A Satisfying Position

If Albert would have known how hard the work would be, he wouldn't have taken the job at all. Too late, he muttered to himself. Now if he was anything, he was not a quitter and here he was proving it. At seven thirty, he would wet his hands with water from the water fountain, smooth down his unruly hair, and then unlock the front doors to invite the paying public inside.

Let 'em squeeze their white Wonder bread arses in here. Albert spat on the floor for emphasis, then mopped up the moisture with the hanky dangling from his back pocket. Things had to be looking good or there would be talk. Not that he gave a good goddam. He just didn't want to give the satisfaction of being right to those who expected nothing but for him to be a flop.

The chairs were heavy but Albert thought it more practical to carry a whole stack of ten rather than to separate them and walk back and forth like some fool without a plan. Two hundred and eighteen identical chairs with OAPH stenciled on the back with that lettering he remembered from Mrs. Archer's posters back in elementary school.

He carried the stacks to the ends of each of the long wooden tables covered in newsprint to save the tops from finger marks and daubers and who knows what else. Then he spaced the chairs exactly twelve inches apart in order to set up a feeling of private space but also of community spirit. Oh, the things folks did not know he was capable of manipulating.

Albert stacked the coloured cards and counted the money for the night's float. He filled the old coffee urn with water and plugged it in. And he checked the bathrooms for toilet paper and towelettes. He sprayed some deoderizer to freshen the place up. Finally, at six minutes past seven, he had finished.

Just enough time for the sweat under his arms to dry and to help himself to some root beer.

Careful not to jar any of the chairs out of position, he paced the spaces between the table and then the length of the hall, surveying his work which was a mighty fine thing if he did say it right out loud. A man who can't say he's proud of his own work is a goddam servant fool, he declared, suddenly standing at attention and saluting an invisible superior with blunt deliberation.

At ease, said Albert, as he headed for the beverage dispenser to quench his working man's thirst.

Let the patrons line the walkway, hoping to catch him unprepared. Tonight it would be Albert who beamed like he'd won the big jackpot prize.

Under the B, he shouted, as he slugged down a full glass and slammed the yellow plastic cup on the counter.

It's showtime.