Boys

by Scott Semegran

  When he finished his business in the bathroom, he looked around the kitchen for me but couldn't find me anywhere. He asked the few employees still around after the dinner shift if they had seen me and nobody had seen me. Alfonso was stumped and a little concerned. He racked his brain wondering if I told him to get a ride with someone else but he couldn't think of it. He also worried if maybe he was drinking too much alcohol and smoking too much weed lately, bringing on early dementia or Alzheimer's or some other mind-deteriorating disease but then he knew he was just being paranoid. He was WAY too young for dementia, hopefully, he thought, but not too young to be paranoid. He looked for me a little more but when he came up short, he decided to try to bum a ride from someone. My apartment wasn't too far away.

  He found that mooch Warren pretending to sweep the floor, raking over the same pile of crumbs and dust bunnies, near the walk-in cooler, hanging around on the clock to pad his paycheck. He decided to try to cash-in a favor he was owed by that moocher.

  Alfonso placed his hands on his hips, looked down at the lousy sweeping job his coworker was pretending to accomplish, and said, "Hey man, can I bum a ride home?"

  "I gotta finish my side work," Warren said. "You know, sweeping." He continued to barely sweep.

  "It doesn't look like you're doing anything. Come on, I'm not going far and you owe me."

  "What do I owe you for?"

  "About 12,000 cigarettes, at least, not counting the spare change and pens I've given you."

  "Oh yeah..." Warren said, a sly smirk appearing on his smug face. "I guess I do owe ya. You got a smoke for me?"

  "If you give me a ride."

  "Deal!"

  "Come on, then, numb nuts."

  Alfonso walked slyly out of the kitchen, hugging the perimeter so not to be seen by management, like an alley cat tip-toeing behind dumpsters and under fire escapes, trying to avoid predators or strangers. Warren slinked close behind, a goofy smirk on his face, a stiff gait in his step. They snuck out of the P.W. unnoticed, flinging the front door open, Alfonso's arms spread wide as if he had just crossed the finish line to a grueling marathon race--triumphant, defiant, satisfied. Warren, the opposite, shuffled into the street, his hands in his pockets, his body slumped over. Alfonso followed him to his car which, to his surprise, was a shiny, late model Mercedes-Benz. He looked on in disbelief as Warren fumbled in his pockets then his apron for his keys.

  "Ah, hell no! This is NOT your car," Alfonso said, shaking his head.

  "Yes, it is."

  "How is this your car?"

  "I bought it."

  Warren unlocked the doors and the two sat inside. Alfonso marveled at the interior of the luxurious car, wedging his ass deep into the soft leather seat, rubbing his hands on the shiny leather dash. He was impressed, no doubt, and a little jealous.

  "How could you buy this car on what we make?"

  "Why do you think I bought it with what we make?"

  "I don't know. Just an assumption, I guess."

  "Where to?" Warren started the car, pulled out of the parking space, and sped away from the P.W.

  "There's a convenience store on South First near Barton Springs. You can drop me off there," Alfonso said.

  "OK. You got a smoke for me?" Alfonso gave him a smoke and quickly lit it for him. Smoke filled the expensive car's cabin. "Thanks, my man."

  After that, the rest of the ride was silent, Warren sucking on his bummed cigarette, Alfonso feeling a bit out of place in the fancy car. 'How could that mooch Warren afford this car?' Alfonso kept thinking to himself. It just didn't make any sense at all. 'And if for some reason, he had a lot of money, then why would he be working at the P.W. and mooching shit from everyone?'

  Before long, Warren pulled into the parking lot of The GODDAMN. He parked in a handicap space then unlocked the power locks.

  "Is this the right place?" he said.

  "Yeah, this is it. Thanks for the ride."

  "I owed you one. I really did."

  "Yeah." Alfonso got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and Warren screeched out of the parking lot, a cloud of dust and exhaust enveloping my tall friend. In a matter of seconds, his fancy-pants car was gone. Alfonso, dazed and dejected, went inside The GODDAMN.

  The now familiar stench of bleach mixed with the aroma of hot dogs and coffee met him inside. The GODDAMN was never quite cool enough, a balmy humidity hung in the air as a deterrent for any customers who wanted to linger too long. Alfonso was pleased to see the tall boys were still on sale for 99 cents so he quickly scooped four beer cans out of the ice trough and thought about getting some packages of ramen for dinner and a can of food for Mr. Whiskers as his way of contributing to the household. He wanted to contribute, he had told me. He also wanted some cigarettes. Gerald the store owner sat behind his fortress of penis enlargement pills and energy drinks and condoms and candy, calling out to Alfonso, as if reading his mind, "Hal-oh! I got Marlboro still on special. Buy two, get two free. Want some?" he said.

  "Yeah!" Alfonso said, barking from the other side of the store. He found a can of cat food and two packages of ramen and met Gerald at the front of the store.

  "You, my friend, don't look so good." He sorted through Alfonso's things, zapping their bar codes with a laser scanner, dropping them into a brown paper sack with a caricature of his smug mug on the side. There was a cartoon voice balloon exploding near his cartoon face that read: 'Everything on special!' That always seemed true. "You want the Marlboros?"

  "Yeah, I want 'em. Just having a bad day, I guess."

  "We all have bad days, buddy." He dropped the four packs of cigarettes into the bag along with the other stuff, their meal for the night. He took a $20 bill from Alfonso's hand, his earnings for the night, and returned a few dollars and change. "The key to remember: it's just another day."

  "True. True."

  "You come back tomorrow. Last day of beer special! Bring your friend too."

  "OK." Alfonso rolled the top of the brown paper bag down and placed it under his arm. "See you around, Gerald."

  "See you, Chief."

  Alfonso walked out of the store and across the street to my apartment complex. A car raced by after him heading toward downtown, the horn blaring away after it. Alfonso kept on toward the complex, his right arm extended to the sky, his middle finger defiantly at attention.

  ***

  Mr. Whiskers licked his front left paw, sitting on the bar around the kitchen, as I stacked aluminum trays of food from the P.W. into my refrigerator. Every once and a while, the cat would look curiously at me, as if to ask, 'What has fortune brought our way?' Then he went back to licking his paw. I stacked as many trays of food as I could in the smallish refrigerator, taking up most of the inside of the practically empty fridge with the exception of a few cans of beer and a leftover Whataburger meal still in its original, greasy paper bag. I then worked on the freezer, which was also practically empty except for a plastic bucket of ice. I placed three trays of food in there then it was full too. My refrigerator and freezer had never been so full, ever.

  Leaving two trays on the counter, I turned the oven on, set it to 350 degrees, then scratched my cat's head.

  "We're eating good tonight, little buddy." Mr. Whiskers purred loudly, tilting his head to get more scratching coverage from me. "That is, if you like Italian food. I'm sure you'll at least try it. Huh, boy?" Mr. Whiskers replied with a loud, rumbling purr.

  I placed the two trays of food in the oven, not even knowing what each contained. It didn't matter to me, though. They most likely contained something I thought at least to be reasonably delicious. I had tried practically everything at the P.W. and there wasn't one dish that I found to be uneatable or disgusting or not worth taking away from its demise in the dumpster. In fact, most of the dishes had been taste-tested so many times over the years by the P.W. corporate office that they all were winners. Mostly, I was just really hungry and was ready to chow down on something other than ramen noodles or mac and cheese made wit
h powdered cheese packets and water. I didn't feel a twinge of guilt for taking the trays either. In my mind, they were on the way to the landfill anyway, a discarded feast, practically trash, not the P.W.'s property anymore.

  I eagerly waited for my roommate's return and decided to take a quick shower before Alfonso got back from work. I wasn't sure how he'd get home since I left so fast without telling him but I knew Alfonso to be a resourceful friend and didn't doubt that he'd bum a ride from a coworker. I ran to my bedroom and jumped in the shower.

  Mr. Whiskers continued to clean himself until he heard some familiar footsteps in the hallway outside the apartment. He hopped down from the bar and rubbed his ribs and hip on the wall near the front door, purring then turning the other way, rubbing the opposite side of his body in the same manner. Alfonso burst into the apartment, slamming the door against the wall, frightening Mr. Whiskers, who bolted for the bedroom as if Sasquatch had burst into the apartment looking to devour a plump, fuzzy house cat for a snack. This amused Alfonso.

  "Honey, I'm home!" he said, tossing the brown paper bag from The GODDAMN on the kitchen counter. The smell of Italian food filled the apartment. "Shit, smells like the P.W. up in here. I need a beer." He pulled a tall boy out of the bag, opened it, took a huge gulp, and unpacked the rest of his groceries, tossing the contents onto the kitchen counter. He opened the can of cat food, the sound of its lid snapping off excited Mr. Whiskers, who appeared on the bar as if out of thin air, purring loudly, looking attentively at Alfonso. This amused Alfonso some more. He loved Mr. Whiskers. He grabbed a bowl from the cabinet, dumped the stinky, wet cat food in the bowl, and placed it on the bar. Mr. Whiskers devoured it.

  "Shit, boy. You must have been hungry. I'm hungry too." He knelt in front of the oven and opened the drawer at the bottom. Inside, an assortment of beat-up pots and pans lay inside. He picked a small pot and set it on the stove top but curiosity captured him. He opened the oven and peeked inside, the delicious smelling hot air filling his nose. Seeing the familiar looking aluminum tray caught him off guard a bit.

  "That's weird," he said, closing the oven door. He heard me rummaging around in the bathroom. "What's in the oven?" he said, calling out loudly.

  "You'll see," I said, my voice muffled from inside the bathroom.

  Alfonso sat on the couch, still hungry, nursing his beer. He watched Mr. Whiskers wipe his face with his right paw, then licked it, then repeated the motion over and over like a feline window wiper. I emerged from the bathroom wearing a grey t-shirt and black shorts, a big shit-eating grin on my face, rubbing my hands together like the villains in oldie movies used to do when hatching their evil plan.

  Confused, Alfonso squinted his eyes, peered at me, and said, "What's going on?"

  "We're feasting tonight!"

  "Feast? I barely had enough money for beer and ramen at The GODDAMN."

  "We're not eating ramen tonight but beer will do." I went into the kitchen then rummaged through the drawers. "Have you seen the oven mits?"

  "Oven mits? We don't have oven mits. I use a towel."

  "Yeah, I have oven mits," I said. "Somewhere in here--HERE THEY ARE!" I pulled out the two trays from the oven and set them on the stove top. "Come check it."

  A deep sigh emitted from Alfonso's slit of a mouth and he reluctantly got up from his comfy spot on the couch. In the kitchen, he looked over my shoulder as I peeled back the top of one of the aluminum trays. Inside, steaming hot lasagna. Then I peeled back the top from the other: chicken parmesan. In both trays was enough food for 24 people, at least. Alfonso was beside himself.

  "Ummm," he said, his hands on his hips.

  "What?"

  "How did you get this?"

  "It was going in the trash."

  "You got this from the trash?!" Alfonso smacked his forehead, his head tilting back, his tongue flapping out the side of his mouth. "What the fuck?!"

  "No! It was about to be tossed out but I didn't toss it out. I brought it home instead."

  "I don't understand."

  So I caught him up, how I offered to help Levonne, the cart full of trays, the hungry bum, the cavernous dumpster, my rumbling stomach, their empty fridge. After all that, Alfonso seemed pleased.

  "Right on, my brother!"

  "So, you're cool with it?"

  "Cool with it? I fucking love you. Let's eat."

  And we ate like kings.

  SALUD!

  ***

  We sat on the small deck that jutted out from behind my apartment, a poor excuse for a patio but a leisurely place nonetheless, sitting in canvas chairs, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap beer. Mr. Whiskers watched us from behind the glass sliding door, the stars watched us from above. Our stomachs were full but my mind wandered.

  "Do you think anyone will notice that I didn't throw the food away?"

  "Nah," said Alfonso, a poofy plume of smoke billowing from his mouth.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Nope, I'm not sure."

  "I don't know why all of a sudden I feel all worked up about it. Levonne is so serious about tossing the food in the dumpster with his clipboard and all."

  "Yeah. True."

  "But he also seemed glad to let me take care of it."

  "Why are you getting bent out of shape? It was gonna be trash. What's the difference if it rots in the dumpster or we make it into turds?"

  "No difference, I guess."

  "That's right. So don't worry about it."

  "OK."

  A moment went by, filled with more exhaled smoke and sips of beer. The song of a few cicadas could be heard coming from the trees around the apartment complex.

  "So..." I said, rubbing my stubbly chin. "If the opportunity comes up again, then I should take it?"

  "Most definitely," Alfonso said. "I'm going to get another beer. Do you want one?" He stood up and waited for my reply.

  "Duh."

  He slid the door open--Mr. Whiskers bolting out of his way--and went inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I kept thinking to myself that we really weren't getting much out of the P.W. besides measly gratuities and even measlier paychecks. Whatever perks we had before this night were slowly drying up in the form of corporate belt-tightening. But most of all, we were just hungry. The morality play that my heart and my mind were table-reading kept coming back to Alfonso's line: 'What's the difference if it rots in the dumpster or we make it into turds?' What was the difference? The difference was our survival and that was it for me. We were just surviving.

  Birthdays at Restaurants and Other Diversions

  When I was a little boy, I loved celebrating birthdays at restaurants. It didn't matter if it was a fancy restaurant or a fast-food restaurant, anywhere but home was infinitely more fun. And it didn't matter if it was my birthday or someone else's birthday. My love affair with restaurant birthdays started before I was in elementary school. I was in line at a McDonald's with my mother when I first saw a sign with a cartoon of Ronald McDonald wearing a birthday hat--his arms around a bunch of children, his big, goofy smile plastered on his face stretched from little white ear to the other little white ear, birthday balloons in the background, a pile of presents next to a pile of Happy Meal containers. I couldn't read at that age but I deduced quickly what the sign was implying.

  "Mommy?" I said, tugging at my mother's arm. "Can I have my birthday party here? At McDonald's?!"

  "Yes, it looks like they host them here."

  'My favorite holiday at my favorite restaurant?' I thought. My little brain exploded.

  BOOM!

  Even after that fateful day, every birthday FOR EVERYBODY planned at a restaurant was an event worth waiting for. My sister's birthday at Pizza Hut?

  BINGO!

  My best friend's birthday at Chuck E. Cheese?

  SHAZAM!

  My mother's birthday at Naples Italian Restaurant?

  BUON COMPLEANNO!

  My father planned a birthday dinner for my mother at their favorite Italian restaurant and w
hile me, my sister, and my mother anxiously waited for the delicious birthday meal, I spotted my father whispering in a waitress' ear, his hand draped over her shoulder, a wily smirk on his face. The waitress didn't pull away. I could hear her giggle as my father shoved a twenty dollar bill in her apron. My mother was oblivious as she flipped through the menu, her eyes wide with excitement. I was certainly my mother's son; I could barely contain my excitement as well. When the flirty waitress returned after the meal with a birthday cake and a band of singing servers, they sang my mother a boisterous birthday song. While they sang, I saw my father pinch the waitress' ass--my mother gazing upon the glowing candles in a trance--while my little sister tossed her silverware on the floor.

  When I sang the birthday song at the P.W., I always thought of my father pinching that waitress' ass. I didn't know why I thought of that. I wasn't particularly upset about it but it seemed to be burned in my memory like the exploded remains of fireworks on the asphalt of the neighborhood streets the next morning after the Fourth of July. I couldn't help it.

  Alfonso noticed a dire look on my face during a P.W. Birthday Song warm-up session in the kitchen before the lunch shift and nudged me with his elbow. Alfonso gave me a look of concern. I feigned a look of indifference that didn't convince him of anything. When the song concluded with limp clapping and forced hoorays, Alfonso put his arm around me and led me to the drink refilling station at the side of the kitchen.

  "You all right, buddy?" he said.

  "Yeah," I said.

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah."

  "You don't look so good."

  "I don't feel so good."

  "Yeah? You feel sick?"

  "No, just down, I guess. This shit is getting old, you know? The thrill is gone. Even singing this birthday song is weighing on me."

  "I know."

  Our coworkers slowly dispersed to their stations throughout the dining area as Paula the A.M. rushed into the kitchen, looking frantic and flustered and hot, all rolled into one and squeezed into a freshly pressed, pant suit. Her pregnant belly was larger than ever, pushing the limit of the seams of her outfit. She seemed relieved to find us.

  "Oh good, the G.M. needs to see you two," she said, snapping her fingers. We pointed at ourselves, mock confusion all over our faces. "Yes, you. Get going!"