"Table for one, sir?"
"Huh?"
"Table for one?"
"I weren't lookin' for no table."
"Well, I could seat you at the bar if you like."
"Naw. I mean I'm lookin' for work."
"Oh!"
"Yes ma'am." He fiddled with his hat. He wasn't sure it was polite to shake a lady's hand, but he sure felt like he should be doing something. "Name a' Pete." She looked nervous. That was a shame, but what did she expect him to do? Bow? Smile? Get down on one knee and propose?
"Well, sir, I–I reckon you wanna talk to the manager." Pete nodded intently. "Here, if you follow me, I'll bring you to 'im."
She looked over her shoulder a lot in the process. Enough for Pete to wonder if the was putting it on to be...pitiable, or embarrass him–or else trying to tell him something. He reminded himself that every woman he saw, or man, was not necessarily trying anything. Even if she should happen to look like she was. It had just been a long time since that fact had been of any use to him, and he never learned it too well in the first place.
"That there's his office on the right, mister," she said, and scurried off back to the dining room. Pete made sure his top button was done-up, pressed his lips shut, and knocked.
"Yeeeeeup?" came a voice.
"Sir? You got a minute? Please?"
"I suppose I does, son, I suppose I does. C'mon in."
It was a very small office, with one window high up on the wall, like in a cellar–though they weren't in the cellar. The manager was…
Pete's jaw slackened. Then he rolled his eyes as far back in his skull as they could go, straight up to the good Lord himself, because the manager was blind. Very, especially blind–his eyes were gone. When Pete thought about that he didn't like it one bit. But he had had good luck with the blind lately and he didn't want to look away.
"Well? How can I help ya? Your monkfish underdone?"
"My–? Naw, sir. No. My name's Pete, I come lookin' for a job."
"That so?" Pete nodded, then said,
"Yessir."
"Waal. You got any references?"
"Well...no. I was just lookin' fo'...casual labor. You know, lifting and carrying. I can cook real fine, too, but I ain't worked in a place like this befo' and I expect I'll have to work my way up."
"'Fraid we ain't got any openings on staff." Pete stepped closer to the desk. There was only room for him to take one.
"I might could get some. Some references," said Pete.
"If you was in the war, you'd have a reference," said the manager. "And if you wasn't, well, I'm sorry, you ain't something I kin afford to stretch re-sources for."
"It seem to me you either got a place or you don't," Pete mumbled.
"What's that, son?" It wasn't an I-didn't-catch-that, it was a dare-you-stand-by-that. It wasn't so much that Pete dared, just that some heat was starting to build in his gut, which always made him stupid.
"I says it seem to me, you either got a place or you don't."
"Properly speaking I don't. Times is tight. But I tries to find...casual labor 'round the place for those as've labored for our freedom. You ever labored for anybody's freedom, son?"
"Well."
"Well?"
"I labored all right."
"Doin' what?"
"Well...crushin' gravel, mostly. Planting n' picking. I even worked on cars some. Ain't none a' that easier'n standin' o'er a stove."
"How'd you know?"
"I done it. You just thinks what'll taste good an' fry it."
"That so."
"I reckon that ain't it exactly, in a fine place like this here, but I got experience, is what I'm sayin'. Why I guess t'was… five, six year'n. Down in Picayune. Little place name a' Mama's Stewpot."
"This was when?"
"Uh…" Pete took a second to count. "1917, I'd say that was. '17 to '24 straight through."
"You know where I was at in 1917?"
"No."
"France. Cha-toe-terry." The manager grinned. "Left my eyes in no-man's land."
"An' right jealous I am, too," muttered Pete.
"What was that?"
"I weren't old enough to get in on the last war, I says. But it hardly seem much different'n hard labor, I mean, as far as buildin' muscle."
"It ain't about the muscle, boy, it's about–"
"References?"
"–character."
Pete didn't know what to say to that. He had never had much character. Not in the traditional sense.
"Well, I work hard. Don't ask no questions besides."
"That so?"
"Yessir."
"You honest?"
"How ya mean?"
"Are you honest, do you drink or steal or gamble?"
"I never gambled in my life," said Pete.
"Hm." The manager leaned back in his chair impassively.
"And I ain't lied to you, neither."
"Uh-huh. Well. It's just...a matter of references.
"I'll get you a reference, old man! I–why, I'll gitcha a reference from the damn…" Pete paused. "Governor," he said more evenly.
"Well, I suggest you march yourself on outta here and start lookin' for it, then, 'for I have you hescorted."
"The governor," mused Pete.
"You hear me?"
"Yeah, yeah," said Pete. "Forget your casual labor, mister. I got a job. I got a job already! Hear?" Pete banged on the desk. The manager jumped. Pete stared down at him another moment, then strode out through the dining room. He grinned at the waitress as he passed. She drew in on herself and looked away. Pete ignored it, or tried to.
"My. I plumb forgot about bein' a brain trust."
"It's okay, I near-'nuff did too. Don't think we start up with that 'til Pappy gets reelected, anyhow."
"When's that?"
"Don't know."
"Ma'am?" Delmar broke away to tail a woman as she strolled past. "Excuse me, ma'am?" Delmar put a hand on her shoulder. Pete hissed his name, but it was like calling a cat.
She didn't even jump. She turned and smiled politely. "Pardon us, ma'am, but you wouldn't know when the election is, huh?"
"Well, now…I believe it's the 5th. But I'd check the paper if I was you."
"Much obliged." He touched the brim of his hat as she went on, and turned to Pete. "Lady said it's the 5th–"
"I heard it. Sheeit, Delmar." Delmar stopped smiling. "You cain't just grab hold a' ladies, you'll scare 'em."
"Why…"
"An' next day'll find you up in Parchman again, only this time for carnal indignity."
"I was just asking her a question is all."
"Yeah, but you cain't grab hold of her like that."
"I didn't wrastle her or nothing, I only talked to 'er."
"She might not see it that way! Jesus."
"Well…" Delmar thought it over. "I guess I only seed it as I seed it." He opened his mouth to continue, but it hung open while he chose his words.
"What?"
"You know...women?"
"Yeah?"
"You know, they'se just folks, Pete. They'se purty an' all, but they'se just folks like you'n me."
"Shut up, Delmar."