09/16/2003 Friend, It seemed dark driving back from Butler tonight, from Nathaniel's baby sitting class. More so than can be accounted for simply by being in the Pennsylvania countryside on a late summer's evening. Oppressively dark. Route 68 curves and the trees hang over the road as if the darkness is pressing them down, molding them into a tunnel to block out the moon before it has even risen. Maybe the darkness doesn't come from the sky, from external sources, maybe it starts at my eyes and flows into my mind from there; a web of curtains piling up with various weaves like biological polarization -- one more angle, one more layer and I'll be driving across the white line, or the double yellow, and, SMACK, a power-pole, a tree, a house, an oncoming car -- some unseen object will bring my vehicle and myself to an abrupt halt. Speaking of dark and woven strands, I was thinking, for no particular reason, about Dianes (I just thought of another one, but a blonde from Binghamton). I knew one with dark, long, wavy hair at my first real job (I was a dishwasher/busboy at a popular restaurant named Lock, Stock and Barrel in Raleigh, NC). I was 16. I must've only worked there for 3 months but it was such a rich experience, so new, I matured by years. "Brian" taught me how to wash dishes; he was an 18 year old high school drop out. My second shift he threw a cleaning cloth on the floor and told me to step on it. "Now tell me, Sir," he said (protocol was to always call your coworkers "Sir" or "Ma'am"; it lent a definite formality to the menial work; made it seem professional). "Now tell me, Sir," he said as I stood there in my apron, both feet on that dirty dish cloth, "Are you on the rag?". Hah, hah, hah. Funny shit to a couple of teenagers facing "real life" head on. My mom predicted I would wash dishes in my sleep that first night. I thought she was out of her knowledge domain; had no clue what she was talking about. But I swear by 2:00 am my arms were in motion again: rinse 'em off, rack 'em up slide 'em in the machine, pull the sides down, hit the buttons, back to another rack, up with the sides, pull the rack and off to the shelves they go.... Busboy was kind of a promotion. Brian scoffed at it; you had to look presentable; you were out on the floor. You got 10% of the waitresses' tips. But they always cheated us. And whichever bus boys were closing on a given night cheated the ones who got to leave early. It was the natural order of things. "John" was the head busboy; he was bucking to be an Assistant Manager. Five months out of high school and that was his ambition. He always wore a white shirt with a solid dark tie. His hair was neatly groomed. But he was okay. He caught me one evening showing a newbie how to slack. After two months on the job only John and one or two others had been there longer than I had. He pulled me aside and told me I should show the new guy how to shine the stainless steel highchair trays when there were no vacated tables to clear and that I should show him how we pick the chick peas out of the shag carpet around the salad bar (the salad bar was L,S&B's signature; 31 items, no one else in the North Hills had one yet; customers lined up every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night to get in; Mr. Stevens raked in the cash), uh, pick the chick peas out of the red shag carpet with our fingers at the end of the night. John made me teach that poor kid, and the others after him, that our L,S&B culture was one with a strong work ethic. I taught them to do all the work we didn't want to do. Maybe Neat-John was in fact management material. It was minimum wage. At that time $2.35 an hour was what we saw, it didn't add up fast. Bussing a busy night helped, with the tips, but after getting shorted by the waitresses it could still feel a bit hollow. But one Friday I was off from school and Mr. Stevens (he owned the place, sole proprietor) was short busboys for lunch and called me in. Turned out it was just me and the boss. I never knew businessmen tipped so well. I also didn't know how hard Mr. Stevens could work; he was the fastest busboy I'd ever seen and I tried to keep up with him. He and I bussed for 3 hours and never stopped moving. About 2:30 in the afternoon, when things had slowed and we had caught up, he said I could go home. He looked at me with his one good eye (the other was a mass of cataract) and handed me an envelope with ALL the tips. I made close to $18 an hour that shift, most of it tax free. Serious money. But you may remember that this story has a girl in it someplace. A girl, or perhaps more accurately a woman; a woman named Diane. I didn't know that "woman" was more accurate at first. I just knew I liked talking to her. She was very real. Not very tall with dark, wavy and curly hair down to her shoulders and dark brown eyes. If you ask me I'll tell you that all things being equal I prefer blonde hair and blue eyes, but all things are rarely equal. I got to where, after a few weeks on the job at the Lock, Stock and Barrel, that when I took my break I bought myself a steak sandwich. It was thin sliced quality steak on grilled sourdough bread with melted provolone cheese and grilled onions. But I didn't like onions. The staff used a waitress to place our break orders. You just said "excuse me, Ma'am" to one a few minutes before your break was due and asked them to put it in for you. Maybe when they were getting ice water for one of their real customer tables. On some evening I caught Diane for the first time; I over-emphasized not wanting onions and she teased me about it. I'm sure my face went red while I took her good-spirited ribbing but I was also busy noticing her high cheek bones and the white trim on her black uniform dress that traced the curves of her thin frame down to the black hose covering her legs. From then on if our shifts matched I'd make sure I got her to place my order; she never forgot to hold the onions. One night she sat down in the back with me while I ate my sandwich. She was easy to talk to; genuinely interested in my view of that life. It became a tradition that we would share breaks and chat about the restaurant, the staff, The Beatles, whatever I was in to. Well, not about science fiction books; she was an earthy girl; blue collar but informed. Eventually I overheard some of the other waitresses snickering a bit about Diane taking me under her wing, she was 28 for chrisakes. I was surprised, but I didn't care. 28 didn't sound like she was ancient or anything but she definitely wasn't a kid; not even close to being a teenager. I just barely had my driver's license. She probably had an apartment. Of course I had a bit of a crush on her but that had to get buried a few layers down in my psyche, and quick. But what about her? Clearly she enjoyed talking to me, was there something more? Or was I just a high school kid with quirky viewpoints? Ah, the pain of the adolescent. I wrestled with it a while and was sad when I had to quit that job to move back North. Oh, LS&B-Diane, the things you never taught me. I was supposed to tell you, too, about another Diane with long dark wavy hair and I think blue eyes that I knew in Virginia. I thought of her as her brothers' quiet sister until my own sister said to me one day, "I don't know what you don't see in Diane !". I was 15 and in Virginia and Cathi was right about that Diane. She was slinky and smooth with an inner strength and gorgeous eyes if you looked past the hair. I remember long fingers. She was smart, too; she was in my grade and in a couple of my classes. But she was part of a family where brains weren't considered a big asset. I'm sure her father drove an 18 wheeler, it seemed like half the neighborhood fathers did. She lived about 3 blocks from us, up the hill straight out our broken-rock driveway, and she rode my bus. Her brothers, three, no four, of them were long-haired, wild types -- what we in the suburbs in the South called Rednecks in a way that black urbanites call each other "niggers". All those boys smoked, even the youngest who was about 10, and so did Diane. The oldest quit long enough for football season; he was fast and strong for his small size. The next brother was quiet, too, and cool. I fished with the youngest two. Doughed up white bread molded to a hook down at the over-sized pond we called a lake. Diane was nice to me; but I was a mop-head nerd that hung out with the rednecked burn outs only until they started partying, then I'd slip off home. Not much else to tell. Fishin'-Brothers-Diane, another one that got away without a nibble.