Decipher Yourself Pragmatic Self-Help and Humor for the Disenchanted

Busboy Assassin

A few weeks ago I was with the clan at a local surf & surf (seafood only). I was nearly done with my third plate of all-you-can eat crabs, when I caught something in my peripheral. As the meal was drawing toward its end, an apron-wearing dude appeared out of nowhere ready to abduct my plate. Naturally, I’m impressed by his ninja skills. Though I wasn’t entirely done with the last few crumbs, things happened so suddenly that I had no choice but to let him do his thing. The whole thing was so split-second that I barely squeaked out a meek little "thank you" before he was off again in a cloud of his damn ninja smoke.

Motherfucker was on his game.

While I waited for the check, I watched the busboy return to action as he stepped out of the shadows again at a booth down the way. He stalked a trio of old ladies like El Tigre, waiting in the tall grass for his moment. POUNCE. And just like me, the customers were so startled that they each let him slip the plate free from their liver-spotted hands without contest.

Damn, I marveled again to myself. Maybe it seems stupid to be impressed by something so simple. But I was. I’m thinking, maybe I should compliment the kid? Or at least offer his manager a nod of approval. It was that significant a thing. I hoped that this guy was clearing tables only as a side-job, to help pay for assassin school. Otherwise, it’s all a sad waste of talent.

I’m filling out the bill, hovering over the "TIP" line. And like the sudden panic of the instant-diarrhea victim, it hit me.

He’s busing the table to push us out of here. He’s making way for the next customers.

To hell with me and mine. This wasn’t about ensuring customer service. This kid swiped my plate as the opening lines of some cleaning subroutine. In about 15 seconds, I went from awe to aw-shit. I suddenly pictured the wait staff lining up behind a giant broom, sweeping me out the door as soon as my credit card cleared.

It’s such a weird cycle, dining out. You are welcomed with kind words and smiles. You are seated and served. Fed crabs until you strain the lining of your stomach. But as you reach the inevitable end, as you and your waiter complete your forbidden tango of polite jokes and daily specials, you find you have become suddenly unwelcome. The busboy appears—a quietly humble reminder that the restaurant is through with you. A firm whisper in your ear to "get the fuck out".

"Sir," I can hear the kid thinking. "No rush, but I need to remove any trace you were here with this filthy towel. The CSI guys are due in and I’m not sure how long Cindy can keep them at reception."

I guess what I am saying is, keep an eye out for this little bastard. Don’t smile and let him grab your shit. It’s your chance to fight the system. Let him know he can have the plate when he pries it from your dead (chicken?) fingers. Inform him that you get gassy without a chance to digest for a few minutes. Offer to tell him about Jesus. If that doesn’t work, then your only choice is the eternal favorite--the SUCKERPUNCH.

Sure he represents a system designed to minimize your wait for a table. But at three in the afternoon, he shouldn’t be so damn pushy. And now he’s followed me home because I tipped with only pocket change and-- *message ends*

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Today's Themesong:
Song: "Hang On"
Artist: Illinois

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