The Busboy

Young man learns about life 'on the job.'

I want to thank HeyAll for organizing the On The Job Challenge 2023.

I hope you enjoy the story as much as I did writing it.

There's no descriptive sex in this one. There are some wives, a fiancé, and of course, per the rules, a JOB!

It's long, with many characters that are all interconnected within subplots. If you're not looking for that, you may want to skip this one or, come back to it later.

Relax; it's just a story, people.

[Copyright 2023. All rights reserved]

When I, David Mills, was fourteen, my life drastically changed for the second time in as many years when I heard about a job at our local country club.

Two years prior, my mother had finally divorced my drunken and abusive father. That had left me, the oldest of three boys, as a quasi-caregiver and general housemaid while my mom worked extremely hard to put food on the table and keep the roof over our heads.

I'd hated it. I'd never asked for a shitty father, and I'd certainly never imagined what sacrifices would have to be made to get him the hell out of our lives and our house.

Mom certainly hadn't gotten much relief; she'd often come home from work exhausted, and then compound everyone's misery by checking to see if me and my brothers had done every single chore she'd assigned us to her satisfaction. She'd been hard on us, but that was because she'd also been hard on herself. Deep down, I'd known she was just scared - scared to fail. I'd done my best, for a kid. At the very least, I'd learned early on how to take care of myself.

By age fourteen, though, I'd had all I could take. Besides the home front, school wasn't going well. I found most of my high school teachers pretentious and some outright disinterested in the job. I did have three instructors - all men - who'd tried to take me under their wing. I suppose they'd seen some potential, but I'd been constantly throwing up roadblocks. That may have had to do with my father, but who knows?

A friend at school had told me the local country club was hiring busboys. I'd told him it probably wouldn't fly because I was too young to work; I'd just started high school a few weeks before he'd approached me. My friend had said that he was fifteen, but had also started at my age. Child labor laws had been looser back then, even on paper. Unbeknownst to me at the time, enforcement of them had been kind of a joke.

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Joe Haidar, the club GM, gave me a ten-minute interview, and I was officially hired. Mom was very upset when I gave her the news. I just shrugged and told her we needed the extra money. I remember she remained sad for a while, but that eventually faded.

Two weeks after my first shift, something else happened. On a Friday night at the local roller rink with some friends, I met Lisa. We skated together and we talked.

We ate nachos at the snack bar, and we talked some more. We knew an awful lot about each other by the time the session ended. Without any premeditation, I gently placed her up against the wall by the exit and leaned in for a kiss. It wasn't my first teenage smooch, but it was the first impromptu one.

Lisa and I began to see each other any Friday or Saturday that I didn't work at my job. Her mother and mine had to drive each of us to the rink. Whenever I was home, especially on weeknights, we talked on the phone. That girl loved to talk, and I was enthralled by her voice. Both our mothers were constantly nagging us to get off the phone. We're talking rotary, with no party line. If anyone was trying to get through, well then tough luck. One day - I don't remember where - I found one of those extra-long twenty-foot cords that connected the receiver to the handset. That allowed me to move through our kitchen, down the hall, and halfway down our basement steps for privacy.

Life was good for the next few years, with a few interesting twists. Six months after I was hired, the club burned to the ground. A cook in the members' Grille Room had left four slices of bacon under the radiant broiler while running to the inventory cage to get another ingredient. The problem was, she weighed three-hundred-eighty pounds and had no 'run' in her. By the time she returned, the fire was already up into the hood system working towards the second floor, despite the Ansul system.

Three of us sat on the grass across the street and watched the fire consume the entire structure in less than two hours. Carlos and his brother Marco Demarcus were the 'pot washers' and food prep guys, among many other talents as I'd later learn.

I expected that would be the end of my job, and that bummed me out for more than just the obvious reason. The owner of the club had made a point of interacting with all of his employees, including the busboys. As we sat there watching the firefighters giving up, I felt bad for the guy who'd lost this place. He'd always conducted himself in a caring and sincere manner, from what I'd seen. I'd found myself wanting to know more about him, and had been fascinated by the framed bio of him, hanging in the front lobby. It told the rags to riches story of a determined man.

Fordie F. Ford was born Forti Shaheen, and he'd emigrated from Lebanon with his family to Minnesota at the age of fourteen. During the second world war, they'd moved to the Detroit area to build rear axles for military vehicles.

At twenty-one, Forti had changed his legal name and decided to try his hand as a car salesman. He'd been very good. By thirty, he'd purchased the top Ford dealership in the heart of the city using his family's savings. The dealership had gotten recognized by The Ford Motor Company year after year, earning the highest rankings in both sales and service. He'd purchased the club in 1962 after having been denied membership into an exclusive Detroit country club near Grosse Pointe.

I was surprised at Ford's approach to the total loss of his club, but based on that bio - which would end up getting quite the update, post-fire - I shouldn't have been. Within four months, the 183,000-square-foot former structure was being rebuilt into a 495,000-square-foot country club and banquet and convention center.

Needless to say, I didn't lose my job. There were literally hundreds of things for a kid like me to do on a project of that magnitude. Just moving the furniture in took two dozen of us an entire month to do.

The whole project took only ten months after the building was up. I was working as hard as I could, and I supposed my bosses on each gig liked my hustle. I kept getting put on new jobs - sometimes with the same guys, sometimes not. By the time the club was almost ready to open, I felt like I'd put a piece of myself into it. I felt proud of it. Ford was a businessman who wanted deadlines met , and he knew that a little bit of investment at the ground floor - not too much, but just enough - could help ensure they were. I'm sure he didn't give a shit about how proud me and the other guys felt, but with our pockets full of bread, we didn't give a shit that he didn't give a shit. It was a great relationship.

Officially opening on January 20, 1975, the River's Bend Banquet Center and Country Club featured eight world-class ballrooms, complete with lavish crystal chandeliers, the smallest of which could handle little meetings or showers of up to seventy-five people. The largest room, The Penthouse, was on the top floor and could handle 2500 people for a served meal, or, theatre-style, up to 6000 for a concert or boxing event. There were five luxury apartments behind that ballroom, three smaller apartments on the first floor for employees, and in the main lobby across from the offices, a full-sized chapel, which was maintained by the local clergy of all denominations.

The kitchen was even more impressive. While each ballroom had its own 'pantry' that was larger than ninety percent of most hotels and stand-alone banquet-center kitchens, the main kitchen was underground, and just the dish-washing area was bigger than most restaurants of the day. The first time we were allowed into the newly-completed facility, I had to stop and count: twenty-seven double-stacked convection ovens. Who needs fifty-four ovens? We did.

The first couple of months after reopening were crazy. That was likely due to the newness and the media attention. Wednesdays and Thursdays, the crew, including me, would move hundreds of tables and thousands of chairs according to the floor charts on the banquet prospectuses. On Friday nights, a third-party company specializing in auditorium set up would come in, because the rest of us would have already worked a ten- or eleven-hour shift.

After that, I was asked to switch positions and work in the members' Fine Dining room, though I did still occasionally have to clock some hours in the Grille Room just below it too. For the main gig, I had to learn the art of French service and white glove flambé. That was when the money started rolling in. It took a few months under the old bartender's tutelage to learn that all these members had a minimum to spend, and that the better I did, the more of that would be mine. Making five hundred per week, plus nearly the same in tips, was a lot of money in 1975.

I started skipping school to work more, even though I knew I shouldn't be. None of the managers ever questioned why I was working on a week-day.

Perhaps the best part of working with the members was getting to know them. Of two-hundred and nineteen members, two-hundred and three were southern Michigan Sicilian mafia. The other sixteen were Michigan mayors or congressmen. My first opportunity to speak directly with one family head - godfather, if you will - came about purely by accident. The Thrilla in Manilla heavyweight prize fight between Joe Frazier and Mohammed Ali was all the talk in the weeks leading up to it. I was arguing with a few of the members I knew well, trying to make my point about why Frazier was going to pummel Ali.

James "Jimmy" Leone happened to be passing by and took an interest in the back-and-forth banter - but he wasn't the kind of guy to just stand back and listen.

"Hey, busboy," he said with a little sideways smile, "let's say wager. You sound pretty sure of yourself. How much?"

"I don't know, sir... fifty bucks!" I'm sure I sounded like an idiot - clueless, and way too enthusiastic. Jimmy seemed to understand my dilemma.

"I'm just a guy looking for a bet," he said. "Don't worryaboudit. If you're that sure, you should put your money where your mouth is."

"Alright," I replied quickly. "I'll bet you my next check." The Italians snickered, and at least two of them outright laughed at me.

"Okay, busboy," he said in a conciliatory tone. "Show me your check stub when you win, so I know what to pay you."

Of course, I lost the bet. Jimmy was enjoying breakfast with one of his security goons as I walked up and placed the check next to his newspaper. Payday had been the day before. I'd held off picking up my check, terrified I might lose it - or forget and just deposit or cash it - before I'd showed him how much he owed me.

His eyes glanced up, but his head didn't move. "Ah, busboy," he said quietly. "Have a seat."

When I was seated, the server came by, but Jimmy waved her off. Then he stopped eating, carefully placed his fork down, and looked directly at me. Just his eyes were imposing. I was suddenly terrified.

"Let me tell you a little secret, busboy," he began. "I like you. The club likes you, or I wouldn't bother. How do you think it is that Ali won that fight? I mean, you had some great points. How did he do it?"

I sat, dumbstruck. I felt as if I were in the presence of a king. I tried to think, but it seemed I took too long to answer.

"Let me help you out," he continued. "He didn't. You see, son, prize fights - every single one of them since Rocky Marciano - have been fixed.

"I knew who would win for only one reason: I'm connected. Don't bet on one again, unless you only want a 50-50 proposition. If you want a sure bet, come see me first.

"Now go do something nice for your girlfriend," he said, sliding the check across the table.

With that, he nodded slightly at his guy, and they stood to leave. He turned while leaving and said, "Same with presidential elections. That's not us; they're fixed by the Secretaries of States, whom we own." I never really wanted to believe that, but later, an obscure, no-name peanut farmer became president, and not long after that, a Hollywood actor. I guess disbelief is one thing, while disproving something is quite another. I never dwelled on his words.

I had no intention of taking his advice about my own money that he'd gifted me. That's because I had my eye on a 1972 Dodge Charger SE slapstick with a 318 stock - just like Vin Diesel's car in Fast & Furious, except green. A guy at school was selling it for four hundred. A co-worker who'd just graduated with his technician's license from mechanic's school had offered to help me rebuild the engine, with the main goal being to make it 'scream.'

I was inconsolable two days later when I learned that the kid had sold it for three-eighty. But a week later, Carlos Demarcus found me and said I was needed in the members' valet area.

There was the car, with a new paint job, and there was Jimmy Leone.

When my initial shock faded, Jimmy tossed me the keys and said, "Take it for a spin!" Then as an afterthought: "You do have a driver's license, right?"

I did. When I returned, he was waiting alone.

"You like it kid?" he asked with that crooked smile. I nodded. He came over to me and placed his arm over my shoulders. "Just a little gift for your honesty." Then he leaned in and said in a more hushed voice, "I may need you to run some errands. Are you up for that?"

That's how I became a sixteen-year-old bagman for the mob.

I guess my trustworthiness paid dividends for all concerned. I never once looked inside the bags - either the ones I took or the ones I returned with. Teddy Lafata, Tony George, and several other well-dressed club members started talking to me sometimes, using only the nickname 'Busboy.'

Lisa was still my long-distance relationship. Now I had a car to drive out to her house or pick her up, but her mother had become so strict with her that we became very frustrated. You didn't back-sass Mrs. Schear, either - not if you knew what was good for you.

Joe, my boss, never seemed to care if I was summoned by one of the members to 'run an errand.' Looking back, I think they had a deal. I wasn't asked to do mafia bidding during the hustle and bustle of banquets in progress, but during the week, we were just scheduling, setting up, and ordering supplies for the busy weekends. Joe actually took a proactive approach with me with regard to school.

"David, sit down," he said one Friday afternoon. "Tell me the truth, son. How often are you cutting class?"

"I, uh... well, quite a bit," I stammered.

"Okay," he sighed. "If you aren't going to get an education at school, you might as well get one here. Here's what I want you to do. Go to your first class of the day. Then go to your second. Then come straight here. You're going to learn how the kitchen works. You're going to learn a trade, one position at a time, without pay. How does that sound?"

That's how I became a full-time busboy, part-time bagman, and chef in training.

February was approaching and Lisa was about to turn eighteen. She was a grade ahead even though we were the same age. Graduation was coming soon for her, while, as a junior, I had only accumulated enough credits to be a half-sophomore.

Valentine's Day was our holiday, since that's the day we'd met. Her birthday was four days prior, so, like the previous three years, I went all out. After a lavish dinner at a high-end lobster joint in the suburbs, Lisa and I went to a little motel that was pay-by-the-hour, and we both lost our virginities. I was on the clock that night, too, since I had to make a quick stop at a house only a few blocks from the motel. Lisa never even asked what I was dropping off or picking up. I guessed that meant the sex had been good for her, but I never asked.

Winter gave way to spring, and Lisa started to change. Her parents bought her a chic-looking Mustang hatchback for a graduation present. She started hanging out with a new school crowd, and then, just weeks before receiving her diploma, found a job at a well-known restaurant chain. That opened the door for more new friends. Suddenly, she had no more time to talk to me.

At the end of May, I told my mother I was moving into my own apartment at the club to work more during the summer. Mom and I had been at odds since I'd gotten the job, and our relationship had gone frigid. Later, I realized she'd been giving me space and time to figure things out, but as a kid, that had escaped me. I'd call Lisa from my new room at night, desperate to talk to her, but she was gone. When I wasn't at work, I was alone - not actually alone, since I could simply leave my room and be surrounded by lots of people I knew, but I felt alone.

Finally, after Lisa's graduation, we discussed taking the summer off from each other, agreeing to get back together in September to see how we felt about our future. I worked very hard. I learned how to cook. I learned how to prep. I learned how much product to order and from whom. I was given the task of taking inventory in the large, double-locked product cage, complete with three separate walk-ins - meat, dairy, and produce - and a giant freezer. There was also a dry storage room and the liquor room.

On top of all that, I was put in charge of the banquet bussers and set-up girls. It was 1978, so those were still a thing; my boss, Joe, was still calling waitresses 'stupid broads' when they screwed up. From him, I learned how to schedule and keep labor costs within guidelines.

The summer went by in a blur. I could barely remember any of it. September came, and Lisa called. We talked together in a park near her house, and she told me about her summer adventures. She told me about a couple guys she dated too, and I felt jealous for the first time. It hurt, but I was determined not to ask her about them. We'd made a deal, after all.

She apologized for being such a bitch, as she put it, and for being so selfish. She professed her love and wanted us back together. That's what I wanted too, but I let her know that my responsibilities at the club had increased a lot, and that meant I wasn't going to be available whenever she wanted. She readily agreed and told me she'd just try to get more hours at her own job.

A month later, Lisa called me on a Friday. She needed to see me right away. I was getting ready for a fairly busy night at the club but asked Joe for a personal favor. Lisa seemed beside herself on the phone. I remained on the clock, and drove out to her place, breaking the speed limit laws.

When I got there, she came straight out and took me to their backyard picnic table. I saw her mother standing in the kitchen window watching us intently.

"David," she said, and alligator tears just started pouring out of her eyes. "I've made a terrible mistake.

"I've ruined us, and... and..." she couldn't continue for several minutes as I held her. Finally, she calmed down a bit but wouldn't meet my gaze.

"I'm... I'm..." she stuttered, "I'm pregnant!" She was crying again, but something inside me was happy she was actually carrying my child - until it dawned on me.