but tonight instead of going up to my own place I went to the diner.
There was a new dishwasher, a boy of about sixteen, and there was something familiar about him, his movements, the look in his eyes.
And then, clearing away the table behind me, he dropped some dishes.
They crashed to the floor, shattering and sending bits of white china under the tables.
He stood there, dazed and frightened, holding the empty tray in his hand.
The whistles and catcalls from the customers (cries of "hey, there go the profits!"..."Mazel tov!"...and "well, he didn't work here very long..."
which invariably seems to follow the breaking of dishware in a public restaurant) confused him.
When the owner came to see what the excitement was about, the boy cowered—threw up his arms as if to ward off a blow.
"All right! All right, you dope," shouted the man, "don't just stand there! Get the broom and sweep up that mess.
A broom... a broom! you idiot! It's in the kitchen. Sweep up all the pieces."
When the boy saw that he was not going to be punished, his frightened expression disappeared,
and he smiled and hummed as he came back with the broom.
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