The Waiter
by
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It was a beautiful day indeed. Autumn days that boast crisp, glorious sunlight blanketing the face of every object while shadows are cool and blue, remind me of a John Singer Sargent landscape painting. On days like those, not even an atheist can completely deny the presence of a spirit. My white basketball flew through the air and hit the back of the rim as I played alone on the court. Popping straight up into the air, the ball's hard rubber cover broke up to expose the black stitching underneath. The ball, a thing that at one time was my only life companion, suffered a small cut upon its surface days before, so its abrupt destruction was no surprise as I watched it wobble aimlessly through the air.
The small round rubber object that became my friend was 'bestowed' upon me by an older man that before lived in the empty apartment next door to me. He had no real use for it, not being an athletic type. He loved drinking and he stayed drunk, even on beautiful, spiritual, sunny days. He always raved on his balcony to himself late at night when he drank about how he never liked dealing with people, and I took to listening. He worked a job in an appliance warehouse off New York Avenue that afforded him a sixty per-cent discount on anything in the store, and he damn near looted the place with everything he could think of to make his place more comfortable. A side from going to only work and the store, he never left his apartment. As I came back from the Dining Room one night, he opened his door to have a conversation with me as I came down the hall because from his window, he watched me go back and forth from my place in a tuxedo every day. Entering through his door, I saw velvet wall hangings of waterfalls, electric egg beaters, six or seven sets of party bowls along with metal and plastic and gadgets to make crab cracking easier atop his kitchen counter. He had a hundred cable channels- of course, and even some plastic contraption on a table that extracted water from washed lettuce with centrifugal force. He offered it to me, and I declined. One year in the summertime on the day of my birthday, he gave me a dart set, umpteen pairs of socks, cologne- I hated that stuff- a set of foreign cheeses(?), and his Jordan MVP white basketball with black trim. I had no more family to speak of, none that ever remembered my birthday. He made that birthday remarkable not just for the things he gave me, but for the idea of anyone taking the time to think of me
There were several occasions I would see him passing from the court I played on just around the corner. The ABC store was always his destination, the only place he cared to go when he was not working, but sometimes he stopped by the court to say hello. I knew he likeden, which was okay because he never made me uncomfortable. I even learned to appreciate him stopping by the court, though I would always be in the middle of games with the types that laughed at him because they could see what he was, and at me for talking to him. No wonder I began taking so much pleasure in beating every single one of them.
At the time he gave me that ball, I still hurt from being asked to leave my parents' house. I had no idea how to even take care of myself. I began playing with the ball often, attempting to avoid making any life decisions. His family soon came to rescue to stop him from drinking himself to death. They took him away and left behind a bare, desolate apartment without so much as a rug. I leaned on the white ball because I was afraid, fearful of the fickle state of people, and the fact that I had to live among them with no family around. Even on the days when my knees, back, ankles, wrists and arms cried out in pain, I would play alone with the ball on the concrete court and it soothed me to imagine that I was the star of a team that needed me, in a city that cherished me, making the winning play that would save the day and establish my monetary worth to anyone concerned. After putting the ball through the hoop, I could perform for the passing traffic by pointing toward the sky and acknowledging God, as if he had sided with me, and me alone.
That autumn Saturday morning boasted the magnificent light of the sun, as my white ball hit the back of the rim and popped into the air, the hard cover of the ball broke up to expose its' black stitching underneath. Before it hit the ground, I realized my life no longer depended upon its past function. No, I had found something else to lean on as the ball passed my feet with a lopsided roll. On that crisp, glorious day, Samantha was nowhere to be found.
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About the Book
'All I ever wanted was to look good with her walking down my favorite street where the sidewalks were paved with my best intentions amid the fear in people's eyes. Her face became crimson, as if someone had cut off her air. The expressionless look on her face was one that brought about a strange terror in me. I loved her.'
The Waiter is a beautiful, tragic portrait of loneliness. It is the story of a gigantic, isolated black man living in Washington, D.C. who hates and mistrusts people, yet gives much of his life to service.
After his parents blame him for the accidental near death of his younger brother, The Waiter is exiled from home. For years afterward, he lives a resentful and sheltered existence, yet remains preserved away from a growing Washington drug and murder crisis responsible for the deaths of many blacks. Unaware of the crisis, The Waiter clings to an idea of providing the best of service to the antagonistic, fearful patrons who frequent his job as a personal way of defining himself. At the same time, he remains reclusive outside of his work, feeling invisible in an increasingly tense public. In Bryce Range, the posh Washington restaurant that employs him, The Waiter meets and falls in love with Samantha, a beautiful white regular patron who graces his table one weekend night. During the misguided courtship that follows between the two, The Waiter's asphyxiating attempt to love Samatha unknowingly accelerates her private suffering from being molested by her own father as a child. Her pain manifests itself through a severe depression that relinquishes her at times without speech or memory. Upon growing dependent upon his relationship with an increasingly ill Samantha for relief from his own solitary existence, The Waiter employs his tremendous service mentality in an effort to care for her deteriorating mental state. His destructive impatience and ignorance of Samantha's distress soon renders her as nothing more to him than another troublesome patron. Once Samantha's mental illness leaves her bedridden without appetite, conversation, employment or emotion in his own home, The Waiter's pain propels him toward seeking understanding from people in the malevolent city he has spent years shielded from in resentment. After the loss of Samantha, The Waiter is left with a stunning portrait of his own lack of compassion, which gives him the courage to reconcile with himself and his family.