| The boss had paused at Joe’s door. “Lunch?” “Uh – sure! Now?” “No.” The boss pursed his lips. “Eventually.” He headed down the hall to his desk. Joe couldn’t concentrate for the next hour. This was unusual and could not be good. The Boar was half-empty. The boss took a pale pink tray from the stack and slid it slowly along the chrome rails. “I ever tell you my idea? Square plates?” “No sir.” “You have a rectangular tray, but you got round plates. You get one entrée, one salad, a coffee, a roll, some pudding, and you got the plates with their edges all piled up. If the plates were square you could fit more on the tray, and they wouldn’t move.” “That’s a great idea. I wonder why no one thought about it.” “I’m sure they did. But after a while you’re stuck with things.” He picked a tulip dish of lime Jell-o from the display. “And maybe it’s like those guys who come up with new calendars or better clocks, you know, ones with 36 hours, and they waste their whole lives on some cockamamie idea and spend their old age at the train station writing letters to the editor about the Masons. Maybe there’s a reason things are the way they are.” “Maybe everyone’s just got too much invested in round plates?” Joe took the Jell-O too. “Could be. But there’s the bowl problem. Who wants a square bowl. Hey, they got the Salisbury steak today.” He looked gravely at Joe. "Safe bet." By the time he was done he had six plates piled on the tray. He paid and waddled off to a table. He was halfway through the small steak by the time Joe joined him. “It’s good,” he said, glancing at Joe’s tray. “It’s pretty moist.” They ate in silence. Joe could hear the dishwashers in the back; it sounded like they were taking the plates and dashing them on the floor. The cashier was reading a magazine and smoking a cigarette; a few tables over, a thin man in a stained beige coat was dropping one sugar cube after the other into his coffee. He had a pile of saltines on a small plate. No feast, but say this about the Boar; you could keep your stomach quiet for a dime. The boss finished his corn, wiped his face, and speared a cube of Jell-O with a fork. “I’m thinking of getting out of buttons,” he said. “Really.” Cold dread. Here it was. Cutting back, tightening the belt, you’re a valued employee, but business ain’t what it used to be, and here you go submitting a bid for – “Thinking of quitting all the novelties, for that matter. I don’t make much on the banners or ribbons anyway. And you know what? I don’t like them. I never did. All those political buttons, must have been a hundred thou, and I doubt they changed one vote. So I think I’m just going to let that side go, concentrate on matches. That’ll mean more work for you if we want to pay the rent." He looked up from his dessert and met Joe's eyes for a moment. "I never ask you about your . . . life, because it’s none of my business, but if I’m going to put more on you I need to know. You’re not married, are you?” “No sir.” “Engaged? No? Okay. Well, you’re not going to quit and look for something better, then.” He poked at his Jell-O. “Stick around, is all I can say. It’ll be worth your while.” “Sure. Hey, my name’s on the samples. Just ordered a new batch. Be wasteful to run out before they do.” “That’s good. You want to finish this? Oh, you got your own.” He looked back towards the kitchen. “Ahhh, Joe. I got the fucking cancer.” Joe stared at him. No words. “So I’m looking to relax things a bit. I might not be around the office so much, which is why the button business can go to hell, since that’s what I’ve been busting my ass doing the last twenty years. Anyway I don’t want the business to go under. It’s something I want to hand off, you know?” “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” “Why should you? You’d have to have your head up my ass to know.” They sat in silence for a while. “I’d like the business to keep going,” Joe said. “I like the business.” “I know you do. You’re good at it, too. Eventually I’m going to let my son take it, but he’s not a hands-on guy. I mean he is, he’s a doctor. He’s the one who found it out. Christ, more like a hands-up guy, I tell you.” He made a face of disgust. “I guess what I’m saying is stick around. Something happens to me, he’s going to need you. He doesn’t think anything will happen for a long while. It’s one of those could-be-worse cancers. But still, you know? Jesus.” He stood, coughed, and put on his overcoat. “Need a ride back?” “No, I’m going to run an errand or two. If that’s okay.” “Sure.” He finished his coffee. “Let’s do this more often.” He shook Joe’s hand. “Thanks,” he said. Joe watched him go, thinking: for what? |
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this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home