Category: A Mythological Autobiography of a Wolf

The busboy in this restaurant
was not like the average Denny’s or I-hop,
where a boy wears a dirty apron,
takes off the dirty dishes and trash
throws ‘em into a greasy bus tub.
and wipes the table.
No, this was no Salvation Army;
this was a restaurant, a real one,
where people sent six hundred dollars
on a bottle of wine
and leave half of it
for the waiters and dishwashers to drink.
Here the busboy wore a tux,
and catered the table.
He wasn’t even called busboy,
but server assistant.
He had to interact
with these rich powerful sharp tongued people.
He brought the food from kitchen to table.
This was not a job
for a homeless street wise hybrid kid.
No, I’d come in through the back door
from the alley.
I washed the dishes.
I ate and drank the aftermath of their feasts;
I consumed their waste.
It was no different
than hitting them up for a dollar
as they walked down the street to their car,
or, waited for a taxi;
however, the money was more consistent,
I always had food.
I didn’t even have to talk to,
nor even see ‘em.

My first day,
had been the very same day
I ‘d walked in from the street,
homeless, hungry and ill-bathed.
She fed me two bowls of something
inquired when I could start working.
She probably already knew.
I glanced about the place,
observing the waiters walking in,
saying greetings to each other.
I didn’t fully understood
what having a job entailed,
or even what a job was.
All I knew,
it was something
to do in a white-man’s world
to get money
to live, eat, survive, and exist.
Whatever word you used
it meant the same thing:
Slavery.
That’s what my father called it.

One day he just refused to do it anymore.
He lied to, cheated and stole from ‘em;
then afterwards,
he’d go to their bars,
get drunk off their liquor and beat ‘em up.
Sometimes he’d not come home for days,
spending a few of those days in the county pin.
Cops forever came by the house
questing for him
about something he’d done.
They’d attack my drawers rummaging for him,
then plow under the bed for tractors.

If this was the only other way
around the job/slavery thing,
the ending outcome seemed worse.
So I chose the former,
at least they didn’t come to your home,
spawn a mess
and haul you away in the back of a car
with no door handles,
your hands numb from the cuffs.
“When can you work?” She quizzed me.

“What?…
“Now… today.”

“Then get up.”

As we walked through the stainless steel door,
She held my hand.

I was quiet.

When I was four
God summoned me;
I refused to answer.
He screamed angrily down at me
between the claps of a thunderbolt.
His sentences short and to the point.
“Speak!”
The apple tree in the front yard
translated it.
The first word I spoke.
“Snake.”
“Black snake.”
Repeatedly,
until no one wanted to hear it anymore.

The apple tree died for that word;
split in halves, forming a heart.
The city came,
cut it down into logs,
and threw ‘em in a loud obnoxious box
towed behind the truck.
The apple tree was shredded
spit out on the other side
into the back of the truck
as wood shavings.
Sap dripped from the cracks of the box.
The air was scented with Granny Smith.

In the end
the only witness to god coming down at all
laid, cut up into little insignificant pieces
in the back of a truck
to be dumped in a landfill.

Here’s a picture:
Looking down a street
on a sidewalk, cracks filled with grass.
A stop light hangs from a pole waving,
about fifty feet down the street,
followed by another, and another, and another…
the lights fade into infinity.
A line of buildings, dating 1850s and up,
stand guard over the street -lights
Roofs whistle in the wind.

I’m walking down that side walk,
hadn’t taken a bath
nor changed clothes in months.
I was hungry,
There’s something about eating real food,
freshly cooked, still steaming.
Stuff that’s got a smell,
something holy.
A stolen apple was man’s first food.
There’s a grocery store,
with apples and other fruits
in wooden bends out front.

I studied the restaurant across the street,
while I sat on the curb eating my apple.
It’s windows thrusting out,
With rusted iron bars covering ‘em,
thick brick walls, straight up three stories,
gargoyles and lions cling to the brick walls
razor wire surrounds the edge of the roof,
which was covered with trees and flowers.
There was food there.
the Stomache discusses
and advises me.
I found myself on the side of the street
with the restaurant,
standing in front of it’s door,
made of glass and metal bars
moving horizontally
an inch apart up the door.
There is a crack quarter way down
in the middle of the door was a sign,
“Help wanted”
with Busboys and Dishwashers
written with a Sharpie.
I threw the apple core into the street,
pulled the door open,
and entered into a long hallway
lined ceiling to floor
with pictures of just about everything.
The hallway emptied into a large room,
a register stood guard at the end.
I turned to the left and
glancing over the white table clothed tables,
candles burning

The bar held up the far wall.
My attention’s drawn away
by a black-haired oriental woman.
She wore a long thin silk black dress
with a V-shape cut
exposing the crevice of her breasts.

“May I help you?”
She asked in her Chinese English.
My eyes lowered, sheepishly.

“I’m looking for a job, Mame.”

Her small hand touched my chin,
tilted my head vertically forty-five degrees.
Eyes, deep well brown,
“What’s your name?”
‘emory’
‘So you look for job?”
I moved my head slightly up and down
I was frightened and startled by this woman.
The first woman,
who’d spoken to me in a civil tone in a long time.
I wasn’t sure how to act.

“What job you want?”
“Busboy…?” she closed her eyes.
“Dishwasher?.”
She silently examined me.
I thought she was reading my aura..
I’d never spoken to a Chinese person.
I was always afraid.,.
I knew their books
their philosophies their poems.
I didn’t have anything important to say.
I was about to turn around and leave,
believing I ‘d made a fool of myself.
Then She spoke.
“I think, you do. You hungry?”
I’d swear there was a halo over her head,
this angel of a woman,
who guided me through white vested tables,
her hand gingerly pressing my lower back,
to steer me to a small table
in the corner of the restaurant beside the bar.
It had two chairs circumventing it,
a burned out candle,
papers spread about,
and an ash tray full of cigarette butts.
She pointed to one of the chairs waited.
Words were useless at that point.
I sat down, gawked at her waited.
She smiled, turned around,
Headed for the stainless steel door
on the other side of the bar.
I watched her move,
quick smooth gentle cat steps.
Her hand stretched outward
as she glided through the door.
It swung violently back, hiding her.
I reached into the ashtray,
pulled out a cigarette butt,
and lit it.

When I stepped from the stage
Ray’d always be there first.
Hug me, and whisper something funny,
I’d smile, the stage growl leaving my face.

Lo’d be the second.
She’d hug me.
Then came Sarge and T.C.
I’d meet their fists with mine.

And then came my ‘sister’s,’
Those adopted woman fluttering about
flattering me with every word from their mouths.

By this time, Ray’d be back from the bar,
flushing the ‘sisters’ from around me,
with a Heineken in her hand for me.
Sarge and Lo would then come back,
Say goodnight and go home.
T.C.’d go back to his girlfriend,
Have a few more beers
Then he too would come up to me and Ray
and say goodbye.

Ray and I would hang out
Talk until then.
That’s when he’d go back to the bar
Where she’d stay,
Drinking, chatting with the bartender.
Every once in awhile
She’d look for me.
And the same time I’d look over at her,
To make sure she was still there.
Our eyes would meet
I’d nod my head
and she’d smile.

By this time the ‘sisters’ arrive again.
Flurrying about me.
They were afraid of Ray.
And for good reason,
Ray didn’t like them.
She called ‘em Pigeons.
Whenever she came up to me,
They’d pull back,
chirping among themselves.
She did it frequently
Toying with ‘em.

I was usually the next to leave,
going up to Ray at the bar,
while a ‘sister’ waited for me at the door.

Ray stayed at the bar
Drinking,
Until the bar closed.
She’d stumble a block down to the building
Which held her apartment. To pass out.

Charlie, the bouncer, usually walked her to the building.

This was the ritual of my performances.

I was such a frail child,
A solitary student
with few friends.
I stood alone. Aloof.
Transfixed by the movement of the rustling leaves
as I stared up at the sky
through the dense foliage of the trees
without joy or sadness, just fear.
It flowed through my veins
as I wished for Eagle wings.

I remained hidden within the woods for years,
My feet became roots
planting themselves deep within the earth.
However, my sisters, in their rage
fought off the world for me, for a time,
with lunch boxes, rocks, and pine cones.

I crept through the darkest entrails of the forest.
When I stuck my head out from their shelter,
with shock, my life widened out across the sky
hidden by concrete mountains
and the earth webbed with tar rivers.
They were no where to be seen.