Vox Populi
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Fred Shaw: Comfort
— In memory of Nigel Paga
Without warning, the busboy died in his bed after school, the genes of his heart finished ticking toward failure. And for guiding him through the world of service, his stepfather will bless me in Devlin’s plush parlor, among the sweet-smelling sprays of lilies and mums as I wait for my turn to kneel before the open casket, framing its body in repose, listening to the murmurs of others searching for answers after finding none in the prayer cards or small talk which follows. It’ll take months, and a slow dinner shift, to get me thinking again of that awkward shaggy boy, mocked for his smell, and the way he’d puppy dog one patient waitress. His name, still listed on the wall-bound schedule, greets me as weekly comfort, reminding me of those down-times when we’d talk film, Scorsese, his favorite. Looking to widen the lens, I burned him copies of Pickpocket and Yojimbo, adding a few sets of techno I hoped he’d hear like a soundtrack. But tonight, finding a stack of discs marked in my scrawl after redding the server’s side stand, I’m left unsure of what to do with worthless things gathering in corners, like the memory of finding that young man having his first smoke with the dishwashers, telling lies and wearing greasy shoes, their laughter sprinkling the ground after every flick of ash.
Copyright 2023 Fred Shaw
Fred Shaw is a poet, writer and teacher, as well as the book review editor for Pittsburgh Quarterly. His poetry collections include Scraping Away (CavanKerry, 2020).
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Brings back memories of working at Market Square Inn , as a teenager . I washed dishes by hand. No dish machine. My brother was Chef. High standards. 4 courses. The bus staff was amazing. We took our smoke breaks together.
End of night …. Tables set for next day … work done
Out come the j’s , a round on the house… like family Christmas Eve as the dim light of the pastry kitchen glints off the stemware
Dire Straits pounding out Sultans of Swing
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Thanks, Matt. Sounds like you need to write about the experience.
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❤️💔
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Nice poem, Fred!
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Others see leftovers, scraps, garbage to be tossed. This poet, Fred Shaw, saw everything important – small precious evidence of a life – the crush at work, the love of film, the misfitness and the cameraderie, the life not finished, not ready to be carted away like used dishes.
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Well-said, Dinah.
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Such a perfect portrait of someone I would hav never known about. How poetry can do that — introduce us to people we love — instantly.
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Fred writes beautifully about the people who are almost invisible. The servers, busboys, and dishwashers…
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Nice write-up.
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