The Busboy

"I didn't have time to think," she kept on. "I was trying to help you, David. I knew you'd blow a gasket, so I decided to try to keep you two from fighting. Then he put his arms against the wall, and I realized he'd tricked me by trying to pretend something else."

"Angela," I said softly, "I don't believe you. You just turned with him... turned your back on me. I can't un-see that or un-feel it. You told me it would be okay. It isn't okay. I'm questioning everything we've ever had together."

Angela was crying - not sobbing or whimpering like some helpless woman. She was sad, but not out of control.

"David," she said, "I told you I could handle him - take care of it my own way. I told you to go for your own benefit - not his, and not mine. When we got in his room, I told him he was out of his mind if he thought we were going to do anything. He told me that I'd come into his room, turning down my own fiancé right to his face.

"He said no one would ever believe he forced himself on me. I told him I was a virgin and everyone knew that. I told him he'd end up in prison, and I'd file a civil suit afterward. After a few moments assessing me, he told me to relax."

"Then why did you do it in the first place?" I was getting angry again. "You just admitted he tricked you. Plus, we've had this discussion. I'm supposed to be handling that son-of-a-bitch."

"Because," she said, standing taller, "it was exactly what I keep telling you, and you're not supposed to be handling him. He's playing you for some reason. We just have to find other jobs and get out. Then we can put all this behind us."

"I can't see putting this behind us, Angela," I replied. "I'm so damned angry with you, I... "

"Why?" she said. "I just told you what happened. Don't you believe me? Is this some kind of guy thing? Some ego thing, or is it pride? I don't understand."

"Yes, to a degree," I responded honestly. "You chose him, right to my face." I was repeating myself, and I couldn't make her understand.

"But it isn't like that," she said emphatically. "Look, I'm probably done with the beauty pageant thing, but what if, down the road, say... I was offered a modeling contract? What if I did well and made a name for myself? How would it feel to you if you... attended a fashion show, or some other public event as my escort? You know, I mean, as my husband and my escort?

"You're having a hard time letting me deal with this situation," she continued, on a roll. "I don't think I could handle all the jealousy stuff. You'd have to be more... mature. You'd have to trust me."

I thought about what she said. There was a certain truth and logic to her points. I wouldn't like it much if she was constantly surrounded by the sleazeballs I suspected were a part of that industry. It was probably pay-for-play, and her pussy would be on the menu. It seemed like a ticking time bomb to me, just then. The big word - eventually - came to mind - as in, eventually, who wouldn't succumb to that combination of carrot and stick to make it in a high-profile career?

"I don't know," I replied, lost in my thoughts. "I'll have to think more about all that. Are you thinking of getting into modeling or something?"

Angela hesitated. Her rapid eye movement told me she was cautiously considering her next words. "I'm not sure." She paused, and then said, "Pierre knows all the fashion and design people in Paris. He said he could connect me. Get someone here to do headshots and send them to the important model scouts."

"Fuck, Angela," I said, shaking my head. "Haven't you learned anything from this? That fucker wants to get you in his bed. He doesn't care about helping you build a career in modeling - not unless he's getting a cut of the action. I'm not the only one here that needs to do some thinking or make decisions. You need to figure out what exactly you're doing, or what you want for your future. I thought we were going to college to become normal people? Please give me the engagement ring for now. That's on hold, until you... we decide. I won't be a part of anything you do with Pierre. If I were you, I wouldn't count on his help. He's gonna be a little busy soon."

Angela was sad. I think she realized how much she was pushing me away with her own selfishness. My final comment seemed to have resonated with her too. "Please, Dave," she pleaded, "don't become a gangster."

I said nothing, but held my open hand out to her. She slowly slid the ring off and handed it to me, but then gripped my closed hand with both of hers.

"I love you," she told me sincerely. "That much I know. I'll think about what you asked. Maybe you're right about him, but if that's true, then what I think I've wanted for myself and my future may not be. I just know I don't want to lose you. Please, promise me we'll keep talking and not just quit out of anger or frustration, okay?"

I told her we'd keep talking regularly. I also made it clear that if she continued to be with Pierre, we were done. That was as far as we got that day on agreement. I wanted her to let me deal with him, and I wanted transparency. She wouldn't budge on that. Driving back to the club, I felt like we were already done - that it would take a miracle to get back what I'd felt we'd lost.

The next morning, I was up early. Carlos was in the kitchen, laying out sheet pans to start prepping baked potatoes when I found him. I gave a little nod for him to come with me; he followed me down the hall and into the men's locker room. I told him what I needed done, and he assured me he could pull it off.

An hour later, Carlos pulled up in valet on a golf cart right in front of Pierre's car. He got off and came into the building, returning minutes later with a bunch of supplies for the Oasis snack bar out on the course. After loading everything, he looked over his right shoulder, put the cart into gear, and hit the gas. The cart lunged forward, presumably by accident, smashing into Pierre's vehicle and taking out a headlight. The cart also left a couple large scratches.

I'd already been thinking about the next thing I could do to hurt Pierre, but as it turned out, I needn't have. Something just fell into my lap.

Ford called me to his office the very next morning. "David," he began after motioning to a chair in front of his desk. "Joe has taken an extended leave of absence. He needs a break. You'll continue on as assistant club manager, but I've hired an interim GM."

I simply raised an eyebrow.

"It's Tim Peters," he told me.

Tim Peters was a very-part-time banquet maître'd, and a sloth. He probably only took work when his wife couldn't stand having him around the house. He had a gut the size of three bowling balls, while the rest of him was normal size. That meant his suit jackets didn't fit because he had to buy something that would button. Tim also smoked like a chimney. I'd almost fired him once when I'd caught him chatting up a female guest while leaving a bridal party at the mercy of a photographer, and while I'd had one-hundred seventy-five meals getting cold. There'd been no invocation that night, and no "may I have your attention everyone, please help me welcome the new Mr. and Mrs..." whatever their name had been.

"I'm going to end up firing him, Ford," I said resolutely.

"No, you are not!" Ford's face turned red. "You're going to work with him... alongside him. You're going to do it, because I asked, and because we need him. You're already burning out. And while I'm at it, you and my nephew are going to start getting along. No more of this childishness. With regard to Tim, you're my number one, but he's the boss. Understand?"

I gave a defeated sigh, but looked him in the eye and told him I would. On the inside, though, I was about to explode with excitement.

Peters was a Pierre crony, constantly hanging around him in the Grille Room or card room. Rumor had it that Tim owed Pierre a good sum of money, and his obsequious presence was his way of assuring Pierre that he wasn't running away from that obligation.

I went directly down to the men's locker room and was fortunate to find Jimmy heading off toward the pro shop. I asked him to confirm my suspicions about Peters, and he asked why. I told Jimmy what had just transpired.

"Oh shit!" he said with a chuckle. "That's probably Pierre trying to make sure he keeps Peters close by and making payments. Keep an eye on that fucker, busboy. He's like a chicken in a birdbath."

Fucking Jimmy, I thought, and his fucked-up analogies.

An hour later, Tim walked into the kitchen office. It had become yet another of my offices since Joe had left.

"Hey David." He smiled somewhat bashfully as he extended his hand. "I look forward to working together." He must have been looking for something in my demeanor, because he quickly added, "I know we haven't seen eye-to-eye sometimes. I'm gonna need you... your expertise if we're going to make a smooth transition."

Smooth transition, my ass. I knew Tim would stab me in the back the minute he could. I told him I'd help in any way I could, hoping I'd sold it.

I took some time that day to really study him; I hadn't bothered before, because he'd been a nobody. He sported a department-store suit; slicked-back, Grecian-formula salt-and-pepper hair; and a creepy mustache. He was on cloud nine, walking around talking to staff and, later, members in the Grille Room. His chest was puffed out like a peacock. I promised myself then that his first day would be his best day.

The next day, Tim came into my office and helped himself to a seat. Then he gave me a gift, although he was completely unaware that he did. He was making it far too easy.

"Most of our banquet complaints I'm reading through have to do with poor service, not food," he said, leaving it dangling. "Why do you think that is?"

"You know why, same as me," I said confidently. "I even heard you mention it to Joe a while back. He was just too stubborn to take anyone's advice or even listen. We don't have enough staff, especially for the sit-down functions."

Tim gave me a thoughtful look, gauging my sincerity. "Well, you're the one in charge of scheduling, so fix it." He gave a wan smile. "You have my blessing. Just show me what you're proposing before you post it."

I made a big deal of telling him that he'd absolutely have to approve it because I didn't think Ford would like it. I wanted him to think I didn't trust him, and he took the bait.

The next afternoon, I brought him the schedules for the weekend's full house at a point where he seemed quite busy. As I'd suspected he would, he skimmed them and handed them back to me.

"So I can post them?" I asked with enthusiasm.

"Go through them one more time and tighten them up," he ordered. "Use your head."

I'd given Tim far too much credit. He didn't have a clue.

All eight ballrooms were in full swing Saturday night - not unusual for that time of year. The previous night had seen us handling six good-sized parties, and we'd had two small baby showers that afternoon. Those folks were on the clock so we could reset the rooms for Saturday night. The Penthouse wedding of some local mayor's kid, which had us feeding five-hundred-fifty guests, helped me round out my scheduling 'mishap.' Ford was going to have a coronary when he saw payroll.

Two servers and one busser for every twenty-four guests, or three eight-tops, had been the standard since the day I'd started at the club.. For every function that weekend, I upped it from two-and-one to three-and-two. In fact, I scheduled every full and every part-time employee we had, and then, had to call the local foodservice union for another ninety-eight - a record.

I didn't see Pierre the rest of the week, although I knew he was looming about. Angela was near frantic to talk to me and smooth things over. I told her how completely swamped I was with Peters being untrained and inept, and that she should know that. I told her I still had a lot of thinking to do. She wasn't happy. I knew quite well that I could be driving her straight into Pierre's arms.

Both Tim and I were off Monday. I was still at the club in the morning, but I was also going to a job interview. Tuesday, both Tim and I were summoned to Ford's office. Peters was already there when I arrived, and I barely got the door closed before Fordie started in.

"This was you!" he snorted with venom. "What was your hand in this?"

That was very harsh and out of character coming from Ford. I guessed Peters had made his case before I'd walked in.

I tried to look surprised, looking at Tim, and back to Fordie a few times. "Yes, sir," I then replied. "I did what you asked, sir."

"What?" Ford said, stunned. He wasn't expecting the answer. "And stop calling me 'sir!'"

"You asked me to help him... Tim," I said, acting off-kilter. "He asked me to adjust the schedules and then have him okay them before posting."

Tim turned white, but recovered quickly, launching out of his chair, red with rage. "Why you!" he growled, coming at me. Ford moved quickly to intercept as I recoiled.

"Sit down!" Ford ordered.

"This fucking punk kid," Peters screamed, his face all twisted up, "is trying to lay this on me. He fucking did this... on purpose."

Ford looked at me, and saw me staring at Peters a look of fear and betrayal on my face.

"Did you ask him to increase staff?" Ford asked him.

"No..." he stuttered, "I mean yeah... yes. But not like that!" Slow as he was, he knew what was coming next.

"Did Dave bring you the schedules to approve as you asked?" Tim hung his head. I was excused, and thirty minutes later Tim came down to the kitchen, finding me once more in his seat.

"You fucked me," he spat. "Don't think I'll let this slide."

I ignored his threat. "Fired?" I asked. His face turned beet red. I had my answer. "Then take your shit and get out of my office and off my property, you fat fuck."

The wild swing wasn't even worth ducking. My left knee immediately slammed into his jumbo-sized belly, and he doubled over.

I grabbed his ancient, ratty briefcase and walked past him. I was going to throw his sea chest out the door, hoping that whatever was inside flew all over the parking lot, but instead I just set it down.

Tim came hobbling down the corridor - full waddle - a minute or so later. "This isn't over." He was still making threats.

"Yes, it is," I said confidently. "Have you forgotten who all my friends are out on that golf course? I know all the guys you'd try to send after me, and they like me better." I motioned to the door with my eyes.

And that's how I finally became the short-lived general manager of a humongous banquet facility and club of gangsters.

At five that afternoon, Pierre walked right up to me in the food storage locker. I looked up at him over my order sheet, but didn't acknowledge him.

"Bon mouvement!" he said seriously, waiting.

"Sir, I'm not sure you're aware," I responded politely, "but I don't speak that shit language. English, por favor."

Pierre was unshaken. I don't know what I'd been expecting. He grabbed my wrist and stuffed a hundred-dollar bill into my palm.

"Good play," he snickered, "for a busboy. Go and get yourself whatever it is the poor enjoy."

I finally looked up at him, smiling evilly, and then took the bill, holding it up high and tearing it in half - twice. Then I reached down and tucked the pieces into the bottom of my shoe, before turning and leaving. I felt quite proud.

The next day, I'd had about enough of Angela's snotty tone over the intercom. I stormed into the office, and in front of everyone said, "Alright, enough of your attitude. The fact that you've had a relationship with the general manager of this club doesn't give you license to protrude your displeasure over our intercom system. Do it again and you're fired."

Angela looked at me sadly, but without any fear or concern. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, using her professional voice, "but I work for Mr. Ford, not for you." I could tell she felt good about herself.

"However," she continued, "At your earliest convenience, I would like to discuss the terms of said relationship." A few of the other girls were giggling.

"Four o'clock," I stammered. "My office."

"I want to talk seriously about our future, Dave," she began as soon as she hit my door.

"Oh," I opined. "I wasn't aware we had a future."

Angela sighed. "Please David," she said softly. "I don't want to fight. I understand you're hurt, being valiant, gallant - both his words and my mom's, by the way. I know you well enough to see it's pride. I've told you nothing happened. I've explained I don't want him. I want you."

She saw me chomping at the bit and waved me off.

"Yes, I want you," she courageously continued. "We have to get out of here. This place is... going to be the death of us if we stay. You're behaving like you hate me, and honestly, some of my love for you is taking a big hit, the way you're acting. I want us to talk about getting new jobs so we can stay in school and pay our bills. I'll even agree to us getting a one-bedroom apartment and split the rent. My mom will hate me, but we need to do something."

The steam inside of me was beginning to rise. Her love for me is taking a big hit? How could she possibly expect me not to lash out after what she did? It dawned on me then that there was a chance that Angela really could be that naïve - that she believed dealing with Pierre in her own way was somehow her obligation, and outside of us. If that were truly the case, then Angela and I had even bigger problems that probably could never be solved. In my gut, though, I still felt like Angela was taking that stance so she wouldn't have to come clean about her and Pierre. I couldn't accept that it was just ignorance and stubbornness.

"Sure," I said flatly, "but you're assuming a lot. The engagement is on hold, and I still have plenty to think about."

"You're just saying that," she retorted. "Maybe you're stalling, maybe you're unsure what to do, and yes, obviously still a little mad at me - probably all of the above. But I know you love me. I know it, and I love you. I told you I have to deal with him in my own way, you have to accept that, and you need to stop letting him goad you. You're better than that."

"Angela," I said with a heavy heart, "you're not understanding this. It's not high school. He's playing a man's game, and you're not a man. He's a selfish little boy inside a rich man's body. He's locked himself in some warped competition with me, and others at the club.

"I won't back down, and honestly, I don't want to. You're simply an object at this point - a playing piece on the board. As ashamed as I am to say so, because of how you've let this progress, and what you've done to this point, I'm treating you in much the same way he is. But I have to see this through. It's the only choice."

"No," she said quietly, and sadder than I'd ever heard her. "It isn't. You can simply walk away. Quit. You could just walk into Ford's office and hand in your keys. I'll be shortly behind you. This isn't life, David. A good education and the high-paying jobs that follow - that's longevity for a family and a good life. Not playing these games. Put the pieces and the board back in the game box, and put it away, high on the shelf."

I wasn't keen on her summarization: playing games. She'd also sworn she 'hadn't done anything' that night I'd caught them. I guessed 'anything' didn't include embracing and kissing. I didn't want to admit that I really couldn't or wouldn't believe her. Even from the beginning of Pierre's seduction, she'd flirted back.

I told her that I was having a hard time getting over what I'd seen her doing with him. I told her I wasn't ready to 'get over it.' I made sure she heard me loud and clear: I needed more time, and if we got back together at all, I'd need some promises from her in writing. She left, angry and frustrated.