Chapter Four

Ben and Juan were washing dishes when Reggie came chugging up to them, out of breath.

“Ben, there’s a problem in the dining room. I need your help.”

“Dirty dishes?”

“No. It’s a lady at Travis’s table. She’s exposing herself.”

Ben dropped a dish and it shattered on the floor.

“Travis asked her to stop, but the man with her grew abusive, and you know how sensitive Travis is. Could you handle it?”

“Handle it? Sure.” He wasn’t sure why Reggie was asking him to do this, but he wasn’t going to miss a chance to see this.

“You’re the best.” He clapped Ben on the back. “Give me your apron. I’ll take over till you get back.”

Ben gave it to him. Reggie put the apron over his neck and tried to tie the straps behind his backs, but he couldn’t. He was just too big.

Ben walked towards the swinging door that led to the dining room.

“Ben.”

Ben looked back over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Hairnet.” Reggie pointed to Ben’s head.

Ben took off the hairnet and stuck it in his pocket.

“Here, give it to me.” Reggie held out his hand.

Ben just stared back at him. “Why do you need it?”

“Come on. I don’t have cooties.”

Reggie’s scalp was peeling and if his greasy hair didn’t have lice, it had something much worse.

Ben reluctantly gave him the hairnet.

When he walked through the swinging plastic doors into the dining room, he saw the offending table, right in the middle of the restaurant. The narrow and seedy-looking man was stuffing pasta in his mouth gluttonously. The pale and petite woman had her pink blouse undone, and a fat baby was drinking from her breast.

This was the exposing? Ben was disappointed. He walked back into the dishwashing area and saw Reggie getting a faceful of hose, courtesy of Juan.

“I don’t have a problem with her doing that,” Ben said.

“Neither do I, but some of the other guests complained.”

“Shouldn’t you do this? You’re the manager.”

“Yes, but you’re good at talking to people. Very diplomatic. I thought you could handle it.”

“But isn’t it the manager’s job?”

“The manager’s job is to delegate responsibility. I’m delegating.”

Ben shrugged. It would help him to empathize with the plight of the downtrodden. Downtrodden dishwashers were always being sent out to the dining room to talk to the diners.

As he walked back out into the dining room, he wondered which customer had complained. He looked around for a stodgy old dowager, but only saw normal-looking people.

He walked up to the table and said, “I’m sorry. We don’t allow outside food.”

“It’s not food,” the man said in a nasally voice. “It’s beverage.”

“We don’t allow outside beverages either.”

“Can’t you just charge us a corking fee?”

Ben had the awful image of taking a corkscrew to the woman’s nipple. He pushed it out of his head.

“Go ahead and get the police,” the man said. “My wife’s got a right to do this here. Law’s on our side. This ain’t Burkastan.”

“I feel just like those black people at the lunch counter,” the woman said.

They both glared at Ben like he was a racist pulling black people away from lunch counters and spraying them with a fire hose. And who knows? Maybe there was some civil rights law protecting breast feeders in public restaurants. What did Ben know? That did seem like the kind of law that would be on the books. They let seeing-eye dogs beg for scraps at the dinner tables of restaurants and it was the law that all the bathrooms had to be handicap accessible. Maybe there was a law that all women could breastfeed their children in public.

“I’m not calling the police,” Ben assured them.

“Why are you all wet?” the woman asked.

“I was washing dishes,” Ben said, and then quickly added, “But I’m really a poet.” He didn’t want them to think he had to wash dishes. He wasn’t one of those people.

“So why are you washing dishes?” the woman asked. “You couldn’t pay your bill? They put you to work washing dishes?”

“He was probably in jail,” the man said. “This was the only job he could get. Were you in jail?”

“No. I’ve never been in jail. I’m washing dishes because I want to.”

“It’s a hobby?”

“Sort of. Look, some of the other customers have been complaining about this. Now I personally don’t have a problem with it. I mean, it’s perfectly natural.”

“Well, I have had a little work done,” the woman admitted sheepishly.

“A wedding gift from my parents,” the man announced proudly. “What do you think?”

Ben wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. Was he asking him to judge his wife’s breasts?

“You look like a goose just shit on your grave,” the man said. “What’s wrong? Didn’t your mother ever breast feed you?”

“I had a wet nurse,” Ben said quickly. It wasn’t true. He didn’t know why he said it.

“Would you like to touch them?” the man asked.

Ben was sorely tempted. He didn’t get many dates since he started dishwashing. “No. I shouldn’t.”

“Go on. Take a squeeze.”

“Be gentle. I’m lactating.”

“No. I really don’t want to.”

“Why not? Something the matter with my wife’s breasts?”

The man began to rise out of his chair.

“No, they’re fine,” Ben assured him. “I wish I had a pair like them.”

That didn’t sound right.

“I mean, I wish I had…yeah. That’s what I mean.”

Ben tried another tactic.

“What if I found you a bottle? Would you use it?”

The woman shook her head. “The breast is best. That’s what I always say.”

“It’s true,” the man admitted. “She says it a lot.”

“Meet me halfway here. Could you at least cover up the other one? If you’re not using it,
there’s no reason for it to be out and about.”

“Jews milk cows on the Sabbath,” she said.

The worst thing about crazy people was their non-sequitors about Jewish people. Ben gritted his teeth for an anti-Semitic rant.

Her husband stared at her, awestruck. “I always wondered what they did on the Shabbat,” he said with heartfelt fascination. “You’re so smart. How do you know all this stuff?”

She beamed with pride at the compliment. “They aren’t supposed to work on the Sabbath, but they can milk a cow so it doesn’t suffer.”

Ben worried that she might be retarded. Or maybe she had autism, like Rain Man, only instead of being a math genius, her gift was spouting out annoying bits of trivia. And she was responsible for a baby.

“Heavy saddlebags,” she continued. “If one gets too full, it aches, so I rotate them. If I don’t rotate, I’m like a cow without a Jew.”

“Couldn’t you just put it away until you need it?” Ben asked.

“I want to have it at the ready,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’m finished.”

The baby’s mouth popped off her nipple, making the sound of a suction cup being pulled off a window. The baby slumped in her arms and seemed to be asleep.

“Look at that,” she pointed to red marks around her nipple. “He’s teething.”

“Have a nice day,” Ben said. The woman shifted the baby around and buttoned up her blouse as Ben walked back to the dishwashing area.

When he got there, he saw that Reggie was completely soaked; he looked like he had been swimming with his clothes on. Reggie saw Ben and looked relieved. Perhaps he had a new understanding of how hard dishwashing was.

“All clear?” Reggie asked.

“I took care of it.”

“How’d you do it?”

“I just asked them nicely.”

“Nicely. That’s good. I’ll remember that. Way to think outside the box.”

He patted Ben on the back, handed him the hairnet, and walked out. Ben looked at the hair net. A couple of Reggie’s greasy, curly hairs were stuck in the webbing of the hairnet. Ben set it on the side of the sink and started washing the dishes again.

A few minutes later, Reggie came chugging back into the dishwashing area.

“I’m gonna need your help again.”

“What is it?”

“Where’s your hairnet?”

“Right here.”

“Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“I’m giving my hair a breather.”

“It’s the same table. The woman.”

“She’s exposing herself again?”

“She’s exposing the baby.”

This time Ben didn’t rush right out there. “Exposing the baby?”

“She’s changing its diaper right there on the table.”

“Am I being delegated?”

“Go.” Reggie picked up the hairnet and put it on.

Ben went out to the dining room. The dirty diaper stink almost knocked him over. Ben wondered if there were civil rights laws allowing women to change babies’ diapers in public restaurants. He hoped not.

The soiled diaper sprawled out next to the plate of lasagna like a dead raccoon. She hadn’t even taken the trouble to roll up the dirty diaper. Something the consistency of Sloppy Joe clung to the baby’s backside.

Ben ran up to the table. “You can’t do that here.”

“Why not?” the man said sarcastically. “You don’t allow outside diapers?”

“It’s not sanitary. Take him in the bathroom.”

“What?” The woman looked up at him angrily. “Do you know how many germs are in bathrooms?”

“Tell him, hon.”

“Eight hundred! And that’s just the ones we know about!”

“I’m calling the police.” Ben turned to walk away.

“You said you weren’t going to call the police,” the woman said in a betrayed voice.

“That was totally different.”

The baby started emitting piercing banshee wails.

“Now look what you've done.” The man looked up at Ben accusingly. “You made my boy cry, and when my boy cries, I cry, and then people get hurt.”

He picked up his glass of ice water and threw it in Ben’s face. The freezing water felt like a thousand needles stinging him as it splashed his face and an ice cube hit his eyeball.

Blood pulsed to Ben’s ears. He tried to control his rage, to channel it into a tight ball inside him that could later be used as creative energy.

The man sat there smirking at Ben while the woman kept digging through her oversized purse.

The time for diplomacy had past. Send home the weapons inspectors. There was nothing left to talk about. Now was the time for Ben to run. Run and hide under a bed.

He looked around for help. Travis was taking drink orders at another table, pretending he didn’t notice. Reggie was still in the back getting sprayed by Juan, and none of the customers showed signs of springing to his aid.

Then Mario the Mexican busboy came walking up to the table, carrying a pitcher of ice water. He walked straight up to the man, took the empty water glass, and refilled it with a sideways pour from the pitcher. The man grinned and held out an empty breadbasket to Mario.

“More bread, por favor,” the man said.

“Si senor,” Mario said. He took the empty breadbasket and walked back into the kitchen.

The woman gave up trying to find baby wipes in her big purse, picked up a white, cloth napkin from the table and dipped it in her water glass.

“Don’t do that,” Ben said. “That napkin belongs to the restaurant.”

But she ignored him and used the damp napkin to wipe up the dark Sloppy Joe from her baby’s backside.

Ben started to lose control of his anger. This one wasn’t going to make it to a poem. He threw his arms up in the air and gesticulated madly. “What is wrong with you? Were you home schooled? Don’t you know that other people exist? Isn’t there any consideration for anyone? Why can’t you just—DON’T DOUBLE DIP!!!”

Too late. She double dipped. She plunged the soiled napkin deep into her water glass, gave it a little squeeze, and pulled it out, dirty water running down her wrist. Brown tendrils floated in the beige water. It looked like a chocolate lava lamp.

Ben’s screaming started the baby wailing again. “Shhh, shhh,” the woman cooed, patting the baby’s bottom with the soiled napkin as if to soothe him. The man dropped a meaty fist down on the table, rattling the silverware.

“She can double dip if she wants to double dip,” he said. “Double dip all day long.”

He grabbed her water glass and threw the tainted water at Ben’s face. Ben ducked out of the way and the dirty water splashed on the white tiled floor. A great hush fell over the restaurant.

The kitchen door swung open and Mario walked out, carrying an overloaded breadbasket in one hand and the pitcher of ice water in the other. He stopped and looked at the brown mess on the floor.

“I’m not cleaning that up,” he said in perfect English.

He then walked up to the table that was being used as a changing table, set down the bread basket, and refilled the woman’s water glass. It had a light beige color now.

Ben was shaking furiously. He knew that as a workingman he would have to take a lot of shit, but he had always thought it was just a metaphor.

“You two,” Ben roared, his dry throat hurting, “are the most disgusting pair I have ever had the misfortune to meet. You don’t deserve to eat in restaurants with civilized people. You should eat on the floor, out of a dog dish. Or better yet, go live in the woods. Maybe there you could—DON’T DRINK THAT!!!”

Too late. She swallowed down a long deep gulp of her tainted water and then smacked her lips in satisfaction. Changing the kid had given her quite a thirst. She looked at Ben quizzically.

“That water’s tainted,” Ben said incredulously. “You double dipped in that glass.”

“But then he threw it at you,” she said.

“Did you forget that?” the man asked him.

“No,” Ben said. “I didn’t forget.”

The woman swirled her water around like a glass of wine and inhaled slowly through her nostrils.

“The busboy refilled it,” she explained. “This is fresh water.”

“But there was a residue at the bottom of the glass,” Ben said.

“You’re a residue at the bottom of the glass,” the man said. “You need to stop telling us what to do and stop trying to force your opinions on other people. Don’t tell my wife how to dress. We don’t tell you how to dress. And don’t try to tell us what to eat or drink. My wife can drink whatever she wants. And don’t’ tell us what to do with our son. We’ll raise our child any way we see fit. You may not agree, but we’re not hurting anyone. We’re happy and that’s all that matters.”

As if to demonstrate their happiness, he grasped his wife’s face in his hands and gave her a tongue kiss. Long, deep, and sloppy.

“Her mouth is dirty,” Ben said.

“What goes in your mouth doesn’t make it dirty,” the woman said. “What comes out of your mouth makes it dirty.”

Once again the man grinned at her, awestruck.

“You’re so wise,” he told her. “I’m telling you, one of these days they’re going to give you the Nobel Prize.”

“She’ll never get the Nobel Prize,” Ben said. “They don’t give them to stupid people.”

“What about Arafat,” the woman said. “They gave him the Nobel Peace Prize.”

The man bowed his head slightly like he was in the presence of greatness.

“Ever since I got you those encyclopedias.”

“Arafat died of AIDS,” she added.

“How do you know this stuff?” the man said in giddy amazement.

“Everyone know that,” Ben hissed.

The man looked at Ben and sighed. “Tell you what. You give us dessert on the house and we’ll forget this whole thing ever happened.”

“That sounds fair.” Ben thought of the box of rat poison in the supply closet.

“And you better not spit in it. I’ll know. I can taste the difference.”

He wouldn’t spit on it. He would get Juan to do it.

“What would you like?”

“Since it’s on the house, we’ll have whatever’s the most expensive.”

“That would be Death by Chocolate.”

“Sounds rich. But we’ll try it.”

Ben excused himself, offered his heartfelt apologies, walked around the puddle of brown water, through the swinging doors into the kitchen. He realized with disappointment that he didn’t have it in him to poison their dessert.

Reggie was still soaking wet and now gasping for air as if he were drowning. Juan was giggling maniacally. Reggie looked relieved to see Ben.

“I heard it get pretty heated out there. Everything straightened out?”

“We’re giving them free Death by Chocolate.”

“How did that happen?”

“Diplomacy failed.”

“Death by chocolate? That’s the most expensive dessert there is.”

“They were unhappy so I told them dessert was on the house.”

Reggie slowly shook his head, lowered his chin, and frowned. “Only managers can comp food and beverages.”

“I thought you deputized me.”

“It’ll have to come out of your pocket.” Reggie held the hairnet out for Ben to take. “Don’t be angry. I’ll let you use a ten percent employee discount.”

Ben walked over to where his jacket hung on a peg and put it on.

“I quit!”

He hurried to the exit door. He had to get out of there before he lost control and punched Reggie in his fat face. It wouldn’t hurt him. His fist would probably just bounce off. Juan looked on, entertained by the unfolding drama.

“You have to give two weeks notice,” Reggie said.

Ben didn’t respond. He just hurried to the door.

Reggie stormed after him, his fat jiggling all about. “If you leave now, you can’t come back.”

Ben rushed out into the alley.

“Don’t use me as a reference,” Reggie called as the heavy door slammed shut.