Busing Rack Rhythm

The café patio cleared out as night set in. I jumped down from the teak counter onto the lower shelf of a parked steel busing cart. Wedged behind an empty plastic cutlery bin sat a heavy, textured rubber bar mat, ribbed with dense square nubs. I didn't let the silence settle. Drawing one of the sharp birch wedges from my boot strap, I braced my black boots against the slick stainless rim and dragged the dry wood edge across the rubber ridges. Rrrrr-thup-thup. The dull friction gave way to a punchy, muted syncopation vibrating right through the metal frame. I crossed my arms, leaned back against the tubular upright, and let the hollow low-end hold the evening perimeter.