Chapter 12: July 6, 1978

The next eight hours past by fast, but it was the hardest I’ve ever worked. I thought I knew the restaurant business, but, boy, was I proven wrong. Francesca’s was first rule was that I was to keep everything professional. When I was working, she was Miss Armetti, Uncle Sal was Mister Armetti, and Dad had to be called ‘Chef’.

Her second rule was that I could not go to Dad if I had a problem. If I had a legitimate problem, I was to come see her. After laying down the rules, she then turn me over to Chef Armstrong, who showed me where the cleaning supplies were and taught me what and how things needed to be cleaned in the kitchen. I found out real quick that everyone had right away over me. I also learned I had to keep my ears open. Chef Armstrong had to once jerk me back by my shirt when I got in the way of a dolly loaded with food.

By midday, I was hot, sweaty, and dirty. Lunch was a chicken salad sandwich and a glass of water. I really didn’t feel like eating much else. Afterwards, Miss Armetti turn me over to two waitresses, Barbara Schiller and Mary Jane Dayton.

Barbara was a 19-year-old who attended Morgan State College, one of Baltimore’s colored colleges. I thought she looked a lot like Pam Grier, beautiful, busty, and sporting an Afro halfway out to her shoulders. Mary Jane was in her early 20s and worked full-time. When Miss Armetti introduced me as a busboy working her section, Mary Jane gave me a look of disgust, shaking her head, and making her ginger-blond ponytail swing back and forth. I had to admit, though, that by this time, I look like something the cat dragged in.

Barbara took me over to her section and started teaching me the busboy’s duties. I already knew the sections, the table numbers, and how to do the table settings, but really ... napkin folding? I hadn’t realized how many ways there were to fold a napkin. I set the places at all the tables in both sections. Mary Jane had me redo almost all of her tables, while Barbara only had me reset about half of her’s. I did, however, see Barbara tweak a couple of settings and resolved to do better in the future.

The lunch crowd came in and I stayed busy clearing tables, fetching things for Barbara and Mary Jane, and cleaning up messes on the floor. At four o’clock, Miss Armetti had me replaced and took me over to the reserved table. Her father was sitting there drinking iced tea.

“Sit! Sit!” ordered Mister Armetti, waving to a chair. His daughter walked around behind him and sat down. I sat down gingerly, just now realizing how stiff my legs were. “How was your first day?”

“Uh, okay, sir.”

“Stephan, you’re off the clock,” chuckled Francesca. “You can relax. We really are interested on how your first day went.”

“Well, long, hot, tiring. I ache. I don’t know how your waitresses do it ... standing on their feet all day. I did learn a couple things.”

“Like what?” asked Uncle Sal.

“Like I don’t know as much about the restaurant as I thought.” I plucked at my shirt. “I also need to have a spare set it clothes here.”

“Louis said you did well on cleaning,” stated Uncle Sal. “Will we see you tomorrow?”

“Uh, yes, of course,” I said hesitantly. “Uh, I mean, if you want me. I did make a lot of mistakes today.”

“Stephan, we wouldn’t have anyone working for us if we only hire people who didn’t make mistakes,” said Francesca. “We expect you to make mistakes. That’s how we learn and then the work gets easier. My dad and I have some concerns. I told you that during the summer you can only work eight hours a day and forty hours a week. You can’t work the number of hours your father works. Our concern is that if you come in with him, you’re stuck here until he leaves. We can’t put you on the evening shift because, by law, you can’t work past 8 PM.”

“I don’t mind coming in early, even if it means cleaning the kitchen.” Uncle Sal smiled and Francesca chuckled. “I’ll work whatever hours you want me to work, but as for being stuck here...” I fished a card out of my wallet. “I’ve got a bus pass.”

“Uh ... Uh...” I think I stunned Francesca, based on the shocked look on her face and her inability to talk.

“I think that answers one concern, and raises others,” said Uncle Sal.

“I’ve ridden the bus before!” I protested, angry that they thought I was too young to take care of myself.

“From downtown out to the suburbs?” asked Francesca. The look of concern on her face kept me from snapping at her.

“Have you asked your ... no,” said Uncle Sal cryptically. “You came here asking for job. We are your employer, not your babysitter or godfather at this moment. We must trust that you can make your own decisions.”

“Thanks, Uncle Sal. I checked the bus schedules and the bus will drop me off five blocks from home.”

“Very well, then,” said Uncle Sal. “You work Tuesday through Saturday, 7:30 to 4:00. That will allow you to come in with your father and take the bus home.”

“Papi,...”

Uncle Sal held up his hand to quiet his daughter.

“You will work for Louis until the wait staff comes in at 10:00. You’ll then work for Francesca. Of course, if she needs you before 10:00, then her needs come first. How does that work for you?”

“Yes, Uncle Sal ... uh ... sir, I mean...”

“Go get your father,” ordered Uncle Sal laughing.

I left the table and headed into the kitchen. Dad had already left his catch-up mode and was in total command of the kitchen. He was looking of the vegetables for the dinner service.

“Excuse me, chef,” I said to him. “Mister Armetti would like to have a word with you.”

“I thought you were punched out.”

“I am.”

“Then you can call me Dad.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t, chef,” stated Chef Armstrong, coming up behind me. “At least, while he’s in this kitchen. It will save the poor boy any confusion later on.”

“But...”

“Dad, I think Chef Armstrong is right,” I said. “I think that while I’m working here and in the restaurant I should call you “Chef’.”

“Okay,” agreed Dad. “Let’s go see what Mister Armetti wants.”

Uncle Sal filled Dad in all my working hours. Dad told him he would check with Chef Armstrong about the morning hours. It was at this point that Uncle Sal told me to go get ready to leave.

I went back into the employee area to pick up my book bag that held my composition book journal and my summer reading book. I then went back out into the dining room. Dad, Uncle Sal, and Francesca were still sitting around the table.

“Stephan, when you get home, I would like you to call here just let us know that you got home safe,” said Dad. “Your mother’s at the hospital and won’t be home until late.”

“I was going to stop by the Copelands. Mister Copeland was going to leave me something to pick up.”

“Go home first,” said Dad. “You can go there after you call in. You should change first before going to the Copeland’s.”

I look down at the food and grease smudges on my shirt and decided Dad was right. I needed to change first. Besides, it’d be nice to get out of the long pants and long-sleeved shirt. Temperatures were sweltering around 98° with a 65% humidity. People were just melting in the sidewalks. Shorts and a T-shirt were definitely the order of the day.

“I’ll call and change before going to the Copeland’s.”

“Don’t forget your sister will be home at six,” stated Dad. “I believe Roman is going out with Lauren.”

“I’ll be home for Magda,” I told him.

“Off you go, then. I need to get back to the kitchen. Don’t forget to call.”

Dad headed off to the kitchen and I waved goodbye to Uncle Sal and Francesca. The heat outside felt like an oven. I could feel my body beginning to sweat. The bus stop was only a block away and I only had to wait about five minutes for the bus to arrive.

Even though I double checked the bus schedule, I was nervous that I’d gotten on the wrong bus, or something would go wrong, or someone would go nuts on the bus. I was going to read, but I found myself watching everything going on around me.

All too soon, despite my misgivings, the bus approached my stop without an incident. I got off, walked home, and called the restaurant. Francesca sounded relieved that I’d arrived home safely and told me that she’d see me tomorrow.

I quickly changed clothes and saw that I had a little over an hour before Magda got home. I headed down the street and rang the doorbell at the Copeland’s house.

No one came to the door. I press the buzzer second time. Mister Copeland had told me to stop by and his wife would have the information. I looked over and saw Mrs. Copeland’s BMW in the driveway. I push the doorbell for third time.

I was just about to leave when I heard the door lock rattle. I put a smile on my face as the door opened.

“Hello, Mrs...” My brain went spastic and my eyes just about bugged out of my head.

“Stephan, Peter said you be stopping by,” said Mrs. Copeland.

I couldn’t say a word. All I could do was ogle her. She was wearing the skimpiest, lime-green bikini I had ever seen. Shoelaces held miniature triangles of cloth over her cunt and large breasts. The material didn’t even completely cover her nipples.

Her tits rode high and seemed to stick out right at me. I couldn’t stop staring at them. They defied gravity and the lack of support her bikini top afforded was clearly non-existent.

“Stephan?” A half-full wine glass waved back and forth in front of my eyes. “Stephan?”

“Huh?”

I snapped out of my trance and dragged my eyes up to her blue ones. Mrs. Copeland was smiling brightly at me and seemed very amused by my flummoxed manner. Being a nudist, I’ve seen a lot of naked women and girls, but the scraps of cloth were just so erotic. Between naked or clothed, I’ll take clothed every time for stimulation. My little head thought so as to as my cock began to stiffen up.

“Come in! Come in!” Said Mrs. Copeland just before she took a big gulp of wine. She turned and stumbled a little before catching herself by grabbing the doorjamb.

I swallowed hard as my eyes riveted on to her ass. Her bikini bottom was just a string that went right up her crack. Her ass cheeks jiggled and I knew I had to look anywhere else. I look down at her feet and wondered why on earth she was wearing six-inch high stiletto heels.

“Now, where did Peter leave that envelope?”

I followed her into the dining room just was to the right of the foyer. Mrs. Copeland stopped briefly to look around and then led me towards the back to the kitchen. She finished off her final gulp of wine and grabbed the almost-empty bottle on the counter to refill her glass.

“Living room!” she exclaimed.

She spun around and swayed dangerously back and forth. I quickly jumped behind her and grabbed her shoulders to steady her. Mrs. Copeland giggle, took a swig of wine, and looked over her shoulder at me.

“Ooooo, strong hands,” she gushed, rolling her shoulders. “Thanks ... this way.”

Mrs. Copeland led me back to the foyer. Her hips seemed to be swaying more. I couldn’t help, but watch as her ass wiggled with each step. In the foyer, she turned away from the dining room and walked into the living room.

“Ah-ha!” she yelled, grabbing an envelope off the coffee table. “Here it is! Oops!”

Mrs. Copeland spun around to face me. She staggered to her left as she held out the envelope to me. I felt a cold shiver go down my back as I realize she’s going to do a header into the stone fireplace. I quickly leaped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders again. I barely managed to keep her upright, but at the cost of having her spill wine down my shirt and shorts.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” apologized Mrs. Copeland, grabbing a handful of cocktail napkins off the coffee table.

Before I could say word, she began wiping my stomach. I was just about stop her when she dropped to her knees right in front of me. I was stunned and shocked when she began rubbing at the wine spilled on the front of my shorts. I don’t even think she realized where she was cleaning.

If my cock wasn’t stiff before, it was rock hard now. Not only did I have a bird’s eye view of the top of her head, her face inches away from my crotch, and her huge breasts barely covered by her bikini top, but her hand was also sending jolt after jolt of pleasure down my shaft into my balls.

Mrs. Copeland’s hand slowed and then stopped right on top of my cock. Her eyes widened and her mouth parted as her fingers gently squeeze the bulge in my shorts. Her eyes seemed fixated straight ahead as she dropped the napkins and stroked her fingers slowly up and down my shaft as if she was trying to determine its size.

“Oh, my!” gasped Mrs. Copeland as she took a firmer grip. I couldn’t help, but groan in pleasure.

That groan seem to excite her. I swear that if her nipples got any harder, there’d be visible space between the fabric of her bikini and her breast. Mrs. Copeland’s fingers flew up to my belt then pulled down my zipper. Before I knew it, my shorts and underwear were down around my ankles.