Pablo, the guatamalan bus boy

If it isn't already known, I am a waitress. I serve pancakes and sausage to the hungry and satisfy the coffee addicts with our fresh black brew of burning death. I have to smile while morbidly obese people order two meals and then the largest dessert on the menu to calm their insatiable hunger. I am a liar, because with my transparent plastic smile I imply that I am happy to serve you, to be your slave, to deliver you mass amounts of butter so in the future you can die of what I like to call "lard heart."

Just recently I crashed my car into a sign. It was a "slow down, you're turning" sign. Obviously I had a problem with both recommendations. (On a side note, in my frustration, I thought the only fair compensation for my poor vehicle's suffering was to jam the broken sign into my trunk.)

Then a week later (to make a long story short) my car and the mailbox got into a terrible brawl. My car won, and the mailbox was skewn in pieces (along with the mail) all over the lawn. However, the mailbox (and devil sign) managed to do a total of $4,500 worth of damage.

I decided not to fix it, but there was some damage that was required to be fixed, including a smashed tail light. So I picked up several extra shifts at the diner. I was desperate for money, so I resorted to something I thought I'd never do.

Bus tables.

My fellow busser was named Pablo. He was from Guatamala. Through conversations I had realized he knew maybe five words of English. That was popular in the diner. If you were going to work in the kitchen, you were not allowed to speak fluent English. It's a fetish my manager has. The only people who think that he's funny can't speak English.

Let's take a moment to pity the man.

I was sitting down, sulking in my corner, when Pablo came up next to me. I have taken four years of Spanish (throughout my years of high school, mostly forgotten) so I struggled through a basic first grade conversation. He was strange. He was a rather young man but he looked middle aged. He had piercing eyes, in the "I'm imagining you without your clothes on" kind of way.

He pointed at me and said "One baby."

I thought he meant I was pregnant.

"No," I answered firmly.

"Porque?!" he asked.

"Tengo diecisiete anos!" (I'm 17 years old!)

He continued to stress that I was pregnant, so I tried running away from him. It didn't work. Our conversations led into a discussion about my love life. He asked me if I was dating anyone, and I told him no. He asked why, I told him I didn't have time, that i was always at work or with my family and friends.

Then, he got this creepy look in his beady eyes. He kept saying something about a boyfriend. "Lo siento, no comprendo." (I'm sorry, I don't understand.)

"Tu novio!" (Your boyfriend!) he shouted.

"Que?" (What?)

"Yo!" (Me!) he exclaimed, pointing at himself dramatically. I stared at him in shock and horror, intimidated by his persistence and unibrow.

"No."

"Porque?!" he stressed, eyes bulging out of his head with the smile of a rapist stretched across his dark face.

"NO!" I answered more firmly.

"Porque?" his voice rasped as he smiled at me, dirty thoughts evident, as he pushed the bus cart through the swinging door, eyes still watching me through the glass as he disappeared to the other side.

I have never been more frightened in my life.

No tail light is worth THAT.