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unloading one pan, two more took its place. The assemblers and waitresses and manager kept darting into the dishroom, shouting for cups or silverware or platters. Dave moved as fast as he could, emptying bus pans and shoving racks of dishes through the machine, stacking and delivering items before they were even dry, and still it wasn ' t fast enough. He dashed from one end of the dishroom to the other, then ran out to the line and back, then did it all again, racing and flapping in a frenzied and fruitless overdrive. With each moment, he fell further and further behind, grew more harried and frantic.
    Then, all hell broke loose. A bus arrived.
    Sixty senior citizens descended on the Wild West Steakhouse like a silver - haired invasion force. They had come from Gorman, fifty miles away, to attend a Rosary Rally in Confluence; heading home after the Catholic event, they had decided to stop for dinner in suburban Highland, and of course they had selected this steakhouse for their meal. Wild West always drew a considerable number of senior citizens, mainly because of the restaurant ' s ten percent discount for anyone over the age of sixty - five.
    Like a flock of birds dropping onto a field, the busload of senior citizens engulfed the steakhouse. In a mere five minutes, Dave ' s situation went from maddeningly hectic to completely out of control. The busboy started hauling back two pans at a time, one load of muck and dishes stacked atop the other. Waitresses sprinted in to dump piles of plates and silverware on the counter, not even bothering to deliver the stuff in bus pans . There weren ' t enough cleared tables in the dining room, so Dave also had to run out with a bus pan and gather dishes.
    Fifteen minutes into the rush, just as Dave was about ready to quit his job, a door swung open, and Mr. Martin the manager blew into the dishroom. He was wide - eyed and sweating, his hair plastered to his skull, the armpits of his white shirt soaked and darkened.
    " Hey Dave ! " he called, scuffing over the floor tiles, waving for someone to follow him. " Good news! I brought you some help! "
    Expecting to see one of his fellow employees stroll through the door, Dave was surprised to see a stranger enter the dishroom. The guy was about six feet tall, with light brown hair clipped in a crew - cut . He had a closely - trimmed mustache and goatee, and wore blue jeans and a black T - shirt with no sleeves. He looked as if he were in his mid - to - late 40 ' s, and his build was average except for his arms, which were thickly muscled.
    " This is Larry Smith, " said Martin. " He needs a job, and we need some help, so I hired him. Just tell him what he has to do, and get this place caught up. "
    " What ? " blurted Dave, gaping in disbelief.
    " Just get caught up, " ordered Martin. " Larry worked in a restaurant before, so I ' m sure he ' ll catch on quick. "
    " I don ' t have time to train someone, " protested Dave, spreading his arms wide. " Just look at this place. "
    " Do it ! " barked the manager, jabbing a stubby index finger at Dave. " I ' m not gonna ' stand here and argue with you! Just do it! " Glaring, the boss leaned forcefully forward, his blue paisley tie swinging away from his prodigious belly.
    Realizing that there was no chance of reasoning with the tyrant, Dave shook his head with disgust. Without saying another word, he snatched a bus pan from the counter and started digging through slop once more.
    " Come on, Larry, " said Martin, his voice softening now that he'd exerted his authority. " I ' ll get you a uniform out of the back, and you can change right here in the locker room. What size do you take? "
    " What sizes do you have ? " the new guy asked glibly, following the manager through a door into the stockroom.
    " Medium and large, " Dave heard Martin say before the stockroom door closed.
    Dave was furious. Cursing, he slammed plates onto a rack, then shoved it through the machine with such force that all the plates