Crystal Boy

Ah, what's there to say? It's shit, like the rest. But from it I shall GROWWWW!










BAM!
Billy’s foot hit the floor.
BAM!
He took another step.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
The pounding continued as Billy stormed forward. The bus was about half empty and still no one was looking at him. Even his pounding went unnoticed, the sound muffled by the rubber mat beneath him. No one looked when Billy reached the front; the driver opened the door and closed it. Billy was outside.
His knee raised and lowered. Ninety degress. One-Eighty. Ninety. One-Eighty. Thump. Thump. Thump. Billy crossed the lawn and kicked his door open. The dead wreath fell to the floor and dried needles scattered everywhere. He slammed the door shut. The television was blaring in the other room. Billy stomped past the doorway and saw his mother at her usual position on the couch. He trudged up the stairs and lurched into his room.
He threw his bag onto his bed. He tore off his clothes and changed into new ones. He kicked his desk and left. Out of the room. Down the stairs. Through the hall. He opened the door and slammed it shut. He began the long walk to work. His legs were getting sore.
The trip took half an hour, and Billy was late. No one said a word when he walked through the back door. The chef was too busy in the kitchen to look up. The manager was locked in his office. The waitresses were all busy. Billy grabbed a pitcher and clipped on his name tag. The letters were beginning to rub off. He scratched at it with his fingernail and walked to the ice machine. He put some ice in the pitcher and walked to the sink. He filled the pitcher with water.
The restaurant was starting to fill up, although it was still early in the evening. There were only a couple waitresses on the floor. Billy began to scan for empty glasses. He went from table to table, none of the patrons bothering to look up at him. Most of them didn’t even stop speaking when Billy arrived. He listened to their friendly chatter and their intimate whispers. He listened to their angry exchanges. No one paid him any mind. He just filled the glasses.
A new party sat down. Billy filled the glasses. A woman threw her drink in a man’s face. It had to be refilled. Some children were continually in need of more water. Billy moved from table to table to sink to table to keep the glasses filled. A party left and he put down his pitcher to get his tray. He collected the dishes to bring to the kitchen. He tripped in the doorway and fell to the floor.
There was a terrible crash and Billy felt his knees explode. His neck caught on the rim of the tray and he couldn’t breathe for a few seconds. If any of the patrons turned to look, Billy never saw them. No one said a word. There was no break in the murmur of the restaurant. The waitresses stepped around him. He picked up the dishes with the dustpan. He got himself some water from the sink. He emptied his tray and went out to clear another table.
“Excuse me.”
Billy continued his silent march to the next cluttered table.
“Excuse me!”
Billy froze. He turned to see a man staring him in the face. He was dripping wet.
“Excuse me. Could you get me a towel please?”
Billy stammered and didn’t move. A tremor moved through his body. His stands started shaking.
“You know, a towel? White, flat, generally absorbent?”
Billy whimpered, his eyes wide. The man was gesturing with his hands, and Billy reacted by throwing the entire pitcher into the man’s face. Water sloshed everywhere while the plastic container bounced off his eye. As he fell to the ground, every head in the restaurant turned to look at Billy. Every eye was on him.
“Aaaah . . . ahhhh . . . SHIT!” cried Billy. He turned to run and slipped. He pulled himself up and scrambled out the door, cursing the entire way. The man stood up and rubbed his eye. Then he sat down. A waitress brought him a towel. The diners returned to their meals.