“This was an offensive lineman sitting here, right?” I asked the QB as I adjusted a table back into its spot.
“Huh?” He looked up from the tablet. “Uh, I think so.”
“You don’t know the team very well.” I bent and grabbed a few napkins from the floor.
“No,” he said. “I’m learning.”
“One way to learn about people is to interact with them,” I mentioned. “Most of the other guys seemed friendly.”
“They seem like a good group,” he agreed. “They get along ok. Does that show up in how they play?”
“Don’t you know?” I asked.
“Don’t you? Their field is practically in shouting distance of this restaurant,” he said. “Haven’t you seen them?”
“No, but you should have, since you’re the quarterback,” I prompted, but he shook his head. “You’re a tight end? Special teams?”
“No, I’m not connected to the Junior Woodsmen at all. I did play, but it was a few years ago.”
I continued to pick up trash—oh, great. “Ugh,” I muttered as red liquid smeared across the table. Why would someone have hidden a giant pile of ketchup under a cup? I hadn’t noticed any ten-year-olds eating here today.
“I heard them laughing about something,” he noted. “Funny trick.”
“I’m really impressed,” I agreed. I tried to remember who had been sitting at this table so I could blackball the joker, but the only characteristics I could recall about him were “large” and “loud.” That didn’t narrow it down very much. Every time the Junior Woodsmen came in, there were always some that acted like assholes. It was the same thing with the Woodsmen fans in the summer, the ones who congregated and hoped to see the players. I usually came across a few that made me wish I had anair horn and fart spray so I could take them out. I swiped at the ketchup and then threw my cloth into the bucket.
“Want to sit?”
I looked over at the former football player. “Um, sure,” I answered. He was still making an effort with me, despite my wide-legged white pants and square sailor collar (which made me look like a tubby child). I had to feel flattered and I also had to feel that my mom would get upset if she saw me seated.
I did it anyway. “I’m Molly,” I said.
“I know. I heard the cook yelling at you a few times.”
“That’s my dad. This is ourfamilybusiness,” I explained, saying it just like my mom.
“So you’re Molly Walter?”
“No, the restaurant is called ‘Walter’s’ because he was my great-grandfather and he founded it. I’m Molly Scheffler.”
“Shane Bishop. It’s nice to meet you.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, pointing to his tablet. He’d been fully engrossed by it for the entire time he was here.
“Work,” he said, and touched the bottom so that the screen went black. “Is this your full-time job?”
“Yes, full-time and more, and I also go to college. It’s very difficult and exhausting.” That had sounded dramatic but my emotions were running high. The ketchup mess had bothered me. “By the way, we refunded your card since your meal sucked so bad.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I probably wouldn’t have, since you got it eventually. It was my mom’s decision.” She let people get away with a lot.
I heard the office door open and before she came out, I stood. “Nice to meet you, too,” I told Shane. I went to get more cleaning supplies and when I returned, he was gone.
As I mopped, I reverted to my previous line of thought. What about attracting a Junior Woodsmen? That Bishop guy had just wondered why I didn’t know about them and it was a good question. Some of these players could have moved move to the upper division of football, to the real Woodsmen, and I could go to their games to figure out which ones were most likely to advance their careers. Then I could be in the parking lot when the talented guys came out and oops, maybe I’d have car trouble. But which were the talented ones and how could I direct them to my engine?
The next Saturday morning, I decided that I was going to go watch the Junior Woodsmen play. “Come with me,” I told my sister.
Morgan turned over in bed. “I’m tired,” she said groggily.
