“Ours is an honorable profession,” says my buddy Toad.
“Serving the people. Sacrificing ourselves for the happiness of others,” I reply.
“I’m proud to be a part of it,” says Ted, poking the bonfire with a stick.
“We soldier on, through good times and bad,” says Stugmann
We raise our beer cans in a toast.
“Oh, for goodness sakes,” says Toddy. “You’re busboys in a restaurant, not brain surgeons.”
“Yet,” says Toad.
Toddy, a waitress, is right. We’ve all just finished our freshman year in college and are working at a resort for the summer. The high points are the nightly bonfires on the Lake Michigan beach before heading to the employee dormitory.
The work is hard. We keep the dining room looking spiffy while we haul dirty dishes, water pitchers, ketchup bottles and butter to people who are paying to have a good time, and, by gum, if they don’t have a good time, they let us know it.
“Boy! Boy! Take this dirty plate away. I’m done.”
“Yes, ma’am!” I say with a smile I don’t feel.
I take her plate and while I’m there, I grab the plate containing only a piece of gristle from in front of the woman sitting next to her.
“I’m not done!” she squeaks and stabs me in the back of the hand with a fork, before stabbing the gristle with the same fork and popping it into her mouth.
Such is the life of a busboy.
Day after day, Toad and I hustle about doing our work, wearing clammy, stain-proof white shirts and clip-on black neckties. Ted and Stugmann stand behind the service counter. Ted chews ice cubes and Stugmann pretends to fold napkins. They are both nice guys who think work ethic is something to be studied in a sociology class.
As the summer progresses, friendships grow, cemented by nightly beach parties and dorm life. The manager of the resort tries hard to keep a lid on the 20 college kids living in the dorm, but his authority is a bit tarnished since he is having a fling with one of the waitresses.
“I heard that you kids were swimming in the hotel pool last night at 2 a.m.!” he says one morning as we’re preparing to open the doors for breakfast. “There were complaints. You are NOT to use the pool, the sauna, or any of the other guest amenities. Understood?”
“Uh huh,” rises the chorus from sleepy kids hard at work.
He leaves.
“Pool party tonight?” says Ted.
“PARTY!” rises the chorus as dishes clatter and silverware clang.
In a flash, we’re up against the new semester at our various colleges. One by one, friends pack bags and head off for school. Business is ebbing in the late summer, so the resort is no longer buzzing, the golf course is empty and the locals who took the summer off are coming back to work during the coming ski season.
A small bunch of us head to the beach after work for our final night around the bonfire.
“Well,” says Ted. “It’s been fun.”
“Sure has,” says Stugmann.
“Indeed,” says Toad.
“Amen,” I say.
“I’m coming back next summer,” says Toad. “What about you guys?”
Ted and I say yes.
“You guys don’t know this,” says Stugmann. “I’m a trust-fund kid. My dad made me work this summer to learn the value of a dollar, but I’ll never have to work again, the rest of my life.”
With that, he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a stack of business cards, handing one to each of us.
In the light of the fire, we read them.
ROBERT STUGMANN
BUSBOY
RETIRED
— Jim Whitehouse lives in Albion.
This article originally appeared on The Holland Sentinel: Looking Out: Summer memories of working hard
EMEA Tribune is not involved in this news article, it is taken from our partners and or from the News Agencies. Copyright and Credit go to the News Agencies, email [email protected] Follow our WhatsApp verified Channel
