By about two-twenty the terrifying monster of a lunch rush make its last gasp, Ralph having started pressure washing his last load of dishes. Wearily, he cranes his head around the corner in search of bus tubs, customers, anything that might deny him a smoke break.
“Uffda gevalt,” he mutters with upturned eyes as he peels his sopping wet apron off from his body and slops it nonchalantly into the sink. Being cotton, there isn’t much point to wearing one other than keeping off the hunks of food that blast back during rinsing. Nonetheless, as Ralph grabs his Newports from the shelf by the backdoor and steps outside he can still smell today’s special on him: chili verde con carne. Thick, pungent stuff; the kind that turns to plastery smears on the plate after a few minutes.
He lights up. Crisp, refreshing menthol burning up his lungs before seething out in nice big expirations. First cigarette since ten-thirty on his way in, being fairly well busy after. There were the lunch-prep garbage cans to take out, station sinks to clean, and an everestial mountain of pots and pans and tins and trays to wash and scour. And by the time that was down to naught the bus tubs start trickling in, becoming a ceaseless torrent until well after one. Busy, Ralph thinks to himself as he uses the butt-end to light a new cigarette before casting it aside onto the greasy gravel lot.
But the day outside is nice. Chill but calm, mostly-clear skies above and buds beginning to sprinkle the trees but particularly calm with no breeze at all. Ralph’s second cigarette always smokes slower than the first, it being his ‘contemplative wind-down’ for the afternoon ahead. He affects to smoke it, intermittently shrouding his view of the birds in wispy puffs that have hardly touched his throat even. The birds flitting about the parking lot looking for scraps and bits of fries and crumbs; Ralph can’t imagine how any bits of food get out there from the start. Never in over a year has he seen any casually munching pedestrians or else the surreptitious busboy eating from the kitchen behind parked cars, wantonly leaving behind trails of food for the birds to get at in the spring. But they come down for something, scoop it up in their beaks, and tram it back to the oak tree outside the optometrist’s to feed their birdy families.
Ralph thinks back to his own family, to the reunion next weekend at the Dells. It’s a bit nerve wracking, really, having not seen anybody in five or some cases nine years. He’ll have to talk to Mr. Catherty about getting the time off, as well. He’d have brought it up sooner, but Ralph’d only just heard about the thing from a cousin on the Facebook the night before. Crushing his second butt under heel, he steps back into the noxious humidor of a kitchen and props his half-empty pack back on the shelf by the door. Catherty’s office is at the far end of the kitchen, next to the walk-in freezer. Ralph pops in his head, but the office is empty.
A little self-consciously, Ralph ventures out to the near-deserted restaurant and finds his boss crunching numbers over a pint in the backmost booth. “Mr. Catherty,” he begins a bit timidly, bandana in hand. The fat restaurateur adjusts his glasses and regards the dishwasher with an appraising glance that lets Ralph see all of the insides of his nostrils. “Mr. Catherty, if I’m not interrupting anything I was hoping we could have a word.”
“Sit down, boy, sit down,” Catherty invites him with a welcoming gesture, fearing an unpleasant talk about raises or two weeks’ or the like. Though only a dishwasher, Ralph is undoubtedly the best they’d had in ages. He was able to form sentences and work without supervision, for starters. “What’s on your mind?”
“Well sir, I was hoping for some time off. See, there’s a reunion next weekend. Normally I wouldn’t bother, but it’s been five or more years since I’ve been and there’s a chance it’ll be the last time I see a few of them,” Ralph trails off with the unsavory image that he’d been coming across like a frightened rabbit. He hadn’t had time off in seven months or so. By his reckoning he is at least entitled to a weekend, though a doubtful ‘isn’t he?’ remains hovering in the background.
Being the owner/manager, Catherty knew the schedules by heart. Part of this was through relentless repetition, which seemed to work both for him and the staff. From his perspective Ralph was a bit like the linchpin of the weekend team, as any other washer couldn’t keep up and might not even show. More than that, Ralph rarely took breaks, never ate anything, and didn’t have any unsightly scarring or pocks. No, it would be quite inconvenient - nigh on impossible! - for Ralph to have the weekend off. He wouldn’t need telling, either. Catherty could smell the weakness (and possibly the chili) on the boy, tittering on like a frightened rabbit. Ralph wouldn’t need telling, just a bit of convincing to the contrary. Reasonable doubt, like.
“Reunion, eh?” Mr. Catherty smacks his lips with a visible distaste. “Never much cared for them, myself. And the first one in five or more years? Aren’t you close with your family, boy?” (Ralph shakes his head, a bit ashamed with himself.) Catherty goes on, “And I suppose a lot of them are getting on a lot worse than the last time you’d seen them, eh? Old and infirm and all that?” (Ralph can only imagine. His grandparents must be in their eighties by now, aunts and uncles and parents all in their fifties and sixties.) “Suppose it’s a shame, having to see them after all this time at their worst. Sad really.” (All of them, fat and arthritic and wheezy. Complaining about their health, asking about Ralph’s ambitions and making faces about washing dishes for a living.) “I remember when my parents died. I hadn’t seen them in ages, missed the decline and all of that. It was kind of nice, really, being able to look at those caskets and remember how they were as I knew them, when they were in their prime.”
Catherty gazes wistfully at his beer, wondering if the boy is buying any of it. He certainly looks troubled enough, like he’ll eat his bandana any minute. Ralph imagines it all, drearily sitting around picnic tables listening awkwardly to nearly forgotten old relics, hobnobbing with strangers called cousins and having to figure out bizarre sleeping arrangements on the floor like refugees. Then there’s the drive and back, sixteen or seventeen hours’ worth in all. Gas prices as they are, the specter of terrorism afoot…
“I dunno, maybe I won’t go,” he tells Catherty, who worries that he’s betrayed a smile as he feigns surprise. “I mean, I’ll think about it. I’ll get back to you,” Ralph adds as he stands, putting his bandana back atop his head.
“Take your time, boyo,” Catherty advises him solemnly. As the timid dishwasher slouches back to smoke another cigarette, the fat old fox cheerily decides to help himself to another pint from the bar.
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