I'm just writing until my busboy career takes off.
People usually make these things happy; they feel content with their lot in life, they've convinced themselves they're living in the world and not just miserable in their own heads. I wanted to be a busboy my whole life. Hell, I'd have settled for a waiter gig if I thought I could get one. But there I was, thirty one, my youth wasted on a stupider me, stuck in the insufferable self-employed grind; a world famous, bestselling novelist, a Pulitzer winning media personality, the sort of person that leaks failure from their cracked constructions and shattered worth. My entire being ached. When I spread my life before me I saw not the crowded kitchens, the restaurant bustle, the half-eaten entrees, the cajun smothered fries, the sweating glasses and the measly tips from those childhood stories; the grand grandfatherly tales woven before me with an old man's oral grace. I saw instead the long hours screen stuck and sedentary, the carpal tunnel, the endless button mashing, face rolling hackery; interviews, signings, vast monetary hoarding… I saw failure.
How had I gotten into such a state? In youth I was a dreamer, a four and a half acre eyed suburban cliche with everything before him, one of those hopeful young men, his face a Bambi spread that seems impossible until you've seen it. I'd graduated high school at the tippy top; I was nearly in orbit. I applied to, and was accepted to, every school this side of a 1600 SAT (basically, every school). I decided on Northern Maryland University (go Mole Rats!), a phenomenal institution for hopeful bussers (as they're known in The Industry), boasting a complete program and extensive bus-abroad opportunities. Partnered with their sister-in-law university, the University of Newquay at Newquay, NMU sent hundreds of students every semester to Her Majesty's kitchens to learn, as far as the culinary sciences are concerned, exactly what not to do.
Things at NMU went well. I did my work, made some friends, met a girl. I took some business classes on the side. I considered a minor. More than anything I was happy. I wasn't living the dream, but I pursued it, and that kept me fueled.
Enter my father, my bastard begetter, a mean drunk dad from the movies, a stain on his recliner, a beer bloated corpse, as far as I was concerned. He'd, in his words, "sobered up and buckled down." This meant taking an interest in my life, which, for him, constituted near-constant critique. "Bussboying's a fool's errand," he said, "its a ridiculous industry." It's not practical, he said, it's not realistic. More than anything, he hadn't faith. But he had faith in nothing, nothing but his own dreary existence and alcohol's inebriating promise. "What are you going to do with a business minor?" he demanded. "You're not gonna make any money with that."
The old man eventually relapsed into his liquor (his girlfriend found him passed out on a public pool's diving board), but by then he'd done the damage. My second semester, I signed up for art and philosophy classes. The "pragmatic programs," as they're called, featured a different sort than my busboy courses. This was a cold, melancholy lot, devoted to the status quo and naught else, a dull, stupid group who thought of the world in simple, direct, infallible terms, who shunned and mocked the busboy and his graceful ways, his subtlety, his sage-like wisdom. These dimwits, claiming academic inclination, doomed to publish but perish regardless, doomed to send endless pages into the void, the infinite forgotten stacks; never cited, read once. These people sickened me. But I couldn't go back; I'd settled, stuck in my stake and made my claim. This was it.
I graduated with a double major in performance art and art history. I performed in several productions, wrote a bestselling novel, and sold a screenplay after a studio bidding war. I had food, I had money, but at the cost of my soul? One night, drunker than my dad, I destroyed every mirror in my house; I hated the sellout they showed. This misery ate my twenties. I thought I'd bus on the side, but I couldn't muster the energy. Between the sequel demanding fans, the late-night Broadway runs, the sold out readings, the comedy and talk shows…
In this immense post-pubescence I was fated for fracture. And I knew it. But, for reasons eluding clear expression, I still believed that should I suffer forward things for me would improve. Data suggested otherwise; it was only my deeply held human hubris persuading me I was sufficiently significant to rally cosmic Fortuna, to convince my destiny to return to its proper place, its predetermined pleasant path. For this reason I continued forward; the failure embodied; the busboy wannabe, writer in the interim guy who sucks a vague pity from everyone who sees him. What a waste.
What was there to do? Fill my head with lead and call it a life? I would have, had it not been for Wanda, my wife. Wanda, the bandaid on my gaping chest wound. Wanda, sensing my distress, told me I ought to follow my dreams. She told me it wasn't too late. For better or worse, I listened.
Wanda's uncle, the one she was still on speaking terms with, had been married to a woman (they'd gotten divorced when she cheated on him) whose brother in law had, when he was still in school, worked at an Applebee's in the Philadelphia suburbs.
Figuring this was the best in I'd get, we packed up and trucked over to the City of Brotherly Love. Unfortunately, as per local ordinance, only residents of a year or longer qualified for brotherly love; we got mild contempt.
"Another 'dreamer,' come to make it big. You think the Industry has room for you?" the city seemed to say.
Wanda assured me, contested the pragmatists, the realists, myself. Our Applebee's in fell through, turns out Wanda's uncle's ex-wife's brother-in-law hadn't left on good terms, but, with Wanda's help, I got an interview with an IHOP.
Pre-interview me was a wreck. Anxiety owned me, I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. How was I to dress? act? be? Which me should I let them see? Did a proper me even exist?
Dressed my best but crippled by stress, into the IHOP I limped. It was everything I dreamed. The kitsch decor, the fast-cooked American food fare, the odd, middle class cutout customer looking regretfully at his six-high stacked pancake platter. In short, remarkable.
A busboy emerged from the wings and set to work. His form, by God, it was exquisite. With a subtle step he maneuvered to a dish-covered table. Looking down, nearly silent, he collected the dishes with practiced speed, setting them, like some Tetris master, into his custom engraved bus box, optimally ordered and positioned. And at so young! No more than sixteen, acne faced and barely post-pubescent. How could I, at thirty one, hope to compete? My head grew light and my stomach heavy, I wanted to flee. Through immense force of misguided will I found the manager.
"I'm here for my interview," I said.
"Oh, yes," she said, her face crunching into a smile. Her eyes, her impossibly tiny eyes, scanned me. "I'd nearly forgotten. Come into my office, then."
Towards her office I went, Wanda's words dead in my head, the esteem she'd built up knocked down by the young busboy I saw earlier, with his prodigious poise, his destined-for-greater-things-grace; the customers that eyed me, as I slithered along, as if I didn't belong; the manager, with her X-ray gaze, her too-sure strut, her un-Christian confidence. How small was I, a paperback hack, compared to the giants of the Industry!
I couldn't do it. I shouldn't have come. I was going to embarrass myself. But what embarrassment could rankle me worse than my current posthumous existence? The moment upon which my life hinged was beginning before me; what would I do? I myself waited to watch and see.
"Please, have a seat," she said, pointing to a chair near her desk.
I sat, and in that seat I settled.