When I was fifteen

I worked as a busboy


at a diner just off 17 West, famous

for being en route to up-state's

colleges and universities.


Charles, 2 years older and whose mother

found all the stolen cell-phones

in the back of his Blazer, lived

with her in the ashram.


He swore he'd never be a busboy

after he turned eighteen, and had to

wear a black bow-tie at a Chinese-

kosher restaurant called Hunans.


He had a girlfriend and I had lies.


I'd sneak out and he'd drive with

disregard for turns and I knew

he had seen Israel for some coke,


but when the delivery man had come

for his two-egg breakfast that morning

I'd lifted two twelve packs.


Charles swore he knew French, his

brother went to Choate and then Cornell--

one of the schools whose pennet

perched above the dining room where I


worked. Drinking only two cans in a

hotel's parking lot I turned to

Charles, and quite dignified and philosophically

said You know what, I really do think Budweiser

is the king of beers...


Four years later, back from school for break

I knocked on his door

and he answered, surprised,


inviting me in for coffee saying
I'm not the only one going bald.