Isabelle and I were excited to have finally made time to visit our son, Troy, at his first job. It was dinner time, and we were looking forward to seeing him in action, maybe poking a little fun at the tie-dye capes Tomfoolery’s servers were required to wear. We envisioned a roomy booth, our son reading us the specials, inside jokes and slaps on the back, a heaping plate of mozzarella sticks and nachos, a generous tip. For one night, we would be the proudest parents.

            Tomfoolery’s was wall-to-wall with customers. The hostess told us it would be forty minutes for the next available table, longer for a booth. We asked after our son.

            “Troy. Troy? I don’t know any Troys,” she said. We told her that he’d been working at Tomfoolery’s for nearly two months. 

            “Sorry, no Troys here,” she said. I wondered if he went by a different name at work. (“Oh! You mean T-bone.”) We asked after T-bone, T-dawg, Helen of Troy.

            “Doesn’t ring a bell,” she said. “Sorry, I have to get back to work now.”

            We tracked down a server, asked him to get his manager.

            “How can I help you folks?” the manager said, after a considerable wait. He was a short, pasty man with thinning hair and a thick mustache.

            “We’re looking for our son, Troy,” I said. “He works here.”

            “I’m sorry, but there isn’t anyone named Troy that works here,” he said. My wife and I exchanged concerned faces.

            “Troy. He’s been working here for nearly two months,” I said.

            The manager took us to the back and showed us a log of hours from the previous week. No Troy.

            “Are you sure he doesn’t work at our sister location in Utica?” the manager said.

            “No. My son hasn’t been riding his bike to Utica every afternoon,” Isabelle said.

            “Well I’m stumped folks. My deepest apologies. Can I get you something to eat? On the house of course.”

            My wife and I ate distractedly, not saying a word to one another. I examined the decorations along the walls: snowshoes, rusted tools, pom-poms, movie posters, license plates. Something happened in one of the games on the television and people at the bar cheered obnoxiously. Chips of ice from the mozzarella sticks crunched between our teeth.

            “Where did he get the checks from? They said Tomfoolery’s on them.”

            “Or the uniform.” 

            “How about all those stories – the man who tried to order a happy meal, the woman who tipped in pennies.”

            “He was the one that wanted the job. I thought he was too young.”

            “I didn’t think he was ready for the responsibility.”

            “Where could he be?”

            “Anywhere.”

            We finished our drinks and collected our things.

            Our server, Tim, tracked us down at the door. I thought we’d forgotten our box with the frozen mozzarella sticks, but I could see Isabelle was holding onto it.

            “You forgot to leave a tip,” he said, holding out an open palm. I looked at Isabelle and she looked back at me. This was bizarre. I was almost certain we’d left a tip. I

remembered asking my wife how much to tip for a gratis meal. At our table there was only a cluster of silverware and plates and napkins, no money as far as I could see. I took out my wallet and handed him a five.

            “I’m sorry, Tim.”

“Not to worry. These things happen. I hope you guys will visit us again soon.” He gave us a sort of half bow, whirled his rainbow cape around his shoulders and disappeared into a crowd of rapacious diners.

Ravi Mangla