Fishbones Book I – Chapter 5: Career
Illustration by Eyugho
Ferris pushed his dinner in a circle around his plate. It wasn’t the food, but the knot in his stomach. It was a result of piling several days of anxiety into a final climactic night, leading to one question whose answer would change the rest of his high school experience. He took a sharp breath, cutting into his parents’ small talk at the most opportune moment.
“Dad, can I have a computer?”
Harold took a sip of his water, raising his eyebrows at his son.
“What do you need a computer for?”
“Schoolwork.” Ferris already had this thought out. “Research, programming, and uh—“
He mumbled the next part.
“Gaming.”
“Well, what’s wrong with our computer?”
“I need my own. You’re using it half the time, for your work. If I got my own, then it would just be your personal computer instead of ours. I think it would be a good investment, Dad.”
“I completely agree,” Harold said.
“Really? You do?”
“Of course. I fully support you. So, how are you going to pay for it?”
Ferris glared at his father, not appreciating his sense of humor at the moment. “Dad, that’s why I was asking you.”
“Well really,” Harold said. “If it’s your computer, you should pay for it.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“That’s what jobs are for,” his father said with a smile.
Ruth hit her husband’s arm with a napkin. “Oh Harold, just buy him one. Quit being so cheap.”
“He needs to learn the value of a dollar.”
“Bist meshugeh? He’s fifteen years old!”
Ferris buried his face in his hands. His parents continued to bicker for the next 45 minutes. He should have known better than to bring it up at dinner; a long informative letter might have been a better plan. The argument had gotten nowhere as a result of Harold’s determination to make Ferris get a job and Ruth’s general stubbornness about anything and everything.
“Can I be excused, please?” Ferris said, his voice weary.
“You get a job if you want that computer, and that’s final.”
“All right, Dad.”
Before the sound of their back-and-forthing could be permanently embedded in his head, he left the table, taking his plate to the kitchen and putting it in the sink. The hot water ran over his hands as he grew lost in thought.
He was certain that one had to be at least sixteen to hold a normal job, so he would have to do something simple like raking leaves or dog walking. Hopefully being under the legal age limit to work wouldn’t put too much of a damper on his search. Then again, there was one place where the word ‘legal’ had little meaning.
#
Ristorante Giorgetti was busy for a Wednesday night—the kitchen was noisy with the sounds of cooking and talking. Gino was standing by the bar, engaged in a conversation with Victor and a customer. He had founded and owned the restaurant, but running a criminal family was a full-time job. Nowadays, Gino in a chef’s uniform was a rare sight.
Demos and Ferris weaved through guests and wait staff toward the bar.
“You sure about this?” Ferris said.
Demos only smiled, keeping his grip on Ferris’ wrist. “Just trust me.”
Gino caught the pair approaching from the corner of his eye. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said. “I need to catch up with my grandson.”
The customer nodded. “Of course, Mr. Giorgetti. It was a pleasure.”
Demos exchanged a kiss with his grandfather. “Ciao, Nonno.”
Gino turned his attention to Ferris, smiling at him in a way that only an old Italian could. His white hair had receded and age had left lines along his brow, but the most striking feature of the man was his eyes. They were a brilliant blue, the type that one could catch from across a room.
“Ferris, good to see you,” Gino said. “Here for dinner?”
“Actually, Ferris needs a job,” Demos said, his hand on Gino’s shoulder. “There’s plenty he could do, right?”
“He’s a good kid, Papà.” Victor was leaning on the bar with a hand in his pocket. The look he gave Ferris was short, but clear. As much as it bothered him, Ferris had never said a word about the body in the trunk.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Gino said. “As long as you stay and eat something.”
“R-right.” Ferris couldn’t have protested if he wanted to, immediately led away by the wrist. “Thank you, Sir.”
Victor led the two boys to a back room past the bar. It was a private space with a fireplace and one long table flanked by a dozen chairs. There was something out of place about the room, as if it was meant for meetings rather than dining.
“You two sit here,” Victor said. “I’ll bring you some cacciatore.”
Ferris leaned back in his seat. That hadn’t been much of a job interview, but he had no intention to complain.
“I wonder what they’re going to have me do,” Ferris said. “Dishes, I guess?”
“Maybe. I do prep work, like weighing out the pasta and everything. Oh, you’d make a slick waiter,” Demos said.
“Yeah, a fifteen-year-old waiter. I hope the Department of Labor comes in for a bite.”
Demos laughed, folding his arms across his chest. “Nonno’s got every cop and judge from here to Jersey bribed somehow or another.”
Victor returned, pushing the door open with his hip as both of his hands were occupied with plates. “Mangia,” he said. “Have some wine, too.” As Demos took the plates, Victor’s attention turned to Ferris. “You start next Monday,” Victor said. “After school.”
“All right, thanks.”
Ferris noticed it one last time before Victor left—that look. That trace of a smile, one that was so rare on the man’s face. The door shut with a click.
Demos raised his glass. “Well, here’s to your new career.”
Ferris joined his friend’s toast, not sure which would be more taxing—a career as a dishwasher, or a career with the Giorgettis.