The Worst Busboy

I worked as a busboy at Luigi’s Cafe on Clover Street for two weeks when I was nineteen. I was terrible, the worst busboy they had ever seen. I know this because they told me so on my third day of work. The tablecloths were never straight after I made a table. I soon became convinced that there was some trick to it that I was missing and I watched the other busboys carefully to see if they were doing anything different. They weren't, or at least they weren’t doing anything that I could see. They would pick up the tablecloth, shake it out, lay it over the table, and start setting up the silverware. I did the same, but no matter how carefully I laid it out, my manager always told me it was crooked. And she was right.

I thought about my job all the time. I would see those tables spread out in front of me while I was lying in bed. I would move my hands up and down like I was taking one of the clean tablecloths from the big canvas bag in the storeroom and I would see myself laying it flat on the table. I would arrange it perfectly in my head, with all the plates, glasses, and silverware laid out for the next customer.

I came in late every day the last week I worked at Luigi’s. The first time nobody said anything, but the following day I barely made it in before we opened for dinner and one of the other busboys had to fill all the breadbaskets by himself. I told the manager that my cat had been hit by a car and that I wouldn't be late again. I spent the rest of the night thinking about my cat, wishing I was home watching him chase his little red ball around the living room instead of setting up the tables with crooked tablecloths and misplaced silverware.

On my last night, I made it to the restaurant right on time. The shades were still down on all the windows and the "Closed" sign was hanging on the front door. I walked around back to the employee entrance and looked at the door, wondering how long I could stand there before someone noticed me. I looked down at my watch and waited for two full minutes, counting the seconds as they ticked away one by one. Then I turned around and walked back down the street. I thought about taking off my apron as I turned the corner, but I decided to just leave it on since I would be coming right back. I turned another corner and kept going, looking around at a street I had never seen before. I kept walking.

Eventually my feet got tired and I decided to head back to my car. I was a little worried that I was lost, as I have always had a terrible sense of direction and I hadn’t been very careful about keeping track of all the street names as I wandered through the neighborhood. I felt a tiny hint of disappointment when I started recognizing cars and houses that I had seen as I walked away from Luigi’s, and finally I found myself back on Clover Street a couple of blocks down from where I started.

I had to pass by Luigi’s to get to the parking lot where I had left my car. It was dark by the time I got back and the restaurant was all lit up. The warm, yellow light reflecting off the hardwood floors, the sound of clanging silverware and the customers’ voices, and the smell of the roasted meats from the open kitchen all drifted out over the street where I was standing. Of course my manager was furious when she spotted me out the window. She ran to the front door and started yelling, the giant mole on her left cheek bobbing up and down every time she opened her mouth. She told me that I was an irresponsible young man and that I was the worst busboy she had ever seen.

“You told me that already,” I said as I handed her my apron. “You told me on the third day I worked here.”