all work all the time, they got us pretty wound up. After six weeks, all us basic training knuckleheads were packed on a plane and flown to Europe to fight the big fight. They probably told us where we were going but I don't remember. All I remember was the boredom and the smell, the smell of those stinky bastards on the plane. They fed us peanut butter sandwiches, apples, and water, bottom of the barrel stuff. We couldn't see out of any windows either; all we got to look at was each other. And, boy, let me tell you: looking at other soldiers is no fun!"
We laughed. Arthur laughed a deep laugh, an amiable guffaw that could have come from the baritone gut of Johnny Cash or some such old timey country singer. He had a sweet, wrinkled disposition yet slumped over in his chair in a painful arch of worn muscles and brittle bones. He seemed pleasantly exhausted.
"You all right, Arthur?" Sarah said.
"Yes, thanks for asking. Just a little tired."
"You can finish your story another time."
"No, I can go on. Just need to catch my breath."
"OK," Sarah said, smiling.
"Once we got to where we were supposed to be, I heard rumors we were near Stalingrad but I really didn't know. They didn't say much as we got ready to jump out of the plane. The commanding officers kept telling us we'd be killing Germans soon and, boy, did we want to kill us some Germans. It was a long way from home and we were tired and lonely and hungry. Killing Germans was going to make us feel better."
"I can't imagine wanting to kill someone," I said, shifting in my seat uncomfortably.
"But this wasn't just someone, anyone. They were Nazis, our enemy. We were going to be heroes and we were looking forward to it. Then--BAM! A loud noise came from the back of the plane. They were opening the back so we could jump out. And then, before I knew it--" Without warning, Arthur keeled over in a fit of coughing and hacking, wheezing and coughing. He looked up at us for a moment, a plea for help all over his red face, then he grabbed his throat, his tongue protruding from his mouth in a way that let us know he was not good at all. Sarah patted him on the back, at first softly then more abruptly, but he quickly crumpled to the floor, sending his chair flying. Sarah screamed.
"Boys, help him!"
Me and Alfonso quickly huddled around him but we didn't know what to do, not really. We looked at each other and quickly realized that if either of us was in a life-threatening situation and we hoped that the other would help out, then we were most definitely doomed. But there wasn't time to ponder why we had never paid attention in high school health class to CPR or Heimlich maneuver techniques. We just had to act and we did. Alfonso, being the bigger of the two of us, picked him up from underneath his arms while I maneuvered his legs. We got him back in his chair and--quite miraculously, actually--he seemed OK all by himself. His breathing was easier although his face was red as all hell, his eyes bulging and bloodshot. He seemed quite relieved. He patted us on our shoulders and smiled.
"Thank you," he said, then turned to Sarah. "Can everybody help me home?"
"Can you boys help him? I'm not strong enough."
We immediately helped him to his feet, although, it was a struggle. His bull dog frame was as heavy and dense as a boulder but we got him up, one of his arms around Alfonso's shoulders, the other arm around my shoulders. We guided him out of the breakfast area and through the living room--Three Little Birds by Bob Marley was playing, which I thought was weird--then through the front door. We crossed Sarah's front lawn to Arthur's, all the way him whispering to us, "Thank you. Thank you." When we got to his front door, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys.
"I think I can take it from here," he said, opening his door.
"Nah, we'll make sure you're OK," Alfonso said and we helped him to his bedroom where we made sure he sat upright on his bed. His house was a cluttered affair, a little dustier and messier than Sarah's house, with the smell of mold and mildew in the air but in a way a fine cheddar cheese emits its unusual odor, discreetly instead of pungently. I also detected a hint of eau de moth balls as well, a scent I was all too familiar with from my own grandparents' house. The bedroom was tightly packed with old furniture and cardboard boxes and piles of clothes, some neat and some haphazard, so when Sarah made her way in to the bedroom, there wasn't a lot of empty room to move around. She made it clear that she wanted to check on Arthur and when she moved by me, I clumsily stepped back and my foot smashed an unsuspecting shoe box that lay in front of a dresser. Once I stabilized myself and I looked down at the crushed Jarman shoe box, I realized $100 bills were protruding from under the lid and some of the bills were poking out of the new cracks I made in the seams of the box. It was an unexpected sight to see, for sure. No one seemed to notice but me. I quickly pushed the box with my foot around the side of the dresser.
Boys Page 14
