The Busboy by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

It was a cool, rainy Tuesday afternoon in late April (the 24^th, 2018)in the Plaza-Midwood area of Charlotte (NC, USA). I mounted a padded, armless stool at 2:40 EDT before a large rectangular oak table occupied by seven football/soccer fans at Jackalope Jack’s (now at the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Pecan Avenue). The Champions League pre-match (the first semifinal) show was on the large flat-screen TV over the bar. I said hello to a few middle-aged Reds fans. Liverpool FC would be playing AS Roma at Anfield (the first leg) in just five minutes.

“Now, would you happen to have a scoreline prediction, most clairvoyant one?” I asked Bradford, my jovial, 50-something, Caucasian, white-LFC-jersey-donning pal from New Jersey.

“I’d love 3-nil with goals by Salah, Mané and Firmino, but I will gladly take 2-nil,” he replied with a pint of light-yellow ale already in hand. “A clean sheet is going to be major.”

“Going +3 would be sweet,” I added as I looked at a nervous Liverpudlian named Turk at the bar. I mused. Boy, he really looks worried. I think we’ll be ok. Hope Lovren and Klavan don’t screw up. Hope we score first. That would be huge.

More male LFC fans between the ages of 35 and 65 streamed into the dark bar/restaurant. I ordered a Ballast Point Black Marlin (a porter) from the new, 20-something, short, attractive, strawberry-blonde bartender. My bottle of beer arrived just as the match kicked off. Well, here we go.

“Come on you Reds!” Bradford shouted.

“Get in there!” a dark-haired man to my left added.

“Up the all-leaguers!” I tacked on like a strange garnish.

Some blank stares ensued. I just smiled. I could hear their thoughts. Is this [50-something] red-haired guy going to be like this the whole game?

After a nervy half-hour, the game was still nil-nil, though Roma had hit the crossbar and Mané had blown some gilded gifts. Then Salah put a beauty in the upper corner. Lots of cheering followed. The young Middle Eastern (Egyptian?) American busboy, who was taking a break at the bar, just smiled. Salah would add another nifty goal just before halftime.

“Two-nil and looking good,” I said to Bradford as I headed for the restroom.

“We need two more,” he replied. That would be nice. But, is that realistic? Greedy thinking. Though, Salah looks like he could score more. But, Mané couldn’t even hit the broad side of a barn. Hope Klopp rights Sadio’s head during the break.

I nodded to him and continued walking towards the men’s room door. As I started to take a pee at the urinal, I heard the aforementioned busboy, who was now standing at the semicircular stainless steel sink, some ten feet (three meters) behind me, talking on his cell phone.

“I just know that she’s not really into me, man,” I heard him plainly state to the person on the other end, who I assumed was most likely his best friend. After a five-second pause, he blurted out: “Listen, Dave; listen to me. She went on a five-day cruise and never replied to my texts – not a single one.” Poor guy. Nothing like having lofty love plans foiled at 21. [his guesstimated age]

I coughed, but my seemingly endless urine flow continued. I guess that my bladder was ready to burst. Need to slow down on the beer intake.

Next, I heard him turn on a push-button style, water-saving faucet behind me. And then, his morosely agitated voice continued: “What do you mean that maybe she couldn’t text me because she was out at sea? That’s nonsense, man. I’m not that stupid, Dave. These modern cruise ships have roaming services when they are out in international waters. Does she think that I don’t know that? I mean, really! And, even if she didn’t buy the service, she still would have seen my texts when the ship was docked in Florida. Fort Lauderdale is not roaming; that’s the continental US. There’s really no excuse. She just doesn’t like me. It’s fairly obvious now. You know that she’s transferring to Virginia Tech in August, right? And, where am I going, Dave? Nowhere. I’m just a freaking busboy.” Then a long silence.

Now, finally relieved, I zipped up and began washing my hands at the sink while looking down, hoping to appear oblivious to this young fellow’s romantic drama-trauma. The busboy, completely unfazed by my presence just off to his right, was still talking about his life-critical, unrequited crush with his pal. Being lovelorn is never easy at his age. Hope this Dave guy can give him some good advice; hope he tells him that it’s just not worth it.

As I walked back to my seat, I thought: What a pathetically lovesick lad. ‘Cut your losses and move on, dude.’

The second half started. Liverpool was still attacking like a swarm of killer bees. Klopp’s gegenpressing had Roma all out of sorts. In the 56^th minute, Mané finally made good on a goal chance. Roberto Firmino would score five minutes later. And then again, a mere seven minutes later. We were now up 5-nil. Chanting and high-fiving broke out. Everyone was having a grand time, except for the sullen, mid-30-ish, rusty-haired ABL (Anyone But Liverpool) fan. Why did he come here to watch this game? I guess he thought that we would lose, and that he could then gleefully rub it in. Or, maybe he’s angling for the new girl. Yeah, probably so.

As the game clock hit the 75^th minute, it seemed that there was only one question: Would there be a sixth goal? In the 81^st minute that question was answered – by Roma. Dzeko’s strike from out of nowhere erased all hopes of a shutout.

“Darn it!” I exclaimed.

“Ok, guys, no more,” Bradford pleaded.

However, James Milner would be called for handball in the box. After Perotti calmly converted the penalty kick, the score became 5-2 in the 85^th minute.

A 50-ish, Colombian American, short-black-haired Barcelona fan then announced from the shadows: “Getting nervous over there, Reds?” A wee bit.

“We’ve still got this,” Bradford retorted.

Liverpool would barely escape further aggregate-score damage.

“Well, Bradford, all three prongs of our attacking trident scored,” I stated.

“Yep, and you correctly called it +3, but those two away goals may come back to bite us,” he replied. Hope not.

Then the busboy, who had been watching the TV at the right end of the bar, announced:

“Finally got a text back from this chick, who wouldn’t reply to me for going on six days. It reads ‘I HATE LIVERPOOL’ in caps.”

“She’s not for you, mate,” Turk declared.