Short Spurts 2

Eat at Joe’s-1

Eat at Joe’sWork was scarce around those parts, especially for a young guy like me with nothing but a high school diploma and a résumé that could fit on a paper napkin. Was down to eating nothing but ramen noodles, in fact, a cup of tap water to wash it all down with. No new clothes, no new CD’s, no new anything. Tough times indeed.

Which is why I happened to be on that stretch of road that fateful day. I was looking for work farther away from home, figuring a commute would be a hell of a lot better than the inevitable high blood pressure caused by the seriously massive intake of sodium and ramen preservatives I was regularly consuming.

Though, too bad for me, nothing turned up, not a McJob to be had, just a lot of rueful frowns, clammy handshakes, and regretful no’s, one door after the next slamming on my—if I do say so myself—stellar ass.

So, glumly I started home, gas running low, energy even lower, morale bottoming out completely, smashing into the floorboard with a loud kerthump. Plus, my tummy was gurgling up a storm, an entire rhythm section beating out an urgent plea for something other than reconstituted Asian pasta. “Would you settle for a stick of Dentyne?” I asked it, rubbing it for good measure. “It’s yummy spearmint.” But my stomach was having none of that, belching up a furious no just as I noticed the flashing neon along the side of the road: Eat at Joe’s. Eat at Joe’s. Eat at Joe’s.

“Fine,” I relented, wondering if Joe would trade a hamburger for a pack of gum, or what the jail sentence would be if I got caught doing a little dine-and-dash, some scarf-and scram. I gulped when I realized my previously stated stellar ass would not do well in prison or look all that, um, stellar in an orange jumpsuit. In any case, I pulled into the parking lot and retrieved my rather thin wallet before once again sadly staring down at my grumpy belly. “Just don’t complain when all we get is a bowl of soup and some hopefully free Saltines.”

Suffice it to say, it complained just the same.

So in I went, the place a beehive of activity, a flurry of hustle and bustle, a din of standard diner racket, the smell of grease instantly wafting up my nostrils.

“Have a seat,” grunted the sole employee in sight, a harried looking man drenched in sweat who was barely a blur as he raced by.

I looked around. There was a lone empty stool that bellied up to the counter, every other seat in the place taken. I turned and stared out the window, at last noticing the line of trucks off to the side of the building. Joe, it seemed, had the only game in town. And then I took my seat and perused the menu, happy to see that I could, at the very least, afford that aforementioned soup and, woohoo, a rather nice side salad, too.

If, that is, I was ever able to order it.

“Be with you in a minute, kid,” barked the blur. “Waiter called in dead today.”

I squinted my eyes and tilted my head. “Dead?”

The blur shrugged, I believe, as he hurriedly cleaned off a nearby table. “Dead, sick, all the same to me, kid. Fifth time this month, so he might as well be dead.” He looked up my way and grimaced. “Least that way I won’t have to fire him.”

I froze in place, my mind all of a sudden buzzing, gears cranking to life. Fired, he’d said. Meaning…“Can I help, sir?” I coughed out, adding with a well-placed lie, “Waited tables at my mom’s coffee shop, bussed tables and seated folks, too.” Mom was a bus driver, by the way, but that wasn’t exactly going to land me the job.

He dropped the table’s dirty dishes into a gray and dingy tub and sighed, again locking eyes with me. “Fine, kid. Just don’t kill anyone.”

I hopped off the stool. “Kill someone? Waiting tables?”

He shook his head and handed me the heavy tub. “You won’t be waiting tables, kid. I’ll wait; you bus. Killing comes with dropping this on the customers.” He patted the shoulder of a burly man to his right. “Not you, Lou. Not that a tub of plates could crack that thick neck of yours anyway.” Then he yanked off his apron and chucked it my way. “Hurry, kid; these guys need their coffee.”

“Quickly,” groused Lou.

I nodded, donned the apron, and, quite suddenly, joined the workforce. Then, just as suddenly, had to figure out how to bus, seat, and pour without getting just as suddenly fired by, I assumed, the owner, Joe, who never so much as stopped to introduce himself. Not that he had any time to do so, mind you. Then again, neither did I.

“Quickly, kid,” reminded Lou, empty cup held high, followed by a sea of others, all held up by equally burly, frowning, surly presumed-truckers.

“Quickly, kid!” echoed the presumed-Joe from across the diner.

I nodded and sped to the kitchen, dumping the tub off as I nodded to the cook and his helper, who also appeared to be the dishwasher. They eyed me suspiciously, but nodded just the same, pointing to the coffee maker and the several filled coffee pots. “Wish me luck,” I exhaled, saying it more for myself than for them, seeing as they were already back to work and ignoring me completely.

And yes, luck was just what I needed.

Luck to not drop tub after tub of dirty dishes. Luck not to spill endless cups of coffee on endless surly and/or burly truckers. Luck not to piss off the supposed-Joe. And luck not to get caught eating whatever food I could rustle up for myself and my ever-protesting belly, which had somehow managed to simmer down by the time dinner had ended and the place was finally empty, all the trucks driven off to points unknown.

I was cleaning up the last of the booths when up he walked. “Good job, kid,” he said, hand held out. I stared from it to him. It was the first good look I’d got of him, seeing as he was still nothing but a blur pretty much the entire time I’d been there. Guy was either an old-looking late thirties or a young-looking early forties, eyes so blue they shimmered, and, if the matting on his arms or the one poking out of his T-shirt meant anything, hairy as a bear and just as easily riled if you poked at him for too long. He was ruggedly handsome, tough as nails, and gut-wrenching terrifying. In other words, my hand was wet as the Mississippi Delta as I gripped his outstretched paw.

“Thanks, Joe,” I managed.

He chuckled. “Name’s Neville.” He pointed outside. “Doesn’t look too good in neon, though. Plus, the sign wouldn’t fit then.” He shrugged, still pumping away at my clammy, limp grip. “Joe will do, though.”

I nodded. “Name’s Chuck,” I informed. “And, um, thanks for the job.” It came out half statement, half question, all nervousness. “That is…”

He released his hand, eyes locking in on mine, my chest suddenly constricting as if a boa had taken hold. “Yeah, yeah. All yours, kid. Just be here on time and don’t steal the tips.” He reached into his pocket and handed over a fetching stack of bills. “We split them sixty/forty.” Before I could ask, he added, “Forty’s for you, kid.”

He walked into the kitchen while I followed. The cook and the dishwasher had already left out the back door, the kitchen remarkably spick and span. Then again, considering who the boss was, not so remarkably. “You hungry, kid?”

I nodded. Hungry didn’t begin to cover it. Starving was getting closer. Ravenous would’ve been just shy of the truth. “I could eat,” I replied, grabbing a folding chair as I sat and watched him work.

His back was to me as he opened and closed cabinets and drawers, then sliced and diced and fried and simmered, body more limber than I would’ve thought possible given his burly bulk, until the smallish kitchen was awash in a heavenly aroma that made my eyelids flutter.

“You gay, kid?” he suddenly asked out of nowhere, still without turning around. Talk about your small talk.

I coughed, a river of sweat suddenly meandering its way down my face. “Um, huh?”

And then he turned, if only in profile, the grin nonetheless evident. “Gay, kid. Meaning, do you f**k other guys?”

Naturally, I was eloquent in my reply. “Um, huh?”

He chuckled, which sent a shiver down my spine. “Yeah, you already said that.” He turned, plates and forks in hand, and set mine down on a small prep table near where I was sitting. He ate his meal standing up. “Look, kid, you don’t have to answer the question. I was just curious, is all.”

And then I upped the ante, which, considering my lousy hand, wasn’t such a smart idea, all things considered. “Takes one to know one, Joe?”

His grin widened as he forked a huge serving of something meaty deep within his maw. He chewed as he replied. “Funny, kid.”

I shrugged and started in on my meal, trying, and most probably failing, to look cool, calm, and relatively collected. All the while, I felt him staring at me, those hot pools of blue melting me as sure as an ice cube in the Serengeti. “Well?” I finally asked, when I couldn’t take the silence anymore, apart from the somewhat loud masticating coming from his side of things. “Are you?” I swear I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as I asked it, could feel my knees quaking.

Again, he grinned as he chomped. “I wasn’t asking because I wanted to f**k you or anything, kid.”

I shrugged. “Do you?” And still my heart—and now hard-on—kept pounding.

“Do I what?”

Now it was my turn to lock eyes. “Want to f**k me?”

His shrug echoed my own. “Well now, that is one stellar ass you got there, kid.”

See! My mamma didn’t raise no liar.

I stood up, suddenly not so hungry anymore. Because solid food, apart from ramen, wasn’t the only thing I hadn’t had in quite a long time. And so, right there and then, before my brand-new boss, I unbuckled my belt and dropped my pants to the floor, then my briefs, until I was standing in that kitchen of his bare-assed. “What, this old thing?”

He laughed. “You bucking for a raise already, kid?” He moved in, setting his plate down on a countertop. I listened, waiting for his next move. Then I felt his fingers on my crack, tickling the fine hairs on my otherwise smooth rump. He crouched down and parted my cheeks, my hole exposed, winking out at him. “f**k, kid. I gotta say, I ain’t never seen anything so pink and pretty before in all my life.”

“Huh,” I commented, “and what is it you’re bucking for?”

He spanked my ass. I moaned involuntarily, my legs buckling. “Don’t be fresh, kid; I’m still your boss. Not to mention old enough to be your, well, uncle.”

I snickered. “How about showing me your d**k then, Uncle Joe?” Again, his mitt of a hand came crashing down on my tiny ass, another moan escaping from between my lips. “Please,” I piped in with.

He hopped back up. “Well, since you asked so nicely and all. But not here, kid. No rubber and lube to f**k that pretty ass of yours with. Plus, too many sharp objects and two exposed willies doesn’t equate to anything all that pleasant, if you ask me. So, finish your dinner and we’ll get out of here.” I nodded and started to hike up my slacks. “Nah, leave it like that, kid.”

“What about the sharp objects and exposed willies?” I couldn’t help but ask.

He snorted and shoveled more food into his mouth. “Yeah, well, I meant my willie.”

And so, never one to pass up a free meal, I ate as I stood there, butt out, prick at semi-stiff, watching him as he watched me, which was both equal parts hot and nerve-wracking. A few minutes later, and with a rumbling belch, I proclaimed, “Done.”

His meal was already long gone. “‘Bout time.” Then he cleaned the plates. “Now get undressed so we can hightail it out of here.”

“You mean get dressed, right?”

He shook his head in reply. “Nope. Naked, kid.”

I hesitated. “But we’re, uh, going someplace, right? Out, um, outside?” And suddenly my semi sort of shriveled. I mean, it was indeed hot being naked in front of him in the kitchen, but naked in front of him and any assorted potential onlookers struck me as anything but.