Free Losing in Gainesville (9781940430331) by Brian Costello

we doing today?” Jeremy says, trying not to look profoundly disturbed by Stevie’s ravenous eating. “You applied here and I’d like to ask you a few questions?”
    Stevie tries speaking, voice blocked by mounds of digested breadstick masticated in violent chomps. He holds out a “Wait a minute” right index finger, moves a stack of plates from what will be Jeremy Moreland’s side of the booth, motions with “Have a seat” outstretched arms, tries wiping the grease off Jeremy’s side of the table with a couple already soiled and crumpled brown napkins and succeeds in spreading the grease into circular smudges, swallows the breadstick and starts in with this torrent in the cadence, timbre and volume of a Florida used car salesman yelling about bargains in late night TV commercials, “Hey man, yeah, sit down and talk to me you probably know who I am ‘cuz I’m in here almost every day so you’re probably like ‘Y’all, who’s that who’s always in here tearin’ up the lunch buffet?’ Well I figured I’m here enough already so might as well apply here since I obviously like the food so much anyway this buffet’s the best in town so I saw that sign outside and figured why not?”
    Jeremy slides into the booth, looks over the plates stacked five-six high, littered with pizza crusts and the hard ends of marinara tipped bread sticks, overturned dipping sauces (Awesome Valley Ranch, Totally Dudical Honey Mustard, Mama Leona’s Fatten You Uppa Sour Cream and Chives, Peter Cetera’s Moderate Salsa, Kansas City Dude Squad Mesquite Barbeque Sauce, Paisan Geoff’s Zesty Garlic Butter), stray oregano and red pepper flakes scattered everywhere. “So. Stevie. That’s your name?”
    â€œYeah buddy!” Stevie says, swallowing the last of the pizza while finishing the breadstick in his other hand. Jeremy Moreland hears the hick accent, sees the gold brah chain around Stevie’s neck and the buzzed black hair and laughs the kind of superior under-the-breath chuckle that comes naturally from the mouths of high school seniors who have been told that they were “gifted” their whole lives. Stevie hears the laugh. “That funny, home slice?”
    Jeremy says nothing, pretends to scan the yellow-papered, grease-smudged application for the first time. “And . . . do you have a last name, Stevie?”
    â€œYeah I gotta last name and a whole lotta other information I could give you, butI ain’t gonna share that with you for reasons you know I know and I know you know, so I’m just going to keep that to myself for the time being.”
    â€œYou’re saying you won’t give me your last name?”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I’m saying!” Stevie pounds the table, rattling the plates and the napkin dispenser. “’Cause I heard this thing on the radio that the government takes that information and after that who knows what they do with it man! They get that, and they’ll know how to find me, and when—not if, when —society collapses, they’ll round me up with the rest of you suckers—”
    â€œWell,” Jeremy says, starting the scrawny-ass scoot out of the booth, “we can’t hire you without a last name, so if you don’t feel comfortable—”
    â€œIt’s Walters,” Stevie interrupts, and Jeremy slides back across his side of the booth. “Steven ‘Stevie’ Raymond Walters.”
    â€œThank you.” Jeremy writes in the new information in the appropriate lines. Stevie reaches for his massive red plastic cup and straw-slurps a mouthful of sweet tea. “I can assure you no one here will alert the government of your whereabouts should civilization collapse on us.”
    â€œYou say that now,” Stevie says, “but man, don’t get me started.”
    â€œI hope not to,” Jeremy