Job #2

My father always told me to "dress for the job that you want", and so it struck me as odd when I was looked upon with utter shock for wearing a nice pair of jeans and a buttoned up shirt (my father's) for the dish washing position at Daniel's Diner. "You know you're gonna get dirty right?” my fat friend, the one responsible for pulling some strings to make this opportunity a reality, says. "Yeah", I said, with a slight grin, as if I knew a thing or two that my friend didn't. I suppose I imagined the world working different. I suppose I imagined myself busting threw the door with my tapered hand-me-down jeans and boat shoes (also my father's), my size 15 shirt that made me look sick and gaunt (which I was), and all of the employees and owners and customers stopping in their tracks, thinking to themselves, "This kids got potential." The owner would be holding a snifter of brandy and a big cigar, and maybe Jimmy Stewart would be sitting at the bar. However, reality slapped me in the face as I was shoved and pushed to the side as mom-waitresses (the worst kind) rushed to make more coffee and frantically screamed to the cooks about a side of bacon that never made it to the table. The place smelt of pancake batter and coleslaw and I was looked at like that drop of urine that somehow makes its way onto the toilet seat. In a spot that inconvenienced everyone. The owner was a natural drip of a human being. No brandy or cigars. The truth was he wouldn't give a shit if I were naked. His name was Danny and he was upset that he wasn't Magnum PI. He spoke with no inflection in his voice; he oozed of bitterness and had a hypnotic quality whenever he did my job for me. He jabbed at me with smart ass comments about the right way to do things. When I asked him the point of cleaning something that's only going to get dirty again, he asked me the point of brushing my teeth. He never yelled, he just learned to not expect all that much from me. I was dependable, but I did things at my speed.  Like the time I ran the hundred meter dash and paced myself. Of course it didn't make me feel better that the star performer at Daniel's Diner, Tim, was an old, alcoholic, half mentally challenged man, who wasn't afraid to manhandle the silverware or ring out a dirty mop with his bare hands. “Come on man, whatta you only got one hand”, he’d bark, as if it was a contest to see who could look more out of control while carrying a stack of plates.  He gawked at the women and smelt of gasoline. Rumor has it that his mother was a car. Danny spoke of Tim like he was his own private hunchback. He called on him whenever somebody couldn’t cover and Tim pretty much saw Danny as his master. But I did just enough to get by.  I might have been young, but I still didn’t see the need to pull out my back while scrubbing a pot or even break a sweat for that matter. Things got done when they got done. I made meat patties round and cleaned the blades of the slicer. I dragged out the grease pit and dumped it into a huge box that smelled like death. I mopped floors and peeled potatoes. I made home fries and conversation and, for some reason, was the target for a good laugh. My fat friend had an even fatter brother named John who was the head cook on Sunday mornings. He was thick with ideals that made him a prime candidate for the Army. He fought people with belts of all color (blue, yellow and brown) and even though he never learned a lick of technique, he kicked all of their asses, most likely due to his size. He could endure a good hit and not feel a thing. This man became my friend. If he was a cock I was a vagina, and though he was aware of our differences, he still tried to pump me up and make me stick up for myself, even though he at times turned into the bully. John had an uncanny way of influencing me.  When he decided to take karate, I thought, "Maybe I should take karate too." I watched him enjoy a good ass kicking as the Sensei showed him the difference between his street style fighting and being a master of testosterone. I, on the other hand, got smacked around by a butch woman who claimed to be teaching me something.  John may have had the upper hand on a physical level, but I poked fun of his insecurities, knowing fully that it would end with me wailing in half pain and hysteria while he threw me to the ground and landed thick rock like punches. He kissed me when I told him I got laid and quickly laughed with pride as I told him how I rolled out the condom before putting it on (which made it feel like I was pulling a sock onto a wet foot).  He drove an old car coated with only gray primer and spoke of how, by the mere age of eighteen, he'd fucked thirty-one women. One day, Danny came up to me and asked if I would clean the bathroom. Said it was urgent. He said it so nicely that my suspicions were high. He told me that there had been an accident, and that they needed me to "take one for the team." I knew it had to be real bad if my job was to clean the bathrooms, and why did he remind me of that? This made me believe that somebody had died on the toilet last Sunday and wasn't discovered until just now or something even worse. It didn't help that one of the tubby waitresses gagged over the sink and that none of the fat brothers could look me in the eye. It seemed that I was being tested. How low would I go for a paycheck?   I filled my yellow bucket with the hottest water a faucet could offer. I rolled the bucket down the long concrete path that lead to the side of the building. It seemed the closer I got to the crime scene, the more I could hear a pin drop. I worked myself up. This was my time to shine. To get a little leverage by showing Danny how loyal of an employee I was. My palms were damp with sweat as I clenched the key that had a pink metal square that read, "Mrs." I nervously stood outside the door that should have been blocked off by police and thought about turning back. Even birds watched from across the street. A couple of people stood out on their lawns and the parking lot became still. "What could have happened?" “A wheelchair.” That's what I heard from another customer that must have seen the culprit. "She should never have been left alone if she was in a wheelchair", she said. When I opened the door, I was impressed by the lack of odor. Then I noticed dark brown smears across the wall.  Flies were everywhere. Why would this woman do this? Why would anyone do this? Was she crazy? Was it an attempt to communicate? A real work of art with a female turd. Though it wasn’t as bad as dead bodies, it was repulsive. And the fact that they called upon me to handle the situation was insulting. I clenched onto the key and envisioned myself beating this wheelchair woman over the head. I thought of dragging her across the gravel road and drowning her in my bucket of scalding water. But I did no such thing. Instead, I picked up the mop, whipped the hot water up against the wall and started to scrub. I got it done faster than any other job that diner had lined up for me. It's bad enough to be the woman that hurled your shit against a wall while sitting in a wheelchair, but it's worse to be the man that had to clean it up. With everything said and done, I was humiliated. People thanked me with a grin. My friends were no longer nice people. I felt touched in an inappropriate way and I was about to let them know just how I felt.  To make a long story short I marched up to Danny that following Sunday, covered in grease and wearing the grimy clothes I should have put on from day one. "I want a raise", I said.  He looked at me.  "I took one for the team and I want a raise." Danny combed out his thick mustache and thought hard. He thought long and hard and just when I was about to negotiate my price, he threw a box on the floor and said, "You want a raise? Here, stand on it." It took me about three minutes to realize just what that meant. It didn't help that I actually did stand on the box and waited for part two of his sick, perverted joke.