Mister Mustache
Mr.
Spatz
made
a
deliberate
show
of
looking
at
his
watch
while
shaking
his
head.
He
removed
a
pen
from
his
shirt
pocket
and
began
tapping
it
on
the
edge
of
the
clipboard
he
held.
"Well,
Mister
Jenkins,
it
looks
as
if
you
are
late
again."
Our
eyes
met
for
a
moment,
and
I
then
looked
down
toward
my
ten-‐
dollar
pleather
shoes,
as
if
to
say,
yes,
I
am
tardy
again,
and
I
apologize
for
my
stupidity
and
pray
for
compassion
and
understanding
on
your
part,
oh
exalted
manager
of
Peachy
Burroughs
Terrace,
Fine
Dining
at
the
P.B.
Country
Club.
"I
cut
myself
shaving
and
it
wouldn't
stop
bleeding.
I
practically
bled
to
death.
See?"
I
said,
pointing
to
my
shirt.
Mr.
Spatz
looked
at
my
shirt
suspiciously,
raising
his
eyebrows
as
if
it
was
an
elaborate
hoax.
I
knew
that
he
was
filling
out
an
EDF
(Employee
Disciplinary
Form)
that
would
require
my
signature
when
finished.
I
continued
with
my
excusplanation.
"I
was
trying
to
get
the
bleeding
to
stop,
which
it
wouldn't,
and
when
I
realized
what
time
it
was
I
rushed
over
here
and
in
the
process
forgot
my
employee
identification
card."
I
put
my
hand
to
the
cut
on
my
chin.
The
little
piece
of
TP
was
gone
and
it
still
bled
ever
so
slightly.
Mr.
Spatz
shook
his
head
again,
his
favorite
gesture,
as
if
his
world
was
just
filled
with
one
unbelievable
disappointment
after
the
other.
"I
know
you
know
this,
but
I'm
telling
you
this
so
that
you
will
know
I
know
you
know
this.
You
are
on
some
seriously
thin
ice
around
here,
Mister
Jenkins.
This
is
your
third
strike.
Normally
we
terminate
employees
on
their
third
strike,
but
in
your
case
I
am
going
to
make
an
exception."
Mr.
Spatz
scribbled
on
his
clipboard
as
he
spoke.
"I
am
not
going
to
fire
you.
I
am
putting
you
on
probation.
You
are
a
good
busboy,
you
work
hard,
but
you
are
late
for
work
far
too
often."
Spatz
stopped
writing
for
a
moment
and
shot
a
glance
in
my
direction.
He
eyed
my
crotch
a
nd
shook
his
head
again.