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

flashlight in Don’s face, making his teeth seem fake white against his black gums, interrogating something undiscernible to Jahbodi. Yes, Don. That was his name. Don, the boy with the afro who served and bussed. The other cop walked over to the table with a flashlight aimed at Jahbodi. The two brown haired boys tried to continue their spar, while their standing friends gently tried to stop them, and the sitting couple bent their faces over half-filled plates of food, shielding their laughter with napkins. Jahbodi froze. Their arguing began again as the police neared, and this drew his attention from the young black man in the dishwasher’s apron. “Alright alright now fellas. What’s going on, woah, woah there buddy keep it together” He fixed his badge on his uniform and helped one of the young men stand straight. The couple that stayed seated was now standing, and laughed at something the cop said, which made the whole group erupt into grins and friendly jabs. Jahbodi stood where the boy’s swing put him, watching the cop joke with the students. He looked over at the other, whose flashlight, still on but now leveled with the gun at his waist, pointed up at Don, making a shadow dress his face in a mask that seem to wrapped from his black nonslip shoes to his black uniform, forming shadow fingers from the curves of his lips, eyes and nose and reaching for his fro. Don looked above and around the cops unearthly outline, so the light wouldn’t shine in his eyes, giving the impression that he was holding back a flinch, or petrified, unable to meet the cop’s eyes. The one by Jahbodi led the group of students outside. The young woman couldn’t stop laughing was the last to wave goodbye. The cop then came back around and questioned Jahbodi. “So what happen here tonight, man. “ “He punched me.” The cop smiled, “Damn kids.” The other cop and Don started their way over to the table. “Just let me get your name and address and we’ll let y’all close up.” Jahbodi looked for Don, who he knew could see the holes in his shirt from the mirror wall behind them. “I’on have one,” said Jahbodi. The cop squinted and pursed his lips, and Jahbodi knew he would lose this job for the same reason he lost his last. “I mean my name Jahbodi, but I don’t have an address. Right now.” The cops thin lips relaxed into a frown. “You an alien, boy?” “No sir.” “Why you don’t got no address then. You a felon?” The cop looked him up and down, “Na too young. A delinquent. How old? Where you be nesting up at when you get off? I’m not try’na clean up no more regulars out there on Main.” The cop nodded outside. “I’m 22. I sleep in my car. Out back.’ “22, with a job but a no home, and a car but no last name. Get me your license, boy.” The cop turned around to Don, “He work here?” shining his quickly unholstered flashlight up and down the boy wearing a dishwasher’s apron. “Yes.” Jahbodi looked at Don’s feet, to avoid the light. “My wallet is in my car.” Jahbodi goes into the kitchen to grab his keys and leads a cop outside behind the restaurant to where he parked. There is a woman sitting on the ground beside the door. Behind the restaurant, Jahbodi’s backseat is overfilled with unclasped suitcases, loose clothes, plastic bowls and lids, a lamp, a broken printer, trash and books. He digs out his wallet for the cop, who says he will give him a warning for parking in an unpermitted space, promising, “AND, I won’t let your boss know you’re living outside his business. Don’t wind up like one of these bums, keep on working hard.” When Jahbodi returned inside, the other cop had gone, and he hears Don on the phone with

a manager. A knot had rosed on Jahbodi’s chin. He disappears across the seating area to the kitchen, feeling Don’s eyes from the mirror. He has lost this job, he thinks. He laughs. This was like last time, only then it was his boss who caught him asleep in his car, late for his shift. He opens the supply closet and gets a roll of industrial toilet paper, removing the carboard and folding it into his pockets. He grabs two forks, two spoons, a knife and would’ve grabbed more had he bigger pockets. In the wine cellar, he picks a bottle, wrapping it in his jacket, breathing deeply, once, then turning to clean. Damn weak ass wine. When he is done, he takes off the apron, his shirt and pants, then drains the water from the sink, and refills it. As Jahbodi bathes, Don finishes cleaning out front and dims the lights, removing the effect of the mirror wall, so where he once saw himself, he now sees Jahbodi. And he was cute. The night outside sits still and alive. Few college kids are this far from their university campus tonight. When Jahbodi leaves the restaurant, Don is waiting outside. “All good in there?” “Yeah.” “You ok?” Don walks to Jahbodi, who shuffles to let him slouch down to lock the door. The boys watch each other through the storefront of their dark workplace. “I’m a’ight,” he lies. Don straightens and looks down at Jahbodi. He unsheathes a wine bottle from his jacket and smiles and shrugs, “I guess me too.” Their wine was warm and the little pieces of cork floating around in it looked like un-shining gold but it didn’t bother them. They walked around down main and saw two black boys playing in a fountain in front of one those new apartments with the video surveillance doorbells that record you before you push the button. They sit and watch. Some more kids show up on their bikes and they all take off from the fountain like birds. Carrying each other on the handlebars, lifting the front wheels and dancing on the pedals, and flapping their arms.

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