A large truck with a steel body was there, backed against the platform-porch. I had not heard it drive into the side yard. I watched as a man got out of the cab and lit a cigarette. He was tall and lean-muscled. A scar angled from his temple to his cheek. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt and a trucker’s cap. The belt at his waist had a bronze, snap-open buckle with the face of a bear stamped into it. There was a dangerous look about him.

He drew from the cigarette and let the smoke seep from his lips. He stared at me coolly. From behind him and across the side yard, I saw a group of men—all young— approaching. They stopped several feet away. I recognized one of them as a busboy from the Inn.

The man beside the truck said, “You the cracker?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“The cracker, the Georgia boy. You him?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

He drew again from the cigarette and pulled himself up to the body of the truck and stepped over inside it.

“Why you up here?” he asked roughly.

“To work,” I replied.

“People around here need jobs,” he said evenly.

I did not answer. I looked at the group of men. They were amused. I turned to go back into the kitchen.

“Where you going?” the man demanded.

“Back to work,” I told him.

“You got some work right here.”

“Here?”

“Right here. Hand up them garbage cans.”

I stood, looking at him, wondering how he knew me.

“You the dishwasher?” he said.

I nodded.

“The dishwasher helps load the garbage truck.” A smile crept into the man’s face. “That right, boys?” he called.

The busboy from the Inn answered, “That’s right, Ben.”

I stepped to the nearest garbage can and caught the handle and pulled it. I could hear rocks rolling inside it.

“Maybe you better ask some of these boys for some help,” the man in the truck said. “You don’t look like you got it in you to pick up one of them cans.”

“That’s all right,” I said.

The man wiggled the cigarette in his mouth. “I’m waiting.”

And then the door opened and the man from the kitchen who had bellowed at me in German stepped outside. A pleasant, calm smile rested on his face. He said, in perfect English, “Hello, Ben.”

The man in the truck mumbled, “Harry.”

“I’ve been looking for this young fellow,” Harry said in a strong voice. He moved close to me and reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “Wanted to be the first to give him a tip in his new profession. Glad I’ve got some witnesses.” He handed me the bill, then stepped back. He said gently, but with warning, “I think you should hand those cans up to Mr. Benton.”

“Yes, sir.”