Read Online Boulevard by Jim Grimsley - Free Book Online

said, and yawned again. He showed Newell the kitchen, introduced him to Felix, the breakfast cook, and Alan, the morning waiter. Umberto, the prep guy, was out back, washing out the garbage can with a hose, visible through an open screen door.
    The job was simple. Newell picked up dishes and brought people water. When the tables were empty he cleaned them off. He was the only bus boy for the breakfast shift; someone named Tyrone came in to cover the late part of breakfast and lunch. Newell set to work. At first there was little to do, then suddenly the tables filled. Curtis only returned to help when there were too many dirty tables for Newell to handle.
    Often Newell found Curtis watching, though pretty soon Newell was too busy to notice what anybody was doing. Alan tapped Newell on the shoulder and said, “Those people have been asking for water for fifteen minutes. You need to move your behind.” Or came up to Newell and snapped, “If you can’t clean these tables any faster than this I’m not going to tip you. I could do it myself this quick.” Or, while passing to the kitchen, said, “Come back here and help me take out these plates to that party of eight. That woman at that table has an attitude about me.” A woman was in fact scowling at them both from the table, and Newell set her plate in front of her, and she asked for something unfamiliar to him, and he took the message back to Alan and Alan said, “Well, here, take it to her.” It was Tabasco, a bottle of hot saucethat the customer sprayed over her eggs. Half the morning Newell spent running around doing what Alan said to do and the rest listening while Alan offered another harangue about how slowly Newell cleaned the tables.
    Help came and things settled down, and sooner than he could have guessed the rush was done. Curtis clapped Newell on the back in the kitchen door. “You lived through it.”
    â€œIt was all right,” Newell said.
    â€œExcept you’re so slow and clumsy,” Alan added, from the side.
    â€œShut up, Alan,” Curtis said.
    â€œI will not shut up. He’s slow and he’s clumsy with the plates.”
    â€œHe didn’t break anything.”
    Alan whirled away with his order pad. Curtis watched him go and said, “You did okay. But you need to wear a tighter T-shirt.”
    â€œA what?”
    Curtis laughed nervously. “Your jeans are all right but your T-shirt’s not tight enough. You need to wear a tight one. We have to keep the queens happy.”
    In the lull between breakfast and lunch Newell ate his own eggs and bacon, served without a word by Felix, who watched Newell eat the first couple of bites, then grunted and lumbered back to the kitchen. Alan ate his breakfast, too, but he sat at a different table, away from Newell, refusing to look at him or speak to him. But by then there were other waiters, Frank and Stuart, Curtis’sboyfriend, and they were friendlier than Alan, and cuter.
    Lunch shift shocked Newell with its intensity, so many dishes on the table, so many empty water glasses, everything to be done at once, and people crammed into the restaurant leaving only the narrowest space through which Newell could slide. He moved as fast as he could and hoped for the best. His whole mind focused itself on the need to note the level of water in a glass across a room, despite cigarette smoke swirling in the air and bodies moving this way and that across his field of vision; he concentrated on the balance required to haul a heavy tray of dishes over the heads of the customers, who were often staring at him as he moved, trying to make eye contact. He was assigned to Alan’s and Stuart’s sections and kept them clean as best he could, kept the customers flowing through, kept the water glasses full, and picked up the used napkins from the floor, but even so, Alan found plenty to criticize—that Newell was setting the tables the wrong way, that