Bus, Boy
The comma in the title belongs there, not that its omission would wreck anything. I used to work as a busboy at Andre’s age. I thought about that one day with fondness for some of those people who first respected, then befriended me. A lot of the young employees learned and matured from the experience. More than a few didn’t. I thought I might write about that. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, are most assuredly meant with fondness and tribute.
Busboy.
André, the punk-ass busboy.
Scratchy black pants, stiff white shirt, cheap dark shoes. Sixteen years old, embarrassed to be here, he sits in a booth in the back, waiting for paperwork and some here’s-what-you-do.
P.O. set this up, said only way outta this place is to find a better job hisself. Got tomorrow and t
