Untitled
Mosiah Asad
Jahbodi put the glasses on the dishwasher belt with a harmless, loud clash and reached for the remaining stack. If there was color in the suds, he wouldn’t be able to see because the kitchen was lit by sterile, dimmed white lights. The sink hose he used attached to the sink and blew clumps of customers’ food into the air no matter how Jahbodi held it, splattering hearty leftovers up his brown arms, sometimes flying onto his upper lip or eyelid. He swiped the scum off with a rag. Above him the clock read eight, and although the restaurant stopped serving food an hour ago, through the wall of one-way glass between the seating area and the kitchen, he saw the last table sat still eating. The wall behind him was a mirror for who came to eat, and a window for those who came to wash or cook. The effect, decided by management, was initiated every night before closing so the guest would not feel ‘uncomfortable’ as they finished their meal, Jahbodi was told. He watched silent words move from their lips. The boy working as a server was called to the table by a man whose voice periodically penetrated the glass into kitchen. “What do you mean y’all only serving wine at this hour,” his voice cut through the glass again. Jahbodi glanced up. “That don’t make no damn sense. You telling me we can only drink some weak damn wine after being here for this long. I know you young, you don’t know nothing about this, but the later in the night the stronger I want my spirits.” Wine sauntered out of the boy-man’s mouth like a lose door. Jahbodi looked at the clock. He needed to get his night classes at the community college and wanted to change clothes before, so he wouldn’t smell like rotten, rich folk food. Another voice tore through the server’s defensive motions. Jahbodi couldn’t remember his name, though he thought he was cute, the boy’s afro made him look like someone from Jahbodi’s mama’s old school portraits, but this was Jahbodi’s third job in two months, and he couldn’t remember names. And he wasn’t bringing anyone back home, to his sedan, to fuck. Jahbodi could see and hear the customers arguing amongst themselves now. He continued to clean so he could close up, and keep his job, when whatever was on their table jumped and he saw chairs reel back and hit the ground. He dropped the mop and went out front. Under the fake chandelier were four boys and two girls wearing apparel with the town university logo. They boys all wore khakis with pastel collar shirts. The restaurant had leather single-chairs with backs that raised beyond most of the customers head, making them all appear like little rulers. The chairs behind three of the boys and one of the girls lay on the ground, and the last pair sat watching their friends scream at each other over the table, chuckling. It sounded like they may have began arguing over leaving, but now were stretching their voices over one another for many half-reasons.
Please leave. Two of the guys went around the table to get closer, now poking at the air around the other. The server boy scooted away and now stood with his back turned to turn, holding a phone at the hostess stand. A push and one student crashed into the table and spilled some wine onto the sitting boy’s lap.
Leave Now. Leave. If Jahbodi was speaking, he was not heard. Still behind the glass, he had to reach out, to move physically. Jahbodi placed his hand on the shoulder of the guy who pushed. He swung around and knocked Jahbodi in the chin as red, white, and blue lights replaced the warm caramel streaming from the fake chandeliers. Two police entered calmly with their flashlights scanning the very visible room and their other hand on their holster. As they walked pass the hostess stand, one stopped, pointed a 17
