The busboy slid a stack of plates into the long grey plastic tub, careful not to bang them or rattle the big cup full of cutlery. With chapped hands and ropy arms, he hoisted the tub off the stainless steel countertop and muscled it between sous chefs intent on their red-wine jus and servers demanding crab cakes with ginger and lemon reduction.
Or whatever. He wasn’t interested in red-wine jus.
As soon as he’d loaded the china and silverware into the dishwasher and switched on the machine, he wiped his hands on a towel and headed for the owner’s cubby of an office behind the storeroom.
From the pocket of his good black Dockers he pulled a sheet of paper folded in quarters. He opened it and smoothed it against his thigh, then knocked on the battered hollow-core door.
The kid with the rough hands and the black pants is me. He’s probably you, too. Okay maybe not you, but almost certainly people you know.
“Come in,” the boss called.
The busboy grasped the knob but his hand slipped. He wiped his palm on his trousers and tried again. The knob turned. He pushed the door open firmly. It banged against something, oh a chair, and the owner peered around the edge.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hey,” said the busboy. “This is for you.” He thrust the sheet of paper at the owner of the four-star restaurant, who took it and glanced at it.
“Your resume?”
“Yeah. I want to be a chef.”
“Ah,” said the owner, scanning the paper. “Do you have any experience? Go to a cooking school? Apply for an apprenticeship?”
“I don’t have time for that. I just want to be a chef.”
Writers do this all the time. We write something. We believe/pray/hope it’s good (or good enough), and send it off. Agents and editors receive these pages of deathless prose (or unmotivated internal monologue) and sigh and recommend craft books or courses (or bonfires).
If I were spending my hard-earned money on a birthday dinner in that restaurant, I wouldn’t want the busboy to cook it, yet I’m quite happy to send a half-baked novel to agents and editors.
I bet Ann Rittenberg and St Martin’s Press are thrilled to see Julia Child’s Boeuf Bourgignonne land on their plates, but my underdone hamburger patty of a book?
Hey, it’s rare.
Although not in the good way.
Rachel Goldsworthy
I’d say the essay was well-done. In a very good way. Nice job, Rachel, and a good reminder for us all.