Boys by Scott Semegran
I started the truck. It roared to life and I drove it north on Blanca Road, past my high school, past the other small businesses I daydreamed about working at, past my parents' neighborhood to Kirsty's neighborhood, Lincoln Estates. When I turned in, the squirrels and grackles scattered in several directions, making way for the monster truck and its underage driver. I drove down a few blocks and turned on a street I remembered my school bus turning on before, a street I was pretty sure was her street. After passing a few houses, I found the one I thought was hers and I parked in front. The rumble of the truck set off some motion detectors on the house, flood lights sparked to life to illuminate the driveway. I killed the engine, hopped out of the cab, pulled the magnetic Demitri's Greek Food sign off the side of the truck, and tossed it in the bed. I made my way up the walkway to the front door. A pair of hazel-green eyes peeked through the beveled glass of the front door. When I rang the doorbell, the door quickly opened. It was her, my crush, Kirsty.
"Hey!" she said, nervous and a little confused. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought you lived here."
"Obviously!" she said, rolling her eyes, snickering. "That's funny."
"Yeah."
"Did you need something?" she asked, cocking her head slightly, looking at me then over my shoulder at the huge truck in front of her house. "Is that yours?"
"Yeah," I said. I lied.
"Pretty cool. Must be nice having your own truck."
"Yeah. It's cool."
"Cool," she said, extending her right foot forward, then swirling it around as if she was writing a note in cursive on the door threshold.
"Want to go for a ride with me?" I asked. Then her mom started yelling something from deep inside the house. "It won't take long."
"A friend is at the door mom! I got it!" she said, yelling back at her mother. "She's sooo annoying." She rolled her eyes.
"Sorry if I came without asking."
"No, it's OK. I promise. I just have a lot of homework to do. Can I get a rain check?"
"Yeah."
"Was that the kind of car you really wanted to buy with the money you made from your job?"
"No, I wanted something else, actually."
"Well, I don't care what kind of car you have as long as you take me for a ride. Deal?"
"Deal," I said. I could feel my face getting flushed.
"I gotta go. See you at school." She smiled before closing the door.
I walked back to the truck, hopped in the cab, and drove that beast back to Demitri's.
***
Fall of 1987. All I thought about was my girl Kirsty. That was all I thought about when I was 16, all day, all night. We talked about eloping to California because she wanted to be a movie star. I wanted to be an artist so I thought that was a pretty OK idea. We both were ready to leave home and we made plans while driving around in my 1977 Toyota Corona, a car I partially paid for with money I made working at Demitri's Greek Food. I didn't work at Demitri's anymore but I still would go there every once and a while and eat a gyro sandwich with my girl. She didn't care much for Greek food but I didn't care about that. I loved her anyway.
We made crazy plans, together, all the time talking about what we would do and where we would go. When we were in my little shitty car, we were in our own world. We listened to the Pet Shop Boys and drove around all night, the cold, conditioned air blowing from the dash vents, West End Girls playing on the cassette deck, the two of us dreaming of living in California, Los Angeles or maybe San Francisco, anywhere but San Antonio, Texas.
The Discarded Feast
Dinner from the G.D.A.M.
We sat across from each other in the small living room of my small apartment, on the floor around my beat-up coffee table, piles of coins and dollar bills on top, two tall boys of beer on ratty paper coasters from the restaurant there too, counting our tips. It was not a good night for tips but the quantity of coins and bills looked deceiving in their unorganized state, looked like we had a lot more money than we actually had. We enjoyed the optical illusion, briefly. We smiled as we pushed the piles of coins and bills around in front of us then raised our cans of beer to toast.
"To Pasta Warehouse," I said.
"To Pasta Warehouse!" my friend Alfonso said.
"Cheers!"
"No, say it the Mexican way. When you toast, say 'Salud!'"
"SALUD!"
We touched our cans together then gulped the cheap beers, crushing the cans when we were through, tossing the cans to the side on the floor, returning to organize the coins and bills, hoping to make rent. We were an odd looking pair of friends. I was lanky and short and white. Alfonso was massive and tall and Hispanic. But what we lacked in commonality of outward appearance was made up by similar character traits of kindness, empathy, and extreme loyalty. We were good young men and good friends to each other.
"You count yours. I'll count mine. Let's see what we got," I said.
"All right," Alfonso said.
We each counted our loot, stacking coins by type, stacking wadded dollar bills, slowly but surely. When everything was accounted for, we looked at each other unenthusiastically.
"Wha cha got?" I said.
"$19.43." Alfonso said. "Wha choo got?"
"$21.25. I win!"
We both laughed a hearty laugh, one filled with exuberance as well as relief. It couldn't get much worse.
"You are the winner. Of what, I really don't know. Want another beer?" Alfonso said.
"We're out."
"The GODDAMN has more tall boys for 99 cents. I think they're still open."
"Let's go!"
We left my apartment and hurried down the indoor hallway toward the building exit. My apartment building was old and kinda rundown and a little neglected and the floors squeaked and cracked as we ran down the hall, a loud racket that was annoying to all the tenants of the building. We knew this and shooshed each other as we changed gears to a speed-walk. All we could think about was more beer.
SALUD!
Outside, we careened through the parking lot, walking briskly. The apartment complex--probably built in the early 1970s from the cheapest building materials possible--was nestled in some hills covered in live oaks and the asphalt covering the parking lot rolled and humped and curved its way to the main street. We sped-walk with purpose: beer.
"Are you worried that we don't have the rent?" Alfonso said.
"Nah. If I need to, I will call my folks for help. Don't worry about it. OK?"
"OK."
"Or we can just pickup extra shifts."
"Another eight hours for another $20 in tips?"
"Yep."
"Lame."
"I know."
The convenience store was on the corner across the street from my complex: The G.D.A.M. Or, as we called it, The GODDAMN. The G.D.A.M. actually stood for something along the lines of Gerald's Deli and Asian Market considering the owner's name was Gerald and he was Asian and he sold Asian stuff as well as sandwiches. But to us, it was The GODDAMN. That's where we bought our beer, cigarettes, and cat food, and sometimes dinner. A couple of bucks went a long way at The GODDAMN.
Inside, the owner Gerald sat behind the counter, surrounded by display after display of scratch-off lottery tickets and penis enlargement pills and energy drinks and condoms and candy bars and, well, you name it. Gerald knew us and always greeted us when we came in his store late at night.
"Hal-oh, my friends!" he said.
"Wazzup, Gerald!" Alfonso said.
"Got Miller on special. In the ice."
"Thanks Gerald."
We dug in the trough of ice, pulling out two tall boys of Miller beer. 99 cents each.
"We should probably get Mr. Whiskers some dinner too," I said.
We perused the pet food aisle and grabbed a can of cat food. 50 cents each. Back at the counter, we placed the beer and cat food on it for Gerald to see. He had a sly grin on his face like one of the creatures in the cantina from the movie Star Wars. The s
"I got Marlboro on special. Buy two, get two free. Want some?" he said.
"Yep." I said.
"Beer and cat food? Looks like a party night," he said, cackling afterwards, stuffing our purchase in a brown paper sack--a cartoon of his face emblazoned on the side.
"Yeah, it's party time," Alfonso said, sarcastically.
"Oh friends, life is hard but beer always make it better. Enjoy! See you tomorrow." He slid the brown paper sack across the counter to us.
We smiled and waved goodbye and walked out of The GODDAMN and crossed the empty street. To our right, the city skyline of Austin, Texas, stretched above the street in the distance, glowing with a mix of fluorescent and phosphorescent and neon lights, a few skyscrapers poking the night sky, wispy clouds slithering behind them. Just a mile or so away, it seemed to us like thousands of miles.
"I wish we could go out tonight, have some drinks, meet some chicks, get our dance on. Something. Anything, except sit at home doing nothing," Alfonso said.
"Yeah," I said.
Back in my apartment, we plopped down around the coffee table, opened our beers, took some swigs, and I opened the can of cat food, the sound of the lid bending and crackling and popping open, called to the cat, who appeared instantly, meowing and purring and nuzzling and flustered. Alfonso got a kick out of my cat's crazed behavior.
"Ha ha! Look at Mr. Whiskers. He's psycho!" he said.
"Poor little dude," I said. "I forgot to feed him this morning and we were gone for over 12 hours."
I set the can of cat food on the carpet and Mr. Whiskers devoured it in a matter of seconds. He purred contentedly, rubbed his kitty face along my leg, rubbed his kitty butt along Alfonso's leg, then jumped on the couch to give himself a bath.
"He's good."
"He's lucky to have you as an owner," Alfonso said. "I'm lucky to have you as a roommate, Seff. I don't know what I would have done if you didn't help me out."
"No worries, buddy."
"As soon as I save up some money, I'll get my own place," he said, looking down with what I could only discern was shame.
"Don't worry about it, stay as long as you want."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. It's kind of nice having a roommate, actually. Mr. Whiskers likes it too, another hand to scratch him."
"Cool."
"Cool."
"We gotta get some better shifts at the P.W. Why do they give all the good shifts to the females?"
"Cause they're hot!"
"True. True. But we gotta get some more cash. You need to talk to Laura Ann about switching or picking up some of the shifts the females got."
"Why do I need to talk to Laura Ann?"
"Cause she likes you."
"No, she doesn't. She's way, WAY out of my league. WAY OUT!"
"Nah, I've seen her checking you out. She likes you."
"No, she doesn't. Quit saying that and getting my hopes up."
"It's true. You should talk to her, pick up some good shifts and help a brother out. Do it!"
"OK, I'll talk to her tomorrow."
"Do it now."
"But I don't have her number."
"I do," Alfonso said, a sly grin stretching across his face. "I got her digits."
"How do you have her digits?"
"That's none of your goddamn business, I just do. A pimp has to have his hooker's digits!"
We cackled uncontrollably, rolling over on the floor, beer flying here and there, Mr. Whiskers bolting out of the living room for a safer hangout.
"Seriously, though. She digs you. I can tell," Alfonso said.
"Sure."
"Whatever. What time's your shift in the A.M.?"
"I got the 10 which means I have to be there at 9:30. When's yours?"
"10:30. I'll just ride with you and hang out before my shift. Cool?"
"Yeah, cool."
"Want to watch I'm Gonna Git You Sucka?"
"Duh."
We turned on the tiny TV, which was hooked to a massive stereo system with large speakers, one of the few things held over from my previous life of comfort from upper middle-class privilege in San Antonio, Texas, a life that seemed like an eternity before our current life of slight desperation, basically a few missteps away from destitute poverty. We barely had enough to live on and were quite a ways from making the rent. But, we still had a couple of weeks before rent was due and we had each other and sometimes that's all you need to survive, sometimes that's all you need to hold off reality a little bit, to make things more bearable. That and something to laugh about.
SALUD!
The Trolley: The Assignment of Doom
Pasta Warehouse was a massive, corporate restaurant that sat in a primo spot in downtown Austin, about ten blocks south of the Capitol Building, one block west of Congress Avenue, and a couple miles away from where we lived, my crappy apartment just south of Town Lake. Originally, in the 1920s, the building it occupied was a downtown trolley station, but sometime in the 1980s, it became a family-friendly Italian restaurant. There were several other Pasta Warehouses in Texas, in similar downtown locations, in the other big cities across the State--Dallas, Houston, San Antonio, and we had visited all of them for some reason on excursions to those cities--but they didn't seem quite as fun to work at as the one in Austin. Alfonso and me usually rode to work together in one car so we could share the burden of paying to park, an unfortunate side effect of working downtown, and usually, without fail, got ready for work on the ride there while listening to old school rap--tying our neck ties, combing our hair, checking our teeth, looking for pens for for aprons, and rapping. We particularly liked to rap along with Chuck D to some nasty Public Enemy beats, the best pre-game routine if there ever was one for restaurant servers.
Since there wasn't a lot of inexpensive parking downtown and most parking lots around the restaurant cost $7 or $8 minimum per day, the hunt for a metered spot was very competitive and cutthroat. It was much more lucrative for a server to spend $2 or $3 on metered parking than $8 for a parking lot space, especially since the opportunity to be cut from our shift after two hours was always possible, usually the case actually. So, while I drove, Alfonso was on the lookout for a metered spot near the P.W.
"See anything?" I said.
"Not yet," Alfonso said. "Want a quick smoke?"
"Sure. Light me one."
Alfonso placed two cigarettes in his mouth and lit both simultaneously, giving one to me and keeping the other for himself. We inhaled and exhaled in unison, filling the car with smoke, as we continued to look for a spot. Then one appeared.
"There!" Alfonso said, pointing to his right, barking at me, bouncing in his seat. "See that spot?! Over there!"
"I see it!"
The spot was on the other side of the intersection as I waited behind a couple of cars at a stop sign. It was in a place on the one-way street that wasn't easily accessible from our current position so we were going to have to cross the intersection, turn right up an alley, make another right down another alley, then make a right so I could parallel park in the spot.
"We're not going to make it," Alfonso said.
"I'll get it," I said, determined.
"Wanna bet?"
"Shit yeah! Bet what?"
"Our dinner."
"Deal!"
When it was our turn at the stop sign, I barreled through the intersection, the spot still vacant as we passed it, hope in my heart as I turned right in an alley, more hope welling up to my throat as I turned right down another, crazed excitement as I turned on the street, then screeching to a skid-marked halt at the now-occupied parking space. Someone beat us to it.
"Shit!" Alfonso said.
A beautiful brunette was sitting in the car in our metered spot. She applied lipstick to her plump lips looking in the visor mirror, her chocolate brown hair pulled back in a long, messy ponytail, her white blouse starched nicely with the top two buttons undone. She looked at me and Alfonso and winked.
"Laura Ann," Alfonso said.
"Yep. Lucky."
It took us another ten minutes to find a parking space, one that wasn't as close as the one Laura Ann stole from us, one that was a few blocks away. We ran to the P.W.--flicking our cigarette butts away, tying our aprons on as we ran, tightening our ties, slicking back our hair as we walked up the ramp--then walked in the entrance.
Inside, the P.W. was dark and musty and loud and bustling and filled with antique furniture and old gas station signs and gumball machines and ancient license plates from several states. The style the corporation was going for was antique / junkyard chic (boy, did they sure nail the junkyard part). A podium greeted people as they came in and one of our managers, Paula, was standing behind it, marking and scribbling on a diagram of the interior of the restaurant, writing names over groupings of circles and squares that represented table sections, telling a few servers lingering around the number of the section they were being assigned for their shift, groans and mumbles replying to her. She was attractive in the teenage MILF sense--still slender with long, straight, dirty blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, a small straight nose, mild smoker's breath, and a baby bump on her belly that was barely noticeable. Laura Ann was there as well as a few other dipshits, most of whom were hungover, high, or just tired.
"Don't get too excited people. Make the best of what you have. Laura Ann?"
"Yes?" she said.
"Section 12."
"Thanks!" she said, smiling profusely, her assignment being one of the "better" sections.
"Alfonso?"
"Yes?" he said.
"Section 14."
"Sweet!" he said, happy with his assignment.
"Seff?"
"Yes?" I said.
"The Trolley."
"Great," I said, sarcastically, defeated.
Alfonso chuckled in a way that a big brother chuckles at a little brother's misfortune, knowing that I was going through something that would build character, or some stupid shit like that. The Trolley was an actual trolley car that sat in the middle of the restaurant with tables inside and, mostly, it was the refuge of families with little kids and babies, an eventual disaster of tossed spaghetti, chucked bread, and ripped up sugar packets. Parents with very young children usually didn't tip too well making working The Trolley a lot of work for little payoff. It was the assignment of necessity, being the hallmark decorative piece of the establishment, as well as the assignment of doom.