Boulevard by Jim Grimsley Read Free Book Online

eating another can of soup for supper, and nothing the rest of the night but water.
    The next day, even though he was supposed to go to the Circle K again, he was afraid to get up; he stayed in bed till afternoon, then dressed and walked as far as the Verti Mart to buy laundry detergent, soup, toothpaste, hurrying home again, with rain beginning to pelt the streets. He stayed in bed the rest of the day, read more of the science fiction novel, and dozed. Listless, hardly able to contemplate anything.
    In the morning he made himself bathe and dress, down to forty-two dollars and forty cents. He walked to the restaurant, his stomach in knots. It was Saturday, and the manager, Curtis, was in the middle of a rush, so that hecould pause to talk to Newell only for a moment. Newell figured that meant bad news, and Curtis kept dashing around from table to table anyway, so that Newell had to stand and wait. Curtis rushed by with a tray full of plates and glasses and said, “The dishwasher didn’t quit, but wait a minute,” he turned the corner. Newell’s heart was sinking, there was no job, and here was suddenly Curtis again in his face. “But the bus boy left. Do you want to be a bus boy?”
    He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Sure.”
    â€œWell, I can’t stop to talk to you right now. Come back this afternoon about three o’clock. Can you start Tuesday?”
    â€œSure. That’s fine.”
    â€œGood. Come back and talk to me this afternoon.”
    Curtis rushed away, and Newell went on standing there, dumbfounded. After a while he realized he ought to leave, so he drifted to the door, walked outside, realized he could relax now, the anxious feeling could dissolve. He would come back this afternoon, he would talk to Curtis, he would go to work as a bus boy. He figured that was the job Curtis had been doing while he was talking to Newell, clearing the tables and carrying the dishes to the dishwasher and setting the tables again. For doing this he would earn money, and it was only the third of June—he had plenty of time to make the rent. He felt himself relaxing. He could stay.
    When he returned at three o’clock, the tables were mostly empty, a few pairs of men or women sippingcoffee. Curtis was sitting at a desk crammed against the corner near a blocked door. He had Newell sit down and fill out some papers and explained the tax forms. He told Newell the job paid four dollars fifty cents an hour plus tips. The waiters he worked with would each tip him at the end of their shifts. How much would depend on how busy the restaurant was, but if Newell felt like he was being cheated, he could say so. Had he ever worked in a restaurant before? Well, that didn’t matter. What mattered in the Circle K was that Newell had to keep the tables clean, keep the water glasses filled, and look cute while he was doing it, so people would keep coming back to the restaurant to see him. Curtis said that with a perfectly straight face, and when Newell giggled, Curtis merely smiled, though in a rather tired way. “You don’t think I’m kidding, do you? I wouldn’t hire you if you weren’t cute, sweetheart. Not to work out front.”
    He would work breakfast and lunch shifts Tuesday through Sunday, with Monday off. He was due at work by 6:30 A.M . every day except Sunday, when the restaurant opened later, and he would get off work by two in the afternoon every day. Absorbing every detail as if his life depended on it, Newell studied the rooms, the neatly placed wooden tables, the framed prints on the wall, drawings of men with no shirts and tight pants, big crotches, big eyes with long lashes, in pairs or groups, eyeing one another greedily.
    â€œWhen is payday?” Newell asked.
    â€œEnd of shift on Tuesday. For the week before. But you’ll get your tips every day.”
    Walking home he could hardly believe it, that it was done, that he had a job, that he