Before You Read Online Free PDF Page A

pockets and pulls out a key. Unlocks the office door, waves me in. It smells like dust, and is barely big enough to fit ten people shoulder to shoulder.
    It’s bigger than my room in Cuba. It’s bigger than some people’s houses in Cuba.
    Bennie shuffles through a box on the ground. “What size do you wear?” he asks.
    â€œLarge,” I answer.
    He pulls out a shirt with the company logo on the left side.
    â€œHere.”
    I put it on. Attached to one of Bennie’s ears is an earpiece. He hands me one, as well.
    Electronics are a luxury for most.
    I can’t help my way of thinking. My body abandoned my mind in Cuba. I can’t get used to this place. I don’t want to get used to this place.
    â€œYou’ll be bussing tables today. Whenever you finish a table, you press this”—he points to a little red button—“and tell the hostess it’s clean so she can seat more people.”
    We leave the office and Bennie shows me the proper way to sanitize tables and where things go, like the ketchup and salt and pepper. There’s an order to everything.
    Since learning how to clean a table doesn’t take me long, Bennie leads me to the kitchen. He gives me a tour: the cooler, the break room, the cooking line, the place they call The Box, a small five-by-eight armed metal fence around the back door. It protects the place from being robbed, and the workers sit back there on their smoke breaks.
    Next, we move to the prep line, where Bennie shows me how to cut veggies and portion side dishes. He has me work on that until six o’clock, when the restaurant fills with people. My boss hands me a small black tub for the dirty dishes, a towel, and a spray bottle. Tells me to go up front.
    I feel ridiculous, and a little like someone’s butler, as I clean tables in front of people eating around me.
    Back home, I would make double the money and be subject to fewer curious eyes. But that was dirty money. It feels surprisingly good to know that my paycheck will come from honest work.
    My eyes are pressed down by the weight of the bright lights that hang above every table, a sliver of electricity for their viewing pleasure.
    In between cleaning tables, I go to the back for a drink. Attached to the soda fountain are tiny triangle paper cups that look like they belong on the bottom of an ice-cream cone. I reach for a glass mug but someone stops me.
    â€œI wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” says the blond hostess. She smiles. Steps closer. Wafts me with her cherry perfume.
    â€œWhy not?” I ask.
    She tilts her head toward Bennie. “Manager’s rule. We’re only allowed the small ones. They’re refillable, though. Saves them money.”
    They’re worried about mugs when there are a hundred lights, two fryers, two grills, two flattops? And zero consciousness.
    I have a hundred emotions, two regrets, two eyes to see zero hope.
    â€œSeriously?” I ask.
    â€œYep,” she says, grabbing a paper cup for me. “Which one?”
    â€œCoke,” I say.
    She fills the cone. Twirls the tip between her fingers. It’s the same motion I use when rolling bullets before loading a gun.
    â€œI’m Sabrina.” She smiles. I think maybe she’s flirting with me.
    â€œDiego,” I say, taking the cone. The thing holds about one sip.
    â€œYour accent is nice. Where you from, Diego?” Sabrina asks.
    â€œCuba.”
    â€œMmm,” she says, smacking her glossed lips together. For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to kiss a white girl. I can see down her shirt, which she leaves unbuttoned at the top.
    â€œSabrina!” Bennie yells across the noise of the kitchen. “If you’re in here, who’s watching the front?”
    â€œLater,” Sabrina says, and walks away.
    A guy in an apron approaches the soda fountain. “Be careful around that one,” he says. He looks my age. Judging by the