JAMES Short Fiction by Travis Sentell The soupy mess of dishwater, grease and exoskeletons rains down on the concrete with a sound like spanking a naked fat woman. My chest evades the necessary by-products of “a genuine Cajun meal”, but the slimy grey liquid that resides in the bottom of garbage bags douses both pant legs. I broke the bag. I haven’t broken a bag in fifteen months. I have four hours left on shift tonight, four days left this week, and no way of getting that smell out of thick velvet. Aggravated. Pungent. Seafood. These are the three words that I choose. “The bustron is pungent.” This is the word I choose to say. The dripping bag is hanging half in and half out of the dumpster, and the part I can see is a black pimple waiting to expel its crawfish pus. I have three choices. One: I can attempt to somehow lift the wrinkled scrotum bulge up over the side and into the dumpster. Two: I can leave the bulge hanging and hope the pressure from the remaining garbage bag forces it in. Three: I can leave it for someone else to take care of. One is messy, three is against the rules. No more lifting bags by the top. All the pressure and the liquid sit on the bottom and bags can’t handle the pressure. The bustron’s memory banks never hold this fact very long. I put one hand under the last garbage can, the other on the rim, and lift with my legs. My thighs burn and my cheek presses up against the gritty side of the can. Parsley, fish scales and a hint of bleach. I get the bottom propped up on one thigh and lean it against the dumpster while moving both hands underneath it. This is called efficiency. I have two barbells in my room with an extra fifteen pounds I can take on or off for different exercises. They are filled with sand. I only work the biceps because those are the things that need to be big. My dad has a treadmill in the kitchen. I have a jump rope that is frayed in the middle, but I’m not quite sure how that happened. I push straight up, and let out my breath as the bag falls with the sound and surprise of a rock through a window at midnight. That was the bag from the bar. The weight change is so sudden that the can falls into the dumpster. I am stepping on soggy whole potatoes, half-eaten corn on the cob and the last bites of pecan pies. My velvet pants are hanging down into the mess, changing to dark colors like a thick bruise. I wrench the can out and put it back on the wheeled platform. I will not clean up the spilled bag because it looks like it might rain soon. Never do what nature will do for you. Murdering a ninety-year old man just isn’t worth it. Time is passing, and I jog back to the door, pushing the can as fast as the wheels will spin. There is a string of asparagus stuck to the rim, so I pull it off and stick it in my pocket. The bustron is efficient. There are tables waiting. Breeze. Cold. Late. “The bustron is late.” I bust in the door and head for the sink to perform the requisite hand washing. There are no rules broken here. There is a book. This is a corporation. My father is a policeman, and he has three uniforms that are exactly the same. He also has 23 pornographic movies, 17 CD’s, a crossbow, 3 guns and 5 books. I’m not allowed to touch any of his things. Those are the rules. A waitron asks me a favour as I turn off the spigot. “James, tables 23 and 44 are completely piled, can you take care of them?” The figure leaves before I can give an answer, but none is required. Speech isn’t required. I am the bustron. I bus tables. I dry my hands on the inside of my apron, bunching the white material like a fat, dirty diaper. The black tub is grabbed because the book says I am always to be with my black tub. I head out the swinging door marked “out”. Waitrons may use either door. I am not allowed. Food recipients sit at 14 tables in the restaurant. I don’t need to pay attention to them yet, just be aware of them. Like a gun cocked but not fired. Five tables are piled: three two-tops, a three-top and a six-top. I take this in while moving to table 23—one of the two-tops. I see a lemon wedge on the floor and put it in my shirt pocket. I reach the table and get to work. Plates piled first, then glasses stacked and racked. Black tub placed on chair and table residue swept into it with the rag I am required to keep moist and in my back pocket. I don’t notice the wetness behind me or the lemon leaking into my chest. I am the bustron. The plan is to fit the three two-tops in the first run, empty the tub at the garbage can/dishwasher, and then return for the six-top. By the time that is cleared of its mountains of catfish bones and heads, half-used ramekins of tartar sauce and spicy mustard, napkins covered in Tabasco and mucus and wine stains, plates scraped with the abortive residue of etoufee and red beans and olive oil, used and unused pieces of silverware, half-eaten slices of double truffle chocolate cake and To-Die-For lemon meringue pie, carafes with the scent of cheap wine still clinging to the glass like sulphur to a gun barrel, sprigs of parsley smashed everywhere like slash and burn rainforest clearcutting, portions of smashed sliced lemons, and fourteen glasses filled with various carbonated drinks, I will be ready to come back for the four-top. And then I can combine that with the two-top about to leave at table 12. Efficiency. I am done with the three two-tops. A bead of sweat drips from my underarm down the side of my rib cage. I wipe my forehead with my sleeve. I used to collect pictures of my mother. I have one of her sweating after mowing the lawn. I have one of her standing in a sprinkler. I have one of her in a bathing suit at a river. “James, can you grab two Cokes from the bar and drop them off at table 8 for me?” A waitron runs past me as I finish unloading the plates. Without turning around, I drop the napkins into the laundry basket and turn the black tub upside down to let the slimy butter and seafood juice drip out into the garbage can. It glistens and drips trails of viscosity—an unbroken saliva line from trash to trash. I break it and turn away, heading for the bar. Drink acquisition is not in my job description, but “aiding waitrons in all necessary functions” is. Plus, my wages are entirely dependent on how generous the waitrons feel on a particular night, and they feel more generous the more I help. The food recipients pay them, and they pay me. I only relate to the waitrons. I am not allowed to break the chain of command. I start to spritz the Cokes from the multi-lettered spigot behind the bar. “C” means Coke. “D” means Diet Coke. “L” means Sprite. I am not supposed to ever go behind the bar. This is a problem in the book. “James, goddammit, get out of the way.” This is the bartender. Not a “bartron”—the corporation believed that “bartender” was already non-gendered and didn’t need to be adapted. “I have to get a drink for table 8.” “Who is that for?” “A waitron.” I grab another glass. “I know—Jesus, look, I’m really busy, get the fuck outta the way, all right?” “I need to get another one.” “Well you can’t—I need you to move—I got a party on the patio.” The bartender is rushing around pouring drinks and slings fluids everywhere like an acrobatic whore. A few drops of lime cordial splash onto my arm. I am not looked at, and I keep spritzing. “James!” There are large nostrils and a cratered face flashing red like Mars erupting. I look down. The spritzing is almost done. Just five more seconds. My velvet pants are sopping on the bottom. I smell like fish. The bartender has a tray full of drinks in one hand, and is grabbing for the Coke I have just poured with the other. I hold on to it and move it out of the way. The perfectly round tray sways and dips and crashes to the ground. Bottles of Corona fall and the limes bounce on the hard rubber mat behind the bar. Stringy bits of pina colada get diluted by vodka shots, and the creamy strands remind me of sex in a hot tub. The sound of broken glass shatters through the bar. All conversation stops. I have two Cokes in my hand and a moist rag in my back pocket. I hear silence. Shatter. Fault. Mess. These are the words. “That wasn’t my fault,” is what comes out of my mouth. “These are my Cokes. For the waitron.” The bartender is holding the empty tray, looking at the mess of alcohol on the ground, the trousers, the shoes. Mouth open. The bartender never tips well, always more money than the waitrons, but a lower percentage. I get a printout of everyone’s total sales so I can calculate how much they should be giving me. The bartender never gives enough. I leave the moist rag in my pocket and go to drop the Cokes off at table 8. “James! Goddammit!” There is some laughter from two drinkers at the bar. Each of them comes in here every day and orders between four and six cocktails. One mutters something to the other in a drunken stumble that reminds me of Russian military secrets. “James! Come clean this up and make me new drinks! I don’t have time for this—come on.” Nervous. Busy. Angry. “I’m busy,” I call over my shoulder. “You son of a bitch,” the bartender screams in a whisper. “Do your fuckin job and clean this shit up. You knocked these drinks over—get over here and clean them up!” The bartender takes a deep breath and heads out to the patio to take care of his recipients. I see a smile land carefully before the entry to the patio is made. The book doesn’t put me under the bartender. I supply fresh glasses, I run food, I prep food, I bus tables, and I assist the waitrons. I drop the Cokes off at table 8 and head for the back. There are no more tables to bus. There will not need to be another garbage run for at least 45 minutes. My jobs get taken care of here. I’ve been in three fights in my life, and I have a scar from one of them. I can punch 72 times in one minute, and I can nearly do a full split. I have a machine called a Flexmaster that makes me more flexible. I stay busy and begin to load dishes onto plastic runners so they can be washed. The steam from the machine billows out and floods my face. My pores open like sunflowers. The water drips down onto my collar and saturates my neck. There is a soggy bit of piecrust and a crawfish head on one of the plates, clearly left over from inadequate rinsing. I put them in my pocket so they don’t fall on the floor. I bleach and rinse the floors every night. Chemical peels for ceramic tiling. I own 2 throwing stars, 1 bowie knife, 1 katana, 1 air rifle, 2 BB guns, 1 .44 magnum hand pistol, and a classic Beretta Cougar 45 ACP. I’ve fired the magnum, at a firing range with my dad. I’ve been hunting once, but didn’t kill anything. The head in my pocket reminds me of what my dad killed, stuffed and brought home for my twelfth birthday. He rubbed blood on my forehead and I felt like I was drowning. Sometimes at night, I hold the katana and stand in front of the mirror with my shirt off. The steam is still pouring over me, and my hair is beginning to droop from the saturation. I flip the machine to “OFF”, and decide to wait until I have more dishes to run. Efficiency. The roar of the machinery grinding to a halt is like kicking a car door over and over again until it dents. Wet. Soggy. Steam. The bustron is wet. The dishwashing is caught up. The tables are caught up. The waitrons are caught up. This is the best part of the night. The restaurant slows down like an ancient heart. The blood stops flowing in and out, in and out. The pulse trickles. Seeps. The “out” door slams open. I don’t move. The bartender comes in. I stare like a condemned man in an Old West film. “What the fuck was that all about?” The bartender is new here. I’ve been here for 53 months and two weeks. I have seniority. I’ve been offered a waitron job four times, but have always turned it down. I am the bustron. I say nothing. The bartender steps forward, pants streaked with white coconut residue and sticky with alcohol, head purple with anger. “I can’t get around back there until you get the mop, James. The patio’s about to close down—so get out there and clean that shit up. You’re about to have a shitload of tables to clear.” We are immobile members of the Magnolia Café staff. I am a shitload of tables. He is broken glass and stringy white streaks. I am caught up. The restaurant is dying. This is my favorite part of the night. I grab the dishwashing nozzle and turn it on the bartender. A thick stream of water shoots out across the kitchen, projectile vomit of clear and pure bile. Like my mother when she came out of the river. The water strikes the bartender in the face with a thousand tiny bullets. Wet. Bullets. Triumph. He drips. The steam makes me suffocate. The hose is still in the air. I put the nozzle to my head, close my eyes, and pull the trigger. My shoes squish and my toes curl. My pant legs turn to dark bruises, and the velvet seeps with fluid. My shirt clings to my body. Rivulets drown my face and my sunflower pores eat up the water. The bartender stares at me. I stare back. I don’t blink. Time is the only thing I own that disappears even if I don’t use it up. Everywhere I go, I’ve been there too long. I walk forward, walk past the bartender, walk out the “out” door to the bar, kneel down, and begin putting the pieces of broken glass one by one into my pockets. Small crystals stand straight up in my fingertips and hold back red tide pools. I line my pockets with broken alcoholic parts. The limes go in. The stringy bits go in. The water goes in. The cherries go in. The ice cubes go in. The glass crunches in my hand. Pain. Relief. Pain. I shovel and shovel and shovel until the fluids run down my arms and mix with the alcohol. Everything is gone. Everything is clean. I grab the spigot from the bar, press “W”, and turn it on the floor. Everything goes down the drain. I am the bustron. I am wet. I am efficient. I am efficient. I am wet. These are the two things I choose to think. I go to the patio. Mountains of bones. Heaps of skins and carcasses. Oceans of fluids. Drinks and death. I don’t have my black tub. The rules have been broken. I am shoving the crawfish heads and catfish bones inside my shirt. I am putting scales in my pants. This can be clean. I know it can. It’s not a matter of space, it’s a matter of effort. My mind watches as I shove body after body inside myself. I forget where I am as my hands take on the death of the world. It can’t be any other way. I know I will always have this feeling. Broken glass grinds against my leg, and I know what forever feels like. I am the bustron. I am wet. I am efficient. This is all that I am.