By David Himmel

I don’t care what the economic experts say. The most lucrative economy was the mid-1990s. For me, anyway. I had several jobs—babysitter, lawn barber, Sunday school teacher’s aide, and best—and most germane—of all, busboy/back waiter at a small white table cloth restaurant called Fresh Starts.

Fresh Starts was located in glorious downtown Flossmoor, the south suburb where I grew up. My mom used to frequent the place, and when she caught wind they needed a new busboy, Mom dragged me in for an interview with the night manager and one of three co-owners, Tom. I was not in the mood. I had just come from cross-country practice where my locker had been raided and my favorite hacky sack had been pilfered. It was 1994. I was fifteen years old. Hacky sacks were all the rage and I was sure I’d never find one as good as the one I had at the start of the day. Apparently, my devastation and grumpy demeanor did not matter, or I hid it real well, because I got the job.

I loved it immediately. It was fast, busy work. I could be social. I was learning a lot about the restaurant business, about food, and about people. How to charm them, how to stay out of their way, how to read them. These were skills I’ve carried with me since and have, mostly, served me well.

As a busboy/back waiter, my job was to help run food, refill water glasses and bread baskets, offer fresh ground pepper, clear the plates and box up leftovers, reset the table when it turned over, keep an eye on things like empty cocktail and wine glasses and communicate that to the servers. As I got better at the job, I was given more responsibilities. Taking the dessert and coffee orders, running those orders out. I found an interest and great joy in making cappuccinos with mountainous foam. I started doing birthday announcements. So, when someone was celebrating a birthday, I’d get the restaurant’s attention—it was small enough to do that—and let them all know it was Lillian’s or Mike’s birthday and we were all going to sing “Happy Birthday” to them. As I got more comfortable, I started mixing things up. Sometimes, I’d have the restaurant just shout, “Happy birthday, Lillian!” or, “Instead of singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Mike, we’re going to do the “Name Game!” I tried that one with a guy named Chuck once and it went over like a lead balloon.

 Bus kids—and we were all kids, fellow Vikings from Homewood-Flossmoor High School—shared the tips with the servers, so we were all in it together. Sometimes, a server would cut me more than my standard share because I had really busted my ass. I even started getting tips directly from the patrons, especially if I did their birthday, anniversary, or took their dessert order. It was a great gig and I was making great money for a high school kid. I was able to save up that money for a new hacky sack, which gives you an idea for how much dough I was rolling in.

But before all this, when I was still pretty green, I made a big mistake.

I had been watching this six-top, three couples probably in their late fifties. All but one guy had cleared their plates. I walked to the table and asked each person if I could clear their empty plate. Each one shifted in their seat to make room for me and said, “Yes, please,” or some version of that. I approached the one guy—white hair, a white mustache, glasses—who had maybe six bites left of his entrée. “Can I wrap that up for you, sir?” I asked.

“No. I’m still working on it.”

Cool. I left it. I went about my business with the other tables, keeping an eye on White Glasses. As soon as those six bites were done, I’d swoop in and clear his plate. I watched and watched, and after about twenty minutes, he still hadn’t touched his plate. I approached him and asked again if he wanted it wrapped up.

“No. I’m not finished.”

Cool. Another twenty minutes. Still hadn’t touched a thing. The server had even taken the dessert and coffee order at that point. So, I approached him again. I asked him again, “Sir, can I get that out of the way for you. Make a little room for your dessert?”

“No!” he barked at me, loud enough for heads to turn. “What is wrong with you! This is the third time you’ve pestered me about this. I’m. Still. Eating. Stop bothering us! We’re trying to have a nice meal.”

The other five people at the table seemed to sink a bit in their seats. I died a thousand deaths of embarrassment then said, “I’m sorry about that,” and slunk off to hide as best I could behind the refrigerated dessert case. The server came to me and said, “What happened?” I explained it. “Well, don’t let it get to you. You did nothing wrong. People can be assholes. Just leave it.” So I did. They left. I cleared the table including his plate, which still had six bites remaining.

The lesson I took from this was that, yes, people can be assholes.

“Just do the job,” I told Lauren. And Lauren did. But with each engagement, she came back with an example of how Becca and her mother, but mostly Becca, were just rude. “You’re doing nothing wrong,” I told her. “People can be assholes. Especially Becca Stone.”

A few years later, when I was a senior in school and the most senior busboy/back waiter, a good friend’s younger sister—Lauren—had just started working at Fresh Starts and I was showing her the ropes. One night around Christmastime, Lauren’s neighbor came in. Her name was Becca Stone. She and her mom were sat in Lauren’s section.

“Oh, god,” Lauren said to me.

I didn’t know Becca’s mom. But I knew Becca. I’d known her since the sixth grade and she’d always been one of those humans I found hard to enjoy. She came from lots of money. She was tall and thin with blonde hair, and despite having a face that looked like a sad horse, she thought she was the greatest thing Flossmoor had to offer. This, of course, was not true. Fresh Starts’ New New Orleans pasta was the greatest thing Flossmoor had to offer. Becca was smug, entitled, bratty, catty, mean. She was, unsurprisingly, one of the popular girls. And growing up next door to Lauren and her older sister, she had made their lives hell. Having Lauren be Becca’s busgirl was Lauren’s worst nightmare and the moment a person like Becca waited all their life for.

“Just do the job,” I told Lauren. And Lauren did. But with each engagement, she came back with an example of how Becca and her mother, but mostly Becca, were just rude. “You’re doing nothing wrong,” I told her. “People can be assholes. Especially Becca Stone.”

As Lauren and I were hanging back, the restaurant running smoothly—water glasses full, bread baskets breaded, entrees freshly peppered—we saw Becca turn back toward us, making deadly eye contact with Lauren then reach her long, meatless arm in the air and snap her fingers. Lauren’s shoulders slumped.

“God.”

“No, I said.” I put my hand on her arm as she took a step to answer the call. “No.” Becca’s eyes got wider. She snapped her fingers again. Multiple times and with more ferocity. Enough that I wondered if her dumb little hand might fall from her wrist or her twiggy fingers would shatter. “No. I got this.”

Our manager saw all this go down and as I walked past him, he gave me a knowing look. I approached Becca’s table. I scoped it out. They were halfway into their entrees. Had plenty of bread and water, her Coke and her mom’s wine was fresh.

“Hi. Something I can help you with?” I said to Becca, making sure to smile real big.

“We’d like Lauren to come here a moment.”

“Ah, yes. I’m sorry, Lauren is unavailable right now. I am more than happy to help you.”

“I can see her just standing there.”

“How can I help you? Is everything to your liking?”

Becca harrumphed, annoyed I didn’t acquiesce to her ploy. “I would like some more parmesan cheese.”

“Great!” I said, still smiling. “I’ll get that for you right away.” And then I leaned a little and let my smile fade. “And if you ever snap your fingers at any of our staff again, I will personally escort both of you out of here and you will not be welcome back again. Ever.” Both of their faces went from smug to surprised. Like they’d never been told “no” before or, more to the point, like they’d never been called out for being unnecessarily rude. I straightened up, brought my smile back and said, “Just the cheese? Anything else right now?”

“No,” Becca’s mom sheepishly said. Becca sat stunned.

“Great! I’ll be right back.”

I nabbed a small bowl of fresh-grated parmesan cheese and headed back to their table. My manager stopped me and asked me what I said to them. I told him exactly how it went down.

“Good. They’re awful. You have my full support and would love to kick them out.”

I brought them the cheese. They thanked me without making eye contact. The rest of their meal looked like it was had in silence. Lauren had no other issues with them. As they walked out of the restaurant, they walked past me, Lauren, and our manager. Lauren smiled politely. I grinned big. Our manager, stone faced said, “Have a wonderful Christmas.”

“They’re Jewish,” Lauren said.

“I know,” he replied.

As far as I know, they never came back to Fresh Starts. And from what Lauren and her sister told me, the neighborhood was a whole lot nicer after that.

Nah, that’s not true. They were still assholes. Anything else, well, that would be a Christmas miracle.