A Brief Interlude of Fiction

Joiner loved to smoke. He liked the feel of the cigarette between his lips, the curl of smoke extending up from the glowing hot tip, the smell of it. He relished his opportunities to smoke, in between the loads of dishes carted back by the busboys. He lingered in the back doorway, screen door propped against his foot, and watched the whirling dervishes of trash swirl and collide in the alley behind the diner. Joiner spent as much time in this spot as possible on his shift, away from the bustle the kitchen, as far as possible from the incessant happiness of the Mexican music on the radio.

He was down to his last two cigarettes, enough to get him through another two, maybe three loads of dishes before he'd ask the younger busboy, Juan Marie, to run to the corner store for another pack. He always gave the kid the change from his fiver; the kid's parents both worked long shifts for shit wages -- such is the life of your average illegal immigrant -- and Juan and his brother and sisters didn't have much spending money for themselves. Hell, Juan was only 14, but he claimed he was 16 so he could work at the diner eight hours a week to put a little extra food on the plate. He probably earned more in his share of tips than his mother earned in a full shift at the laundromat. Joiner figured the change would help them much more than it would him, and anyway he'd just end up losing it in the couch at home, so why not.

Joiner had two jobs, too. During the day, he pasted up classified ads at the Daily Leader, a nice union job with OK benefits and some perks; he picked up a nice set of lithographs at an estate sale a couple weeks back before anyone ever saw the ad in print. The dishwashing job paid shit, but it gave him an opportunity to exercise. You wouldn't think it, but dishwashing is a pretty physical activity, what with all the scrubbing and loading and unloading. A stack of 20 plates can weigh a good 25 pounds, and Joiner washed, sanitized, dried and stacked upwards of 300 plates on a good night, plus countless bowls, glasses, silverware and coffee cups.

His meals were always free, which more than made up for the cuts he got from the cracked glasses that sometimes hid in the murky wash water. And there was always someone to talk to, on the few occasions when he wanted to talk. But mostly, it gave Joiner a chance to smoke in the back doorway of a downtown diner. He liked the drama of it, the film noir-esque scene it must set for anyone chancing down the alley. And anyway he could never fall asleep before 2, so he might as well earn some money with those hours. Better than watching TV all night.

He took one last drag off his cigarette and flicked it into the drifting newspapers, following its trajectory, then went back to the triple sink, the screen door slapping closed behind him.

Posted by Andrew Huff at December 17, 2003 02:50 PM