Busboy blues

Tell us about your first day at something — school, work, as a parent, etc.

As I rode along the bumpy shoulder of Glades Road on my 4-hp minibike, my teeth chattered and knee-high weeds whipped at my dark dress slacks.

It was only a mile down to Boca Rio Road, where I’d turn, but in that brief ride, no fewer than half a dozen giant produce rigs blatted and passed me perilously close. The wind buffeted me and blew my hair around, and inside my good jacket, I was sweating.

But no matter; I was stoked. I was on a mission to meet Gerard.

Growing up in the boonies was great. My friends in town who escaped the carefully manicured hedges and closed-garage door policy for a visit couldn’t believe it. Nothing better than shooting a .22 without parental supervision, or poling around the neighborhood pond on my home-made raft. 

The only drawback was that there were no places to work. Most of my in-town friends were employed and saving up for their first cars when we all turned 16 in two years.

The only possibilities were a convenience store a mile down Glades Road; or Boca Rio.

The convenience store was a bust. The guy who managed it had seen me and my friends coming in, buying kid stuff, buzzing around the parking lot. He practically laughed in my face when I asked if I could stand behind the counter, sell stuff and manage the store by myself.

That left the Boca Rio Golf Club.

It was at the very end of the sparsely traveled Boca Rio Road, where the Hillsborough Canal separated Palm Beach and Broward counties. It was at the range limit of my K-Mart minibike and I had only seen it a few times. 

It was mysterious and reeked of money. The clubhouse was typical Florida; stucco, barrel tiles, archways and wrought-iron gates. The parking lot was filled with expensive cars. Here and there, in the distance, people zipped around on golf carts or stood on greens, putting.

I knew it could hold the keys to my future car… but how did I get a foot in the door?

On impulse one afternoon, I decided to take the plunge. It was a quiet day and I pulled up next to the valet. I switched off the engine and he looked at me curiously. 

“Hi,” I said. “Is the manager here?”

“No, he’s off today. You need something?”

I explained I was interested in a job. He told me to hang on. He went inside and reappeared with a guy in a chef’s outfit.

“Hi,” I said. “I wanted to put in an application for a job.” I noticed his name stitched on his white top: Michel. 

“Oh, I see,” he said. He spoke with an accent I recognized as French from my french class. “You would need to speak with Gerard, our maître d’.”  I could see him sizing me up, taking in my youth, immaturity, shrimpiness. 

“He will be here tomorrow. Come at 2:00 pm. I will tell him.” Then he turned and disappeared back into the clubhouse. The valet watched as I yanked on the starter and drove off in a cloud of blue exhaust smoke.

When I saw Gerard Capaness for the first time, I immediately thought class.

He also was French, with a little mustache like Claude Rains in Casablanca. I didn’t know much about style, but even I could see how perfectly his suit hung on him, his expensive watch, his expertly coiffed hair.

“So, Chief,” he said. “I understand you are interested in a job?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please, call me Gerard. Do you have any experience busing?” 

I thought about lying, but something told me to play it straight. “Well…no,“ I said. “But I’m a fast learner and work hard.”

He looked amused and like Michel, gave me the once over. “Come,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”

He took me on a tour of the clubhouse: the main dining room, the 19th hole bar, the kitchen, the afternoon lunch room, the locker rooms. I noticed guests affectionately clapping him on the shoulder, making small talk, exchanging inside jokes. Gerard was the guy.

“Well, Chief,” he finally said. “I’ll give you a shot. Be here tomorrow at 3:00 for dinner set up.”

I was paired with one of the other busboys, Thad, to learn my duties. Thad was in his early twenties and looked at me skeptically.

From 3:00 until about 4:30 we set up the main dining room. The four-seat square tables were removed and replaced with big round ones that we rolled out of storage.  Tablecloths were laid and Thad showed me how to carefully position plates, utensils, napkins and cups. Each table had eight settings.

It was an open floor plan, and down at the 19th hole, the murmur of voices grew louder as guests drifted in off the course. Soon it was filled and as the drinks flowed, the volume rose. Bursts of laughter came from the cloud of cigarette smoke that filled the room.

Thad nodded. “OK,“ he said. “They’ll be coming in soon. Put on your tie and let’s get suited.” I put on my clip-on tie and followed him into a cloakroom. On one wall, gold-colored jackets with laced accents hung on a rack. Thad pulled several out and put them back without even trying them on. He found one he liked and put it on. He adjusted his tie and tugged the jacket straight. “Meet me in the kitchen,” he said as he squeezed past me.

I soon realized what Thad’s mysterious inspection was about. I pulled out a medium and looked at it; it was stiff and crinkly and covered with stains. It stunk. I put it back and picked another; it was even worse.  Medium must have been the most popular size because they were all in the same state. I wondered when, if ever, they had been dry cleaned.

Thad shouted from the kitchen, and I just grabbed one. He was at a stainless steel chef’s table, surrounded by wax boxes, gallon-size containers of cream and several dozen small china cups and cups. “We gotta do butters and creams,” he said.

As I put on my stiff, smelly coat, he opened a wax box; it was filled with sheets of scored butter about 6” x 8.” He pulled one out, broke it into one inch squares along the score lines, and put a dozen into a china bowl. He nodded at the pile in front of me and I started doing likewise. Then we filled the creamers from the gallon jugs.

As we were putting the butters and creams on the tables, the wait staff filled water glasses. A few Boca Rio members, fresh from the showers, started drifting in and many greeted the wait staff by name; but Thad and I were ignored and I realized there a hierarchy. 

Oh, well. I was working toward my future car and didn’t really mind.

As dinner proceeded, there was nothing for Thad and I to do but stand smartly against the walls, hands behind our backs, looking out for any guests who signaled. The first time I noticed this, I started to walk across the room, but Thad stopped me. 

“Uh uh,” he said. “We don’t talk to the members unless they talk to us. Just let a waiter or waitress know.” I guessed that was why the jackets were so filthy; the lowered lighting and us keeping our distance made it bearable.

There was a stir at the end of the room closest to the lobby; it was Gerard. If I thought he was classy the other day, he might just as well have been 007 stepping out of a Monte Carlo casino. Members called and waved to him.

In his tux, he expertly worked the room. A hand on a member’s shoulder, leaning forward to hear something private, snapping his fingers at the wait staff, handshakes where the member put their other hand over his. Gerard was magnificent; idly I wondered if I could grow a cool little french mustache some day.

The bus stations…folding tables with oval stainless steel trays about 2’ x 3’… were stationed around the perimeter. As guests  finished eating, the wait staff removed their dishes and silverware and put them on the trays.

The first course of bread and salad produced small dishes and the trays filled up slowly. One tray near Thad and I was about half filled.

“So look,” he said. “The idea is to hustle, stay ahead of it, so the trays don’t get too full. Do it like this.” He squatted next to a tray that was half covered with salad bowls and small bread plates. He put one palm under the middle of the tray, stood, and hoisted the tray to his shoulder. 

I watched him adroitly carry the tray along the perimeter of the room to the swinging kitchen door. He paused, raised one foot, and shoved the door open. Then he carried the tray inside. 

He returned with an empty tray and put it back on the folding table. “See?” he said. “Easy. Just make sure you don’t go in the out door.” We watched as another bus boy went in the left swinging door, while a waitress with covered plates emerged from the right.

He pointed at a nearby tray that was getting filled. “There. Go try that one.”

I did the squat-and-lift and walked around to the left-hand door. So far, so good, but standing on one foot so I could I push open the door with the other one made me a little unsteady. 

The door only opened halfway. I found I really needed to shove it hard to make it passable and even then, it started closing just as I was entering. 

I put the tray down in front of the dishwasher and helped him remove the contents. I returned an empty tray to the bus stand as Thad nodded in approval.

As dinner progressed, the tempo quickened. Gerard and the wait staff went into overdrive. 

I had just finished emptying a tray in the kitchen when someone shouted at me to empty the trash, a large Rubbermaid barrel filled to the top with food, food packaging and glop. I lugged it out to the dumpster and struggled to lift it up to the top. As I dumped it, some wet stuff fell back in my face and on to my jacket. I wiped it off as best as I could.

I had just finished when a waitress burst though the in door. “Butters and creams!” she yelled above the din. I started to go to the sink to wash my hands. “Where are you going? Butters and creams! Now!” I showed her my filthy hands. She waved dismissively. “I don’t care about that!” she shouted. “It’s the Jamesons! Now!”

I wiped my hands on my jacket, went into the walk-in cooler, took out a sheet of butter and broke it into squares. A few squares had garbage from my hands on them, which I gingerly wiped away with my sleeve. Then I slopped some cream into the little creamers and put it all on a tray for the waitress.

I was struck by the dichotomy. To the members, it was a serene, sanitary world where wait staff glided quietly, pouring, smiling, a few relaxed words. Gerard floated around and more than one female member looked at him longingly. 

But behind the swinging kitchen doors, it was chaotic. Michel yelled at the sous chefs, wait staff shouted about their orders, the dishwasher struggled to keep clean plates coming. 

And it wasn’t just the service; everything was a facade. The stinky jackets. The round tables made of cheap particle board covered by an expensive tablecloth. The antiquated dishwasher that only washed one rack at a time.

As the main course progressed, it changed from light bread and salad dishes to heavy dinner plates and glasses partially filled with drinks. It was impossible to keep up and soon the trays were filled with towering stacks of dirty dishes.

I struggled with the heavy trays, unsteadily threading my way in between both the wait staff and members. I saw both Gerard and Thad looking at me in concern a few times.

The door opening routine became dicey as I struggled to stand on one foot with the heavy trays to push the door open. Finally, disaster struck. 

My foot slipped on the door’s kick panel and it only opened halfway. But I was already committed and heading into the kitchen. The door closed on me, pushing the tray up against the door frame. 

It all seemed to happen in slow motion; the tray fell back over my shoulder and I slipped and fell. With a tremendous crash, food, china and glass landed on the carpeted floor.

For an agonizing few seconds, there was complete silence. I took it all in: The irritated members; the horrified wait staff; Thad; and worst of all, Gerard. He squatted next to me as I struggled to put all the busted stuff on the tray.

“It’s OK, Chief,” he said quietly. “It’s your first night. Just try to carry lighter trays.” I didn’t really see how that was possible, but I just nodded.

The worst of the dinner rush was soon behind us and the dishes now being put on the trays were lighter dessert dishes and coffee cups. I made sure to make sure the door was opened before heading in, but fate was not done with me yet. 

As I was standing on one foot, a distracted waitress came out through the in door and collided with me. She blanched and disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving me alone for another spectacular fail. This time as I lay sprawled on the floor among more broken dishes and cups, angry muttering from the guests could be heard. They could just see their dues going up. Gerard reappeared.

“Chief,” he said. His voice sounded pained; our faces were inches apart. I could smell his cologne. “One mistake, I can see. But two… in the same night? Be careful…one more and I’m afraid you’re done.”

The rest of that night I followed form over function and dropped the stylish one-handed approach. I carried the trays with two hands, at waist level, my knuckles white. I turned at the door and backed in, using my rear end to push open the door. 

After the last member had left, the last dish was washed, the round tables replaced with the square, and the room vacuumed, everybody headed for the 19th hole. I followed, curious.

It was a nightly ritual that included everyone from Gerard down the chain of command: The cooks; the waitstaff; the bartenders; the valets; the busboys; and finally…lowest of the low…the exhausted dishwasher.

Gerard held court as everybody drank their gratis beer or cocktail; I had a Coke. He put his feet up at the end of a long table.

“Très bien, everybody,” he said. “It went well   tonight.” He paused and looked at me. “Well… that is except for a few mishaps.” Every head turned and looked at me; my face grew hot. 

It was like in the movie Gladiator where everybody waited for a thumbs up or down. Gerard needed no such extravagance. His mouth subtly crooked up on one side and everybody relaxed. Someone snickered and then more joined in. The snickering turned into shouts of laughter as the Busboy of the Year was thumped on the shoulder and good naturedly shoved at the table.

Riding home that night along the deserted Boca Rio road was exhilarating. There was a full moon, bright enough for me to see the road on my unlit minibike. The familiar smells of Florida wetlands surrounded me in the humid night.

Yes, I had screwed up. Yes, I was the only one drinking a Coke. Yes, I’m sure a few of the members would speak to Gerard about me. 

But it was a beginning. 

And that’s all we ever need. 😎

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