The Bus Boy by Nancy Ellen Dodd

The Writer’s Compass: From Story Map to Finished Draft in 7 Stages By Nancy Ellen Dodd Published by Writer’s Digest, June 2011 ISBN-10: 1599631970 ISBN-13: 978-1599631974 http://thewriterscompass.com Cover Photo by: Neil Gould

Photo By: Scott D. Deardorff

llie rubbed the table vigorously. He had prepared just the right portion of cleaning solution with water to disinfect the surface without leaving a residue on the Formica top or burning his gnarled hands. His silver hair bounced as he rubbed. He examined his work from different angles, the gleam from the sun reflecting across Long Beach Harbor and filtering through Bixby Park into the cafe illuminating any spots he missed. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x;t that the table was clean as much as that something finally mattered to him. He swiped the booth and held out his hand to catch stray crumbs. Satisfied, he lifted the gray tub, the muscles in his back pulling from the strain, his knees aching as he shifted his weight. Moving to the next table, he quickly dumped the liquids into the tub and stacked the dishes, the smell of egg yolk, bacon, fried potatoes and coffee wafting up. It was 12:45, the first wave of lunch crowd was leaving, dishes needed to be cleared, tables cleaned for the waiters to seat the second wave already thronging through the front door. With a full tray he rushed to the kitchen to scrape the leftovers into the trash and set the dishes in position for Fred, the dishwasher, who gave him a quick smile and nod. Ollie was one of the few bus boys who took the extra seconds to do this, knowing if he stacked the plates and silverware and cups and glasses just so, Fred could work faster. It was seconds to Ollie, 3

but made the dishwasher‟s life easier, and in a cafe where every dish counted, shortened the turnaround time. Dishes were not the only thing in short supply, today waiters were as well. Last night Dollar Bob quit—they called him Dollar Bob because he was the most generous in sharing tips with the bus boys. His leaving would be a great loss, but he had an unexpected opportunity to see the world working for the Carnival cruise line that operated out of the Long Beach Harbor, although he‟d only be starting with three-to-five-day turn arounds from Long Beach to Ensenada. So, without giving any notice, he left the cafe short-handed until Ol‟ Nick could replace him. It was nearly 3:00 in the afternoon before Ollie slowed his pace. The cafe would close soon. He sectioned off his area of tables and booths and retrieved the broom and mop making sure to sweep in small swirls to keep any debris low. He used fresh water and not too much cleaning solution to keep from overpowering the restaurant with the smell of disinfectant. His shift had already ended, although he had come in early as usual and he always stayed late without marking down the extra time. Ollie had worked hard to build his reputation as a good bus boy. He tried to prove himself by being efficient, easy to get along with, always having a smile, never swearing under his breath at customers or about them after they left, never playing tricks with the salt and pepper or the drinks like some of the others did, pulling his share of the workload in spite of how his bones ached, pushing hard to keep up. He had been a bus boy for nearly two years. He remembered the date because he would have his twoyear pin in a few days and he stopped drinking two weeks before he got the job. Ol‟ Nick had given him a chance only because he was desperate and Ollie‟s sponsor, Donner, was a good customer. But Ollie worked hard to prove himself, although unsure from one day to the next whether he would wake up sober or not. He just did as they said at the meetings and took one day at a time. In the beginning it was one minute at a time. He never thought he would survive the first week of being a bus boy. Every joint, every muscle in his body ached—that never really stopped. And his feet, nothing helped until Donner took pity and bought him a good pair of working shoes with rubber soles—just in time before he abandoned sobriety to numb the pain. Ollie walked home carrying a plastic bag and wearing his brown work pants and a white T-shirt—Ol‟ Nick had a laundry service wash their white work shirts—and a fuzzless powder blue cardigan he‟d picked up at one of the Goodwill stores. Although the spring weather had warmed up, he still chilled easily from the ocean breeze rustling through the trees in the park and 2

around the apartment buildings and small storefronts. The squeals of children running through sand, swinging and sliding on the park‟s elaborate red and blue plastic playground equipment made him smile. Slowly these streets had become familiar, become home. Overhead he thought he heard sea gulls cawing, a sound he loved because it reminded him he lived within walking distance of the ocean, but when he looked he saw two large green and yellow parrots. Someone once told him that parrots weren‟t indigenous to the area, but a couple had escaped a contraband collection of birds from smugglers who tried to sneak them in through San Pedro Harbor. Without natural predators, the escaped parrots had grown into a huge flock that nested in trees along San Pedro‟s shore. Apparently the flock had expanded into Long Beach—just as he had. Ollie climbed the steps to his apartment, a one-room walk-up on the third floor over a Thai restaurant on Broadway, and set the plastic bag down on the wobbly kitchen table. The takeaway box contained a Salisbury steak left over from the daily specials. One of the perks of working hard at the cafe, he usually wound up with two of three meals a day free. Later he would heat it in the small microwave Ol‟ Nick had given him when he replaced one at the cafe. At first it seemed undignified—a man his age bussing tables like some boy working his way through school or an illegal desperate for any kind of job. Then one morning he woke up and no longer had the shakes, and the dawn breaking through the window was warm on his cheek. Instead of freezing in a dark alley, he had a bed and three changes of clothes, his blue cardigan, and a nice nylon winter jacket and two pairs of shoes, the sturdy black pair and tennis shoes—good walking shoes he wore to stroll down the bicycle path along the water and not be ashamed, even if he still kept his head down. It felt good to have a life, even a simple life, where he didn‟t have cardboard soles and a dirty jacket with torn sleeves where the padding bled out. He had acquired a few books he kept beside his twin bed on a small nicked bookcase someone had painted green. DeMille, Clancy—only Clancy got a bit too technical, and especially Custler‟s Dirk Pitt and all of Grisham. He eagerly awaited the latest Grisham hardback to appear at a price he could afford in the secondhand book store on Long Beach Blvd. He preferred used books, books that other readers had run their fingers down the lines and enjoyed or cried or laughed or swore or emotionally bled over. Books full of places he would love to see and things he once thought he might do. He was too old now, but they nourished his sense of adventure. 3

Ollie pulled aside the green plaid curtain, which served as a door, and hung his cardigan in the tiny closet. He sat on the wooden chair beside the rickety table and looked out the window, the scene below slightly distorted through the ancient drooping glass. He had come to enjoy his one room and the view over the streets where people walked and talked and carried on business, some good, some bad, some just strolling on a nice day. Joggers and dogs on leashes and mothers and baby strollers and boys with their girlfriends and hoods with their swagger, meandering or running beneath the trees along the cracked sidewalk, careful not to trip over the buckled cement. They were his people now, it was his neighborhood, and if he wanted he could put on his tennis shoes and go down and walk amongst them, and if he smiled, some smiled back. Not like before when people looked past him, pretending he didn‟t exist. But his favorite place was here, a single room with a toilet and sink and shower, and a window, which when opened, allowed an ocean breeze to cool hot days. A place where he felt safe, not taunted or kicked or fearful of being stabbed, left to bleed out in the shadows of the cold dark. A place he could just afford and still have a little left over from his paycheck and tips to buy gifts for his daughter Molly and her family. He especially liked to bring toys for Molly‟s two little grandchildren, which she often babysat for, and who were obviously the delight of her life. “Bribes for love” his son-in-law called them. Maybe he was trying to buy her love, but he wanted to do whatever it took to make up some small portion of time for all the years of neglect. On his bookcase sat two pictures, his only ones, both of Molly. A 99¢ store picture frame held a recent photo of him standing beside her at the park while her two grandchildren played in the background. In a silver frame from a secondhand store, the other photo, ancient and fragile, came out of his wallet from when she was a little girl, and he was still at home and held her and her brother on his lap. Maybe he didn‟t really have the right to be called Molly‟s father any more, but he wanted her to know he did love her and that he wanted to be worthy of her love. After all the years on the street, his life was richer than he once thought possible. What more could he ask for? He‟d once been a man full of ambition, and now, now he was satisfied—almost. He‟d been itching in his gut all day since he‟d heard the news. There was only one goal careerwise he had now—to take Dollar Bob‟s place as a waiter at the Harbor Cafe. He would be a good waiter. He had been watching the others for the past two years, analyzing their techniques, thinking about how they succeeded, how they failed, what he would do differently. Ollie pushed back the green plastic and turned the water on for his evening shower. Sometimes he stood in front of the cracked mirror in his stall of a bathroom and practiced with a pad in hand. He tried the lines with a French accent, too pretentious, with a down-home accent, too phony, with a Spanish accent, too corny. He finally settled on a polite accent in a clear, strong voice—a voice he had lost somewhere over the past forty years and which now only returned as he recited the daily specials followed by, “May I take your order?” “Ketchup or mustard?” “Would you like lemon in your tea?” “What would you like in your coffee?” “Anything else I can get for you today?” He went over all the lines until his voice had lost its gravel and rang true and strong, the way it did when he was a young actor. Diction had been important to set him ahead of his 4

peers. He had been a character actor working with all the greats: John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, Henry Fonda, Lee Marvin, Charles Bronson, so many others. He had partied with some of them, drank hard, played hard, knew the names of the women they slept with, those who did that sort of thing anyway, some of them were smarter and chose not to go off the deep-end, but too many did—lost in the glamour and glitz and pretense and fame—forgetting who they were and where they came from and what really mattered. He was never the star, but lots of steady work—always looking for that next role that would make him the lead. And even though he wasn‟t a screen face most people knew by name, he had fallen into that trap right along with them, a trusted friend who could walk a dark path and not talk about it in the morning. He stepped out of the shower and vigorously dried off with a drab olive towel, then put on his plain white boxer shorts and khakis before shaving. As he looked in the mirror, sometimes, almost like the apparition of a ghost, he would see the man he once knew—dark, bushy eyebrows now grey with sprinkles of black, deep brown eyes that once turned black in anger, now a dull amber hue, a Clark Gable mustache no longer growable due to the scar from the corner of his lip to the top of the divot under his nose, the once firm jawline now softened by sagging, leather skin. He still had that smile—the one that made him a sidekick or with a snarl made him the leading man‟s perfect adversary. It was here in front of the mirror when the apparition of his past could still be seen—a ghost reminding him of the good times and the bad. For fifteen years he had made a good living as a character actor, gotten married, had a son and a daughter. Then his father died unexpectedly, only in his fifties, only twenty years older than Ollie. There were unresolved issues between them. Staring down at his father in a casket, something shifted in Ollie and altered his focus inward. He saw his own mortality. He felt anger and he felt guilt that what needed to be said between him and his father never would be. When he returned to the movie set his director and the lead actor took him out for a drink and condolences. He got drunk that night and didn‟t go home for two days. For most of his life afterward, nothing mattered to Ollie except what served Ollie. His wife divorced him when she tired of his philandering. Later on his son died in Vietnam. Instead of bringing him closer to his daughter, it drove them further apart. She only recently began to speak to him again. She was a grandmother with her own family to worry about, not much time for a father who‟d deserted her as a child. Still, she made the effort to see him from time to time. She knitted him a burgundy and forest green afghan to match his bookcase and dress up his lumpy bed and she bought him nice plaid shirts at Christmas and invited him to holiday dinners. But holidays were busy at the cafe and he always had to work. She was friendly with him, but reserved, he had a sense she always had one hand behind her back, fingers crossed, worrying that he would slip away again and that her trust in him had once more been misplaced. That her husband was right, Ollie didn‟t deserve another chance at fatherhood, he had squandered that right. As a bus boy there would always be doubt, but as a waiter—that was a respectable job and he could prove he had turned out to be an honorable man. Now that Dollar Bob had left, this was his chance. Ollie removed his secondhand barber shears from the medicine cabinet and pulled at his wiry hair. He‟d started cutting it himself two years ago to save money. The front was okay, but 5

the back was always crooked. And the style wasn‟t really a style as much as a budget solution. If he wanted to be a waiter, he needed to look less like a schlock and more dignified. Ollie counted the money in his wallet. He had enough saved from tips, and if he hurried and took the bus, he could make it to Fantastic Cuts by Albertson‟s off 5th and Elm before it closed. 

llie woke up earlier than usual. He took extra time shaving and combing his hair, trying to replicate what the stylist had done the night before. He dressed in clean work clothes and his blue cardigan and rushed out to greet the morning. Hoping to see the parrots again as he passed the park, hoping it would be a good sign. Hoping Ol‟ Nick would see something special in him today, would see him as waiter material. It wasn‟t that he was ashamed of being a bus boy, maybe to some it was menial work, but to Ollie it had saved his life, took him off the streets and put him in a warm bed with a roof over his head and if he wanted them, three decent meals every day. He would never forget where he came from, he didn‟t want to forget, or forget that he was only one job away from there. Every chance he got he joined one of the groups who served meals to the homeless on Pacific and First behind the library, where they congregated on the grass and cement pods. He kept looking for that one man or woman whose light had not been entirely extinguished, to whom he might hold out a helping hand, just like Donner did for him. Until Donner showed him, Ollie had forgotten how good it could feel to take the focus off of self and to put it on serving someone else. Donner had died a few months back from cancer, but up to the end he had served meals to the homeless and looked for that one soul he might help step back into society. Ollie tried to take Donner‟s place serving, patting on the back, smiling, looking people in the eye who the rest of society ignored, knowing he was still only one job from returning to their world. It gave him chills to think that his home was just a dozen city blocks from that dark corner. Being a waiter, sure it would mean more money, but it was so much more, it meant that he had arrived, truly left behind the dark days. That he had completely transformed his life. That he had earned a new level of respectability. He was the oldest bus boy, he had been there the longest, was the most reliable, the hardest working, surely Ol‟ Nick would reward him with this—wouldn‟t he? Maybe the idea wouldn‟t occur to Ol‟ Nick. Maybe Ol‟ Nick would automatically think to advertise for someone outside the cafe with experience. He would have to work up his courage and ask for the chance, just give him a few days to prove himself—if it didn‟t work out, Ollie bit his lip, he would be willing to step down to bussing tables again. Ollie spent the morning especially industrious. He changed his apron twice in order to 6

keep himself clean and presentable, once after Fred accidentally splashed him with stale orange juice, and again when a customer spreading strawberry jelly on his toast, oblivious to the fact Ollie was behind him, turned abruptly to call for more coffee and smeared red jam across Ollie. After his break, after he thoroughly washed his hands in the men‟s room, he could see his new hair cut set him apart, made him less of just anybody and more of a somebody, the way he looked sometimes in the movies. Now he just needed the right moment. The right moment didn‟t come until mid-afternoon, near closing time. Ollie stretched his back, easing out the ache, stiffening his spine. He straightened his shoulders and sucked in his stomach, his skin pressing tight against his ribs. The afternoon break crowd had dwindled. He waited until Ol‟ Nick settled into a corner booth with a cup of coffee and a blackboard and colored chalk where he wrote out the next day‟s specials. Ollie moved toward him, but stopped when Mr. Walters appeared from nowhere and sat down at the booth across from Ol‟ Nick. Mr. Walters managed the Italian restaurant further down Broadway in Belmont Heights, which didn‟t open until 5:00 pm. Often on his way to work he would come by and have a cup of coffee with Ol‟ Nick. An expensive restaurant, the only time Ollie had eaten their food was when one of his homeless brethren shared a brimming take-out container the chef had given him through the kitchen door—it was good, but back then any food was good, and at least neither of them got the runs. He wondered now how authentic an Italian restaurant could be when the owner didn‟t have an Italian name. Stingy Evelyn waited on customers in another section and Contrary Mary was on a break. Ollie, who had just washed his hands again and just changed into a fresh apron, poured Mr. Walters a cup of coffee and knowing the way he liked it, set fresh cream in front of him. Mr. Walters looked up and smiled with his thank you. He was always polite like that. Ollie nodded, but his shoulders sagged as he moved toward a table that Ernest, another bus boy had left untouched when he went on break. The sun glinted through the window on Ernest‟s section and Ollie‟s face reddened as he noticed spots not cleanly wiped. Ernest was like that, never quite finishing a job. Ollie went to retrieve a gray tub and a cleaning rag. He stepped around the corner to go through Miguel‟s section, but stopped beside the plastic green shrubbery topping the laminated wood divider as he saw Miguel jerk a five-dollar bill off the table and stuff it in his pocket, then look around to make sure he wasn‟t seen. Ollie sucked in his breath. The other waiters had been complaining that someone had been stealing tips, but no one had pointed a finger yet, although they all suspected it was one of the bus boys lifting money that the waiters had been too busy to pick up. And because money was missing from different places, it could have been any of them while bussing tables or just walking past. Ollie had been many things in his life, but never a thief, although that was what ended his career, being accused of stealing money from one of the major stars who complained to the 7

studio head anonymously that when he woke up the next morning, after he and Ollie had been partying, his money was gone. Ollie was fired and the word spread. No one would hire him again. All of his big movie star friends deserted him. By then his wife had left him and he had taken to living with a regular hangover. It was a natural progression from jobless to homeless to alcoholic on the streets. Ollie was not guilty, even in a drunken stupor he would never steal, but the accusation hung over his head and finished off his wreck of a life. All the while Ollie knew it was either the girl the star picked up the night before, or it had been lost during a night of gambling in one of the back rooms of the bars they frequented. Now these rumors of thievery and he had caught a man in the act. He stood watching through the green plastic fronds until Miguel took his gray tub to the kitchen where he left it for Fred to unload and went out the back door to smoke. Ollie liked Miguel, he was a little lazy sometimes and usually half asleep, other times a hard worker when the pressure was on and the cafe bustling. But a man who can‟t be trusted can‟t be respected. Ollie followed Miguel, stopping to unload Miguel‟s tray. He tried to think about what he should do, about whether to confront Miguel, accuse him to his face, tell Ol‟ Nick or worse yet the waiters, or wind up his arm and punch him square in the face, take out on someone guilty the anger he still felt for being falsely accused. Or maybe he should just ask Miguel, if he was stealing, and give the boy a chance to explain himself. Ollie found Miguel sitting against the water pipe that ran along the back wooden siding of the cafe. He was flicking ashes from his cigarette, deep in thought. Ollie stared at Miguel, his eyes black with anger. “How they talk about you after you‟re gone, that tells the tale of what your life was worth.” Miguel looked at Ollie surprised, then looked down. He closed his eyes and expelled a long billow of smoke through his nose, then tamped out his cigarette. It was a long while before he finally spoke. “My wife, she is sick. The baby is sick. She could not work and they fired her. Everything costs so much money here. We didn‟t have enough to get by. I saw the money and thought, „a little here, a little there, no one will notice, no one will be hurt, but it will save my family from losing our home and going to the streets.‟” Miguel sighed deeply. “I am not proud of this thing I have done.” Ollie watched Miguel and could not help the compassion flooding him. He knew the striped white line between a home and the streets. “Will you tell Ol‟ Nick and the others?” Miguel asked, resigned, wondering if he could run with his family before the police came. “Why didn‟t you ask for help?” “Ollie, what kind of man can‟t provide for his family.” His response sucked the anger from Ollie. He looked at Miguel, then away thinking, then back again. “You choose if you want to live honorably or sell your honor for pride.” Ollie turned away and entered the cafe. He did the only thing he knew to do, he picked up the coffee pot and moved about refilling the cups of the few customers who liked to linger just before the cafe closed late in the afternoon. As he worked his way around the cafe, he didn‟t mean to eavesdrop, but he couldn‟t help hearing Ol‟ Nick talking to Mr. Walters. “So, there‟s nothin‟ to be done for it. I still get a good lunch crowd, but the rest of the day is 8

slow now that a younger pack has moved into the neighborhood. They all commute out of the area and there‟s just the old timers who come in for coffee. Bob‟s leaving kept me from having to let go one of the other waiters. Now I have to decide which bus boy to layoff.” “It‟s always hard to put someone out of work,” Mr. Walters said. “Ollie is at an age he should retire, but he has no savings. Ernest is lazy, ordinarily my first choice to get rid of, but lately there‟s been complaints about tips missin‟, I‟m afraid it‟s Miguel. He‟s a good worker, sometimes he moves a little slow, says their baby keeps him up at night. I suspect he‟s the thief.” Ollie listened, pretending to be disinterested, rubbing the table he cleaned with a hard polish, feeling the strain along the muscle in his cheek, down his neck and into his shoulder. There would be no promotion, not for anyone. He‟d been to Miguel‟s home, a meager meal, made mostly with unserved food leftover from the cafe. His wife was skinny and drawn, and the baby never cried, it just whined, sucking at its mother‟s breast, struggling for nourishment from dribbles of weak milk. What Miguel had done was wrong, but a young man with a family, a sick family, inexperienced to deal with crisis, struggling with the responsibilities of fatherhood—still a thief is a thief. A man who‟d rather steal than ask for help couldn‟t be trusted. And everyone suffered. Others had needs too and were counting on those tips. “It‟s a difficult decision,” Mr. Walters said. “I don‟t envy you.” “Any work for bus boys at the restaurant?” Ol‟ Nick asked. It wasn‟t so hard to let a man go if you knew he had another job waiting. “Sorry, I don‟t think I want to include a thief among my bus boys.” Mr. Walters stood to leave. He put two dollars in tips on the table, even though the coffee was free. As he passed Ollie he asked, “New look, Ollie? You cut a dashing figure with that hair style.” Distracted, Ollie almost didn‟t catch the compliment. “Thank you, sir.” Mr. Walters patted Ollie‟s shoulder on his way out. Ollie turned his attention to Ol‟ Nick who had returned to creating his chalkboard menu, meticulously lettering food choices in various colors, drawing a cherry pie beside the desserts and a steaming cup of coffee in the corner, his daily opportunity for an artistic outlet. “Mr. Nick, sorry to in‟trupt.” Ollie refilled Ol‟ Nick‟s coffee cup. “What is it, Ollie?” “I‟m not sure how to say—“ Ol‟ Nick frowned at him, suspecting that Ollie had overheard and figuring he was going to tell him about Miguel. “Today‟s my last day here.” “What?” “I decided to move on, retire.” “Retire?” “My daughter, she‟s been beggin‟ me to come move in with „em. I could help out around the house a little and get off my feet all day.” Ol‟ Nick peered at Ollie suspiciously. The son-in-law had been to the cafe with Ollie‟s 9

daughter and his comments to Ollie constantly demeaning. It didn‟t seem likely he‟d invite his wayward father-in-law to live with them. “Ollie, this comes as a surprise. You‟ve been a valuable employee, a real hard worker. Customers comment all the time on your attitude, your co-workers all respect you, you‟ve shown them a thing or two about hard work.” “Don‟t make it harder, Mr. Nick. Its‟ a difficult choice leavin‟ here, but my daughter asked and there ain‟t much I‟ve been able to do for her through her life—I need to do this.” In spite of himself, Nick exhaled a slight sigh—part disappointment, part relief. I was thinkin‟ of lettin‟ Miguel go. There‟s been rumors. You know anything about—“ “No reason for concern, the problem will stop now.” Nick focused on Ollie‟s eyes, attempting to peer into his soul and wondering, if he didn‟t know better—could it have been Ollie? “I‟ll finish out the day, if that‟s okay?” “You can finish the week if you want.” “Thank you, Mr. Nick. I‟ll get back to work now. And Mr. Nick, don‟t say nothin‟ to the others.” “But they‟ll want to say good-bye, wish you well.” “I‟ll come back one day soon and we‟ll have our good-byes then.” “If you say so.” Ollie finished his shift working diligently, quietly. He walked home, shoulders slumped, wondering what he‟d do now. He‟d have to look for a job and hope if a prospective employer called for a reference, Ol‟ Nick wouldn‟t take it personally. Hoping he‟d find a new boss who‟d look past his grey hair and stooped shoulders and leathery wrinkled skin—the look an old drunk has. Donner had helped him find his last job, Ol‟ Nick had looked past all that, even his lack of recent work history, even now his credible experience was only two years as a bus boy. Rent wasn‟t due for a week. Surely by next week he would have another job. He‟d look for signs in windows of businesses, although he‟d heard lots of the small businesses were suffering. He‟d look through want ads in the classifieds, there were always newspapers of some sort in the trash bin out back. It gave him the shakes to think about what he‟d done, but it was a little late to regret his decision. If he couldn‟t find a job, he couldn‟t afford to keep his room. A drink sounded really good, would calm his fears, steady him for a job search. One drink—would lead to another, then another, and in the end—take away whatever dignity he‟d earned. Maybe what he needed was to have a little vacation. He‟d wear his tennis shoes and walk down the sidewalk and on the bike path along the beach for a day or two, boost his courage. 10



riday Ollie sat at the table looking through the window. It had been nearly a week. He‟d tried to find another cafe, but they were all struggling, no one needed him. Did he really try hard enough? It had gotten to where he saw no in their eyes before he even asked—at some point he‟d stopped asking. Now he had run out of options. He replayed that last afternoon at the Harbor Cafe and finally convinced himself he‟d done what he should do. He told Ol‟ Nick a lie about his daughter. But he wondered if Molly would be willing to give him a space somewhere? Maybe on the couch—although one of her visiting kids often slept there—maybe in the corner, a bedroll by the fireplace, even in the garage, a sleeping bag against the interior wall would be warmest. He‟d have to endure Artie‟s barbs, but it could be worse, and the way he‟d abandoned his daughter, they were earned. A drink might bolster him, help him to ask—no, a drink now would mean losing her permanently. Ollie put on his best clothes, the pink plaid shirt with the western cut Molly had given him last Christmas. He shined his black work shoes as he had everyday, straightened the books on his shelf and left his tiny room. He hoped to convince his daughter that he could help her out with the family, cook a little, clean a lot, that he wouldn‟t get in the way, that he only needed a place to stay, short-term. He wouldn‟t eat much. He tried practicing what he might say—were there any words? Even if she agreed, would his son-in-law allow it? He looked at himself in the mirror. It wasn‟t a bad look with his hair still neatly trimmed. He felt confident, like he could conquer the world. Why couldn‟t he hold onto that feeling once he stepped through the front door of his room? It seemed to diminish with every step he took down the two flights of stairs to the street. Ollie took three Metro buses to get to his daughter‟s in Culver City, sitting farther back on each one. Two hours of traveling on city streets for what would have been a forty-minute drive on the freeway on a weekend morning. Buses filled with Hispanic housekeepers and day workers, and fat mothers with their broods of children squeezed into a two-seat row riding somewhere to shop or have an adventure at a park or maybe to grandma‟s house. Molly probably would have picked him up if he‟d asked, but what he was asking was already so big. He thought about what he‟d say, how he‟d ask, rehearsing until he caught himself mumbling out loud and a pair of teenagers behind him, probably boyfriend and girlfriend started giggling. He turned to see them making faces at him—the old guy in the pink plaid shirt and black work shoes who seemed to be out of his mind. The bus dropped him off three blocks from Molly‟s. Before turning the corner off the main street he saw a deli with a help needed sign in the front window—a possibility. He reached for 11

the door, but caught his reflection in the glass. He didn‟t see a man in a pink plaid shirt and blue jeans with black work shoes and neatly styled hair. He saw a man with weeks of stubble on his face, a red nose and bleary eyes, dirty, and disheveled clothes, hiding in a pink plaid shirt and work shoes. Now wasn‟t the time to ask for a job. First he would talk to Molly, tell her there might be a job for him nearby and he needed a place to stay until he could transition to Culver City from Long Beach. By the time he got there, he‟d almost convinced himself that would work out and he had the job. He stopped at the corner before Molly‟s house. It was an older, but well-kept neighborhood with neatly trimmed yards. Hers was not a large house, but a solid home with wooden siding and a porch and three bedrooms and one bathroom, and an attached one-car garage. Slowly he walked up the sidewalk to the front door painted in Wedgewood blue with panes of glass at the top in a half-circular pattern. As soon as Molly opened the door and saw his face she read right through him. “Oh, Ollie, you lost your job!” Ollie was taken off-balance, his well-rehearsed request lost from memory, replaced by a gush of pleading. “It‟s just temporary. I thought maybe you‟d allow me to come here for a few days—I‟ll work for my keep. Around the corner there‟s a cafe—“ It was unfortunate Artie was home for the day. He‟d worked all night on an emergency plumbing job and was taking the day off, napping in his favorite black recliner. He was tired and grumpy, and Ollie‟s appeal gave him an excuse to let loose the frustrations he harbored. “You no „count bum! All the years your daughter needed a father, where were you? You weren‟t there! I watched her cry herself to sleep after you promised to come to Christmas or Thanksgiving or even her birthday, not even when our children were born did you come. You were too busy with your big shot Hollywood friends, and then you were too busy drinking yourself in the gutter.” Ollie listened quietly, head down, staring at the scuff marks on his shoes he‟d made during the long trek to their house. He said nothing. Everything Artie said about him was right. He‟d been a horrible father and a wreck of a man. But his silence incited Artie even more. “I spoke with Evelyn, from the cafe, Evelyn‟s husband‟s on one of our bowling teams— didn‟t know that, did ya?” Artie spat at him. “I know about the thefts—that’s why you lost your job! You think I‟d allow you to stay here to steal us blind too?” “Artie, please, that‟s enough!” Molly pleaded, her voice filled with desperate tears. “You want to come here to visit once in awhile and Molly‟s willing to put up with you, that‟s one thing, but to stay here—I‟ll never allow that! Why don‟t you trot on back to Hollywood and see which of your famous buddies will take you in, huh?” Ollie dropped his chin to his chest, struggling to contain a quiet moment of desperation that spread throughout him just beneath his skin in one long aching wave. Finally, he looked up and placed his hand on his daughter‟s shoulder. “I‟m glad you got a man like Artie to protect you from the likes of me.” He didn‟t mean to make her cry harder. The weight of his hand on her shoulder seemed to shrink her inward. Ollie removed his hand and walked out through the blue door and stumbled toward the 12

sidewalk, trying to hold himself together, feeling that any moment his heart would burst from his chest and spill out like strawberry jam oozing from a broken jar. He walked a long way on Venice Boulevard before finally boarding a bus going toward Long Beach. This time he kept still, barely noticing the people who got on and off, mirrored images of the ones he‟d seen on the earlier buses. Somewhere on the inland stretch of Pacific Coast Highway, where Hispanic businesses diminished into middle-class strip malls and fast food restaurants, he had taken all he could stomach of seeing mothers with children asleep on their lap or playing with cheap kid‟s meal toys, the boyfriends and girlfriends cooing in each other‟s ears, the co-workers and miscellaneous pairings, all of them with someone, laughing together or even arguing—together. He got off mindlessly further south than his home and wandered, lost, until he circled the roundabout and finally turned toward the beach at Ximeno, where nice homes stood, older, well-maintained homes with families tucked inside. He‟d have to backtrack some distance at Broadway to get to his room. Even with defeated legs he couldn‟t bring himself to board another bus, in spite of permanently scuffing his working shoes with dragging feet. As he ambled along the freshly swept sidewalks, from residential to apartments and condominium complexes to small secondhand stores and ethnic restaurants and beauty shops, he tried to piece together what he‟d do. He‟d pack his shirts and pants, polish his work shoes to take and wear his tennis shoes, give away his books and shaving gear, his bedding, except for the quilt Molly had made him, he‟d keep that for as long as he could. He knew anything he kept would be stolen or ruined within a short time once he took up residence on the streets. He also knew that every day that passed was a day that took him further out of society and away from ever having another job or another place of his own. He‟d spend this one last night sitting at the rickety table and looking through the window at the joggers and mothers and hoods on the sidewalk, all mingled, all with lives, all having a home to return to. And for one last night he‟d sleep warmly on his lumpy mattress. In the morning he‟d wake up achey and stiff—knowing from now on the aches would deepen and the stiffness take longer to loosen up. It was dark when he finally got to Belmont Heights and passed the corner where La Trattoria, Mr. Walters‟ restaurant, stood. Its wide windows warmly lit from inside by candles in wall sconces. His feet stopped moving, the temptation great to go inside and ask, even if all he could get was a job sweeping up. But he‟d heard Mr. Walters say he didn‟t need more bus boys, especially thieves. What if Ol‟ Nick presumed Ollie was the thief and told Mr. Walters? A couple holding hands walked by slowly and glanced at Ollie standing suspiciously in front of the restaurant. He looked down the buttons of his pink plaid shirt at 13

his scuffed shoes. He wasn‟t dressed to ask for a job. The door rattled and opened. The couple who‟d been meandering along closed store fronts turned back at the sound toward the open door of the restaurant. Ollie heard Mr. Walters‟ voice welcoming, “Come in, come in, we‟ll get you seated right away.” Ollie quickly moved on. He imagined he heard his name being called. Dry drunk delusions. He knew there was no reason to turn back. “Ollie! Ollie!” Ollie had heard his name. He stopped and turned to see Mr. Walters walking toward him on the sidewalk. “Ollie, why were you standing outside?” Mr. Walters was dressed formally in a black tuxedo suit. Ollie said nothing, but continued staring down at his shoes. “Nick told me you‟d left the cafe.” “It was time.” Ollie tried to hide his remorse and his anxiety. “I thought you might be looking for a job?” Ollie pointed at his shirt, “Not really dressed for that. Spent the day at my daughter‟s,” too ashamed to admit he‟d spent the day traveling rather than at his daughter‟s. Mr. Walters waited until Ollie looked up, then stared into his eyes. “Nick told me they‟d had a problem with missing tips, but that it‟s stopped now.” Ollie had to turn away again. “He says Miguel has become the new Ollie, works hard, does a good job, eager to serve the customers, never slacks. You must have made an impression on him.” Ollie glanced back at Mr. Walter. “Miguel‟s a good boy, lots of pressure. He has a sick wife and baby.” “I didn‟t know that. And what about you, Ollie? Do you have another position?” Ollie‟s first thought was to lie, rather than admit the shame he felt at being unemployable. “Of course, you‟re probably taking time off.” Ollie nodded, then his nod turned to shaking his head. In this moment he had to find the courage to stop reliving the failures of the past and to reach for a future. “Actually, I‟m not being entirely honest. I misjudged my finances a bit. I could use a job, washing dishes or sweeping up—part-time if that‟s all you got. I know business is slow.” “Day businesses are slow, night businesses are booming. This has become a community of commuters. When they return at night they want a hot meal prepared for them along with friendly faces serving it. I‟m hiring all the honest help I can find. Someone with your experience would be a blessing.” Ollie looked at Mr. Walters, it didn‟t appear to be a pity offering, he sincerely needed help. “Selfishly, I was glad you left the cafe, I could have never offered you a job and stolen you from my friend, but then, Nick said you were moving away. If you are looking for work here, I can make you an offer.” “I‟m looking,” Ollie said, trying to hide his anxiousness. The work would be at night, but he thought he might like that better—sleep late, days free for strolling, he could visit his daughter when she was sitting for the grandkids and Artie was out. A few days ago he‟d 14

dreamed of being a waiter, now he dreamed of having a job, even the opportunity to be a bus boy again. “I think I would like to be a bus boy here at your restaurant.” “Oh, I‟m sorry, Ollie, I didn‟t explain.” Ollie‟s heart sunk. Was he taking it back? “I‟ve watched you at the Cafe, I don‟t think you‟re bus boy material.” Ollie felt his face flush with embarrassment realizing he‟d fooled himself into thinking he‟d been doing good work, that he‟d kept up with the younger ones. He swallowed hard. Dishwashing was honorable and it was a job. What would the pay be? Would it be enough for him to continue his present lifestyle? What would he have to cut? Would he have to move? 

n unseasonably cold weather snap had turned the air crisp. Ollie walked briskly past the Harbor Cafe. If he had stopped Ol‟ Nick would have offered him coffee, but Ollie chose to move along. He walked the ten blocks down Broadway to Belmont Heights until he came to La Trattoria. He stopped to gaze through the window. The restaurant wasn‟t opened yet, still it looked warm, beckoning outsiders inside. It was his ritual to take a few moments and stare through the window into the dim light where the kitchen crew was already hard at work preparing for the dinner crowd. Through the dark he visualized the restaurant full of customers and himself as the head waiter, going from table to table, making sure each customer felt welcome, seeing that they had whatever they needed. “Ollie, Ollie.” Ollie turned to the sound of a familiar voice, it was Mrs. Simmons. “I know we‟re early,” Mr. Simmons said, “But do you think we could come in and have a cup of coffee until you open?” “Yes, please we‟re freezing.” Mrs. Simmons pulled the buttons of her cashmere sweater tighter together. “Of course, come in. I‟ll sit you by the fireplace and we‟ll have you warmed up in no time.” Ollie unlocked the door holding it open. “Thank you, Ollie.” Mr. Simmons held out a hand to shake Ollie‟s hand. Ollie led them inside and to a table. A bus boy dressed in a red bow tie with a crisp white apron squared around his waist and shiny black shoes, entered from the kitchen to investigate. “Jarrod, would you light the fire and bring Mr. and Mrs. Simons coffee, please.” “Sure, Ollie.” “Excuse me, please.” Ollie said. Ollie went to the back room and hung his overcoat. The head waiter‟s red jacket was hanging to the left. He reached out to touch the sleeve and his thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Mr. Walters that night months ago. 15

“Oh, I‟m sorry, Ollie, I didn‟t explain. I‟ve watched you at the Cafe and I don‟t think you‟re bus boy material.” “Are you saying there‟s no job?” Fear of failing again gripped the trembling Ollie. “If all you have is washing dishes or sweeping up, I‟ll take it.” “No, you misunderstand. I want you to take the place of my head waiter. He‟s a graduate student, just completed his studies, and taking a job as an accountant on the East Coast.” “But I‟ve never been a waiter.” Seeing a dream larger than even his own within his grasp, Ollie felt his nerve slipping. What if his dream exceeded his ability? “David will be here two more weeks. He‟ll train you in the mechanics. But Ollie, you already have what I most need.” “I don‟t understand.” “I want you to show my employees what it‟s most important to me they learn—to care.” Ollie took the dry cleaned jacket from its plastic bag and off the hangar. He put it on and stood in front of the mirror tugging at the waist-length hem to straighten the seam, then brushed a piece of lint from his tuxedo pants. He checked to make sure his silver hair was neatly combed, then ran his finger along the jagged scar—less ominous now. Hearing the front door opening as more customers arrived, Ollie stepped into the restaurant to greet them.

The End