Authors: Chuck Stepanek
“Where do you work?”
“Mother fucking-A! I’m a busboy at the Prospector restaurant. Kick-ass job! The waitresses clear most of the plates and shit off the table while the customers are still sitting there on their fat asses. By the time they leave, all I have to do is dump the ashtray, pick up a few glasses and wipe down the table. Other than that, I hang in the prep room and drink free cokes all night! And they pay me to do this shit Demo—“ (He halted at the hurtful name and amended. “They pay me to do this shit. Fuckin’ easy money! Why, you lookin’ for a job?”
The manic/depressive that is marijuana casts 90 percent of
its
users into lethargy, but for a select few, and that included Jon Hemmingburg, (and not that he needed it) weed was a social stimulant.
Demon was stunned. Only an hour ago he had endured utter humiliation at the hands of his classmates. Thirty minutes ago
the self realization of his abhorrent appearance had sunk in. Three minutes ago he had been agonizing how to resolve it.
And now, he answered: “Yes.”
“Well you better get your ass out there!” The Bird rallied his new recruit with all of the enthusiasm of an Amway representative closing the deal on a new agent. “Cause they’re hiring!” He reflected by taking a healthy drag on the Kool, and then offered kindly:
“Listen, the Prospector is an upscale place. Most of the customers have diamond rings stuffed up their fat asses. If you go in there lookin’ like that…” he nodded earnestly at Demon’s attire. “You won’t even make it past the hostess station.” Bird reached into the back of the Falcon, then turned and held something out the window. “I keep an extra set of workpants in the car, just in case some moron decides to dump a 55 gallon drum sized Slurpee in my lap. We’re about the same size. Try ‘em on and if they fit, wear them when you go apply.”
Demon accepted the pants awkwardly. A small part of his mind revolted. ‘It’s a trick! He’s making fun of you!’ But it was a chance he had to take.
“Also, wear black shoes, not tennis shoes. And they want each busboy to wear a yellow short sleeve shirt.” Bird tugged at his collar as if to offer further clarification, he then released it and tapped at his noggin with an index finger. “Think you can remember all that? Pants, black shoes, short sleeve yellow shirt. You show up dressed like that and the job is in-the-mother-fucking-bag!”
Demon nodded to indicate that he had absorbed all of the instructions. He eyed the pants in his outstretched hands, then looked up and into the eyes of the Bird and said: “Thank you.”
“Anytime! You are De man!”
The Bird froze for a moment, then lit up with inspirational delight. He laughed: “Ha! Fuckin’ A! From now on you are no longer Demon, you are De man! The Demon is dead! Long live De man!” He notched the gearshift into drive and gave a healthy romp on the gas. “Nobody messes with De man! See ya at the Prospector!”
And where there once sat two birds, a Falcon and a humming, there now was just a pair of tire tracks and a blend of dust and exhaust fumes that expanded, faded and settled. That, and a boy on a bike clutching a pair of pants.
De man. Yes, he could be de man.
And then as if to prove the point, he splayed the work pants in front of his fruit stripe slacks. The solid dark trousers camouflaged most of his shame.
“Fuck demon.” It was said quietly and safely, as the nearest residence on this stretch of
Valley street
was half a block away.
Surely you wouldn’t burn too long in purgatory for saying the ‘F’ word when no one else could hear it. “Fuck demon.” Again and more forcefully. “Fuck demon, hello De man.”
Good intentions, poor expectations.
The job, money, and new clothes would help. But he would still be Demon.
When it comes to being hurtful, kids just don’t forget.
2
Elmwood’s Prospector restaurant’s success was the result of a zoning law exemption that placed it handsomely between the Rolling Greens Country Club and the exclusive Thunderbird estates subdivision. The location was ideal for accommodating
the silver spoon socialites that had made, or had brought, their fortunes to southern
Minnesota
.
Any golfer who would gladly cough up $25 in green fees or the lady of the house who casually peeled off a pair of 20’s for a beauty makeover, could easily crown their day with a Prospector food and bar tab for twice that amount. And the Prospector eagerly took their money straight to the bank, but only after serving up food that cost a fraction of the price that appeared on the menu.
It was all about ambiance. It was all about atmosphere. But mostly it was all about jacking up the prices so high that people actually bragged about how much they paid for a meal.
The Prospector’s interior was exquisitely sophisticated. The exterior, by design, was far more modest, a conciliatory point to avoid overshadowing the proud mansions of Elmwood’s upper crust.
Demon coasted into the generous parking lot and made one circuit searching for a bike rack. Seeing none, he rolled his wheels past a low hedge and leaned it against the face of the building. He thought nothing more of it as he walked into the restaurants front entrance. Work pants, black shoes, and short sleeved yellow shirt (a fortuitous find at Goodwill), he was ready to apply.
In the foyer, a tall shapely woman stood at a lectern making notes in a black
D
ay
-
minder. She lifted her face and radiated her best “Welcome to the Prospector” glow for the customer coming through the door.
She saw Demon. The glow evaporated.
Glancing around quickly to see if any ‘real’ customers were within earshot, the words came out in condescension: “You
know
the busboys are supposed to come in the back entrance.”
Demon puzzled over this and then formed the words. “Where is the back entrance?”
The hostess wavered toward exasperation; then caught herself. She was on-duty, on-stage, any steady customer with a soft spot for stupid kids could easily share what they saw with management.
Was this kid messing with her? If so, she would report him to the GM and get his ass fired. But that was for later, she needed to maintain her professional demeanor.
“Do you work here?” she asked skeptically and more than a little harshly.
Demon had an easier time with this one.
“No. But I want to.”
The hostesses’ expression eased with recognition of the situation as did her tone. The kid had come looking for a job and had even done his best to dress the part. Good for you kid.
“I see. Please come with me.” She was back to hostess mode.
Demon was led past the bar, through the two dining areas and back through the kitchen. They reached a narrow hallway and the hostess paused. “
That’s
the back entrance” she pointed to an industrial steel door. A few more strides and they arrived at a more conventional looking door.
It was open and they both stepped in.
“This gentleman would like to apply.”
A portly man behind a desk looked up and beamed. If there was one thing Boone Merrill practiced it was to paste his face with sunshine bubbles. It didn’t matter if you were talking to a $600 suit or the guy who delivered the produce. Everybody was
related somehow and everybody talked. This kid could be the son of the town drunk or he could be the nephew of one of the country club fat cats. It mattered not. One misstep and he would be out looking for another $20,000 a year job.
He nodded knowingly to the hostess and she silently withdrew.
“Let’s start by having you fill out an application. But first, I must say that I’m impressed. You came dressed for the part. Do you know someone who works here?” The sunshine bubbles oozed from his face.
“Jon Hemmingburg.”
Pop! A single sunshine bubble evaporated and several more shimmered alarmingly.
Jon Hemmingburg. Boone Merrill knew that he was a smoker, the kid had made no effort to hide that fact. Had even applied for his job, (what 4 months ago?) with a deck of smokes in his shirt pocket. And where there’s a smoker there’s also usually a pot smoker. And while it was hard to detect red eyes in the dimly lit restaurant, had he noticed just a wisp of burning rope on the kid? Difficult to tell in a business that was saturated with all sorts of smells.
“Of course, Jon Hemmingburg. Did you drive out here with him?” Boone Merrill was trying to determine just how chummy these two might be, but the answer he received alarmed him even more.
“No, I rode my bike.”
Pop! Pop! Pop! This time it was all of the bubbles. Mr. Merrill’s face drained.
“And where did you park you bike?”
“Outside. By the front door.”
Boone Merrill rose immediately.
“You need to move
your
bike;
right
now
. Go back the way you came in and move your bike to the back of the building. And then I want you to come in through the
back
door.”
Demon obeyed. As he retrieved his bike he experienced a moment of clarity. The Prospector had an image to uphold. The point was reinforced as a couple approached the front door laughing and chatty, then muted as they observed the busboy wannabe fumbling with his bike in the bushes. Demon felt their stares, heard their silence. “Come on, it looks much better inside.” The man quipped. “I should hope so” his debutante partner trilled. They laughed together and left the bike boy in the wake of his dishonor.
Demon dislodged the bike and then wavered. Should he ride it to the back or walk it? Not wanting to risk another mistake, he walked his bike quickly around the building. There he found two other bikes padlocked to a conduit. He took the cue, secured his bike and re-entered the restaurant via the back door.
“Well this all looks in order.” Mr. Merrill had dispensed with the sunshine bubbles charade and was now in business mode. It hadn’t taken long for Demon to complete the application, and even less time for the manager to review it.
“If you’d like to come in Saturday, between the lunch and dinner rush, say around three o’clock, I can have one of the Supervisors show you the ropes.”
That was it? He got the job?
“Dress just like you did today. I guess Mr. Hemmingburg already told you that. But if you’re going to ride your bike I need you to do two things for me. One, always park it in the back, and two, clean yourself up a bit in the bathroom before you go out on the floor. You came in here today all sweaty like you had ridden a mile (it was actually closer to two) so wash your
face and comb your hair.
And
, be sure to check your clothes. Take a look at your pant cuffs.”
Demon did. They were dusty from gravel roads and were decorated with scraps of foliage that he had collected while wrangling his bike in and out of the bushes. Involuntarily he reached down and started swatting at his cuffs.
“
Not in here!
” It came out just an octave below an admonishment, but several above a gentle request.
Demon froze, and Mr. Merrill softened considerably as he took in the kid’s expression. It was the look of a kid that just wants to please. Either that or is stupid and hadn’t understand a word that had been said.
He resorted to repetition. “You’ll park your bike in back, you’ll come in the backdoor. In the
bathroom
, you’ll wash your face and comb your hair. And you’ll brush off your clothes; in the
bathroom
. Not the bathrooms that I’m sure you saw when you came in the front.” Demon had not seen them. “Those are for customers only. You’ll use the employee bathroom at the end of the hall near the kitchen. Do you understand?”