Roadside Bodhisattva by Paul Di Filippo Read Free Book Online Page B

Sue, and figured she was busy in the cabins.
    Ann stopped a second to push some hair out of her eyes. “Kid, you’re going to bus the tables and wash the dishes from now on during breakfast and lunch times. You’ll find an apron in the back room. Yasmine will be there in a minute to show you what to do.”
    I started to object, but then remembered how Sid had asked me to behave. So I cracked the best smile I could manage, although I thought it must’ve looked kinda sickly, and said, “Sure. Anything you say.”
    The back room tacked onto the diner was about a quarter the size of the front space. Big metal sinks, an industrial-sized dishwasher, an oven, plastic drainracks atop counters, extra fridge and freezers, cardboard boxes of napkins and coffee filters, shelves to hold dishes and glasses, pans suspended from ceiling hooks, silverware in upright metal containers, a mop and bucket in a corner. The linoleum was peeling, the only window was a small one high up where a wheezy fan spun, and the back door was open with a screen door keeping out the bugs.
    I found a grungy apron and tied it on. Yasmine came in carrying a big plastic tub full of dirty dishes and leftover scraps of food. She set it down with a crash next to the sinks.
    “Thank Christ somebody else is going to be doing this dirty job! I’ve had it with pulling double duty. Okay, listen up. Food scraps alone go in this bin here. We compost .” Yasmine pronounced this last word the way my folks pronounced “nirvana.” “You arrange the dishes and glasses like this in the machine. Soap powder’s under the sink here. Don’t run the machine until you’ve got a full load, it’s wasteful. ”
    When she delivered this last order, Yasmine’s voice again went from businesslike to a kinda holy tone, like she was some kinda environmental priestess. The change in her voice almost made me laugh, because she looked the least like a granola kind of chick than anybody I could imagine. I had to bite my lower lip to stop from grinning.
    Yasmine didn’t seem to catch my stifled smirk. “Pots and pans you have to scrub in the sink. Come out and bus the tables as often as you can. I’ll split my tips with you eighty-five-fifteen. Okay?”
    “Sure.”
    Yasmine left and I got busy. Soon I had a sink full of steaming water and soaking crusty skillets and baking dishes, and the diswashing machine was droning and spritzing away. I found a wire brush and began attacking the caked-on crud in the pots. Every few minutes I stuck my head out into the front to check on which tables needed clearing. When I saw people getting up I would dash over with my plastic tub and gather up all the leftovers and plates and cigarette butts and then slop down the table with a clean cloth.
    When I was ten my folks and I had lived in a temple, and I had learned how to do this kinda stuff in the communal kitchen. It was nothing new to me, and even though I would’ve rather been outside with Sid, I gave the job my full attention. I guessed that growing up in a family of lazy Zen parents had been good for something.
    Outside I could hear the mower running, and every once in a while Sid would pass by the screen door, cutting a bright green passage through the jungle. He had taken off his shirt and tied a blue bandana around his forehead. I could see him, but he couldn’t see me. His chest hair was mostly silver, but he was indeed pretty trim around the gut for an old guy.
    After forty-five minutes Yasmine brought me a big fat sticky bun. I had seen them under a glass cover on the counter out front.
    “Here. This should hold you till three. That’s when we close.”
    I dried my hands and grabbed the pastry. I took a big bite out of it, and talked around the sweet mouthful. “You guys don’t stay open later than that?”
    “Nope. The motel business picks up around then, and Ann’s got to be free for that. Maybe if we could afford to hire some more help. Another chef, another waitress. But Ann