Many eons ago in a state that isn't even 100 miles from north to south, I was able to give a cashier $20 for something that cost $19.99 and I still got a penny back. But that has nothing to do with this story. Well, except that I'm talking about Delaware. And that I lived there collegiately during the mid to late 90s.
Towards the latter edge of the later 90s I decided that I needed a job that wasn't a $4 / hour work study on-campus job. I therefore applied at two places. Kindercare and Outback Steakhouse. I was offered both jobs. The one a teacher / baby sitter for infants and toddlers. The other a host who seated people and rolled silverware. Children OR cheese fries with ranch, a salad with the best croutons I've ever tasted, the tastiest brown bread in existence, and steak seasoned with 14 billion spices not to mention the Wallaby Darned - all half off. Outback it was.
I did the host thing for quite some time. Got pretty good at it. But this ain't about that. I'll tell some of those other stories at another time. This story is about one particularly trying night that has something to do with a fire hazard. Thus the title...
This story includes as the main characters a guy named Bob, a girl named Sarah, and me.
Bob the waiter was an ass. Most likely still is an ass. Big ears. Little head. Always wore his shirt too tightly to impress the ladies. Grinned after every one of his crude jokes. Walked with a swagger. Couldn't say anything intelligent if he tried. Typical frat jock numnutz.
Sarah the waitress was a bitch. Long, flowing brunette hair, obviously dyed. Always wore her shirt too tightly to impress the men. Wouldn't speak to anyone she deemed a lower life form than she, which was everyone except others of her kind and men she deemed attractive. Or people who controlled her paycheck in some way, shape, or form.
Bob and Sarah had three tables apiece. Both had two six tops - booths - and an 8-person round table. In the smoking section. Yes, that archaic section akin to a peeing section in a swimming pool was a hit or miss proposition. Some nights, it was a ghost town. Other nights, it was a smokehouse. Sometimes, I could convince others to sit over in the section by telling them that no one else seemed to be smoking. Other nights, the very mention of the possibility evoked the nastiest of nasty looks. Hit or miss, like I said.
On this night, we were having some success seating people in the smoking section. A four top for Bob - he had opened - and then a two top. Not bad for early on. When Sarah came on, she got a six top. Then a four top. The restaurant was filling up. But all with two and four tops. Or larger tops that wanted non-smoking. That left Sarah and Bob each with the open 8-seat round tops open. That's when a five person party came through the doors. I pulled Bob aside and asked him if he'd take it. He wasn't thrilled. I told him I couldn't be certain that there would be another table. He then acquiesced. But told me I had to take care of him. I chuckled and he left.
Over the next half hour, Sarah's tables flipped and she got 6 person parties at both her booths. Bob's tables, meanwhile, had squatters. Frustrated, he made himself a permanent fixture at the front board. Staring at the people who wouldn't leave his tables. Finally, one of his booths came free.
Before I continue, let me explain the situation of Bob's free booth. In the corner of the 'store' the booth was adjacent to the window. Its back was butted against a wall on the other side of which was a busboy station. That wall created a small nook for the busboys, true, but it was also where one of our emergency exits was located.
So, I had an 8 person party and a 2 person party. The 8 person party was first on the list. Now, the 8 person party could easily fit at Sarah's round top. But it could also fit - with an extension - at the 6 seater booth. Sarah came up to the front and spoke to me as if I were her best friend, 'Are you going to seat them at my table?' she spoke with her most enchanting voice. I didn't answer her. Instead - as I was wont to do at times - I took a stroll through the section to see how close the people were to finishing at Bob's other tables. Not close. When I returned, Bob pointed to his table and just about ordered me to seat them.
And there I stood. Finally, I realized what I had to do. I sat them at Sarah's round table eliciting many a purr and coo from her rancid tongue. And then, when Bob saw what I had done, he chewed me out in front of a crowd of hungry carnivores, spewing unprofessional filth and cursing my very name.
Why? Well, if I had put the extension on the 6 top booth, it would have blocked access to the busboy nook, and therefore the emergency exit. But no amount of explanation was capable of calming Bob. Nor would Sarah stop walking slowly by me, smiling as she went. Well, until the next day when she once again ignored my very existence.
Not a great night. Not even particularly poetically just. But an experience nonetheless. And what does my friend Brian always say but 'experience is what you get when you don't get what you want.'
Showing posts with label A Look Back. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A Look Back. Show all posts
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Monday, November 10, 2008
A Look Back: The Reason I Don't Fish
It was 20 years ago; I was all of 11.
I'd been fishing a few times up to age 11. The old man had taught my brother and me how to search for the nightcrawlers; then we'd venture to Black Rock Lake at the crack of dumb in the morning and fish. I caught loads of Sunnies. But not much else. I enjoyed the time spent with the old man and the silence offered by the calm lake, but waiting for fish to ensnare themselves on my hook was tedious. Still, I wasn't opposed to fishing; I was indifferent.
Soon after my parents divorced, my mother met her first boyfriend. A guy by the name of Mike. Nice enough. Liked beer. One of those guys who's somewhat awkward around kids, but who wants to impress them with his skills. It didn't help that I was awkward around everyone at that point, including him.
Mike announced to my mother one day that we should go fishing. All of us. My mother whom I've never seen - before or since - lift a fishing pole, my brother, Mike, and I. And we weren't going to go at the crack of dumb like my father had taught but during the middle of the day when there were no fish whatsoever. Although I didn't want to go, I appeased my mother and packed myself into his car. Off we went.
I don't particularly remember where we went. But I know we were alone. Standing on a large rock - a boulder, if you will - overlooking the body of water. All of us cast. And I remember catching nothing. All the fish had buried themselves deep beneath the sun's rays.
Then it happened. Mike pulled from the placid lake a good-sized fish. I stepped onto the rock to take a look at our only catch of the day. I looked down to get my footing and then back up. What did I see staring me in the face but a whiskered fish face wriggling. It gave me such a start that I lost my footing and plummeted a whole three feet into the water. Mike, my mother, and my brother froze, wondering if I was hurt. But when I stood - it was very shallow - I heard the first sputter burst from my brother's mouth. Followed by the flowing laughter of Mike and my mother.
Alas, I wasn't a particularly good sport back then. I stalked off to be alone, feeling utter humiliated, not to mention soaking wet. Fishing for me had been stymied.
I won't say I haven't been fishing since - although I can't imagine I've fished more than a couple times since then - but I lost any inkling I might have had.
I'd been fishing a few times up to age 11. The old man had taught my brother and me how to search for the nightcrawlers; then we'd venture to Black Rock Lake at the crack of dumb in the morning and fish. I caught loads of Sunnies. But not much else. I enjoyed the time spent with the old man and the silence offered by the calm lake, but waiting for fish to ensnare themselves on my hook was tedious. Still, I wasn't opposed to fishing; I was indifferent.
Soon after my parents divorced, my mother met her first boyfriend. A guy by the name of Mike. Nice enough. Liked beer. One of those guys who's somewhat awkward around kids, but who wants to impress them with his skills. It didn't help that I was awkward around everyone at that point, including him.
Mike announced to my mother one day that we should go fishing. All of us. My mother whom I've never seen - before or since - lift a fishing pole, my brother, Mike, and I. And we weren't going to go at the crack of dumb like my father had taught but during the middle of the day when there were no fish whatsoever. Although I didn't want to go, I appeased my mother and packed myself into his car. Off we went.
I don't particularly remember where we went. But I know we were alone. Standing on a large rock - a boulder, if you will - overlooking the body of water. All of us cast. And I remember catching nothing. All the fish had buried themselves deep beneath the sun's rays.
Then it happened. Mike pulled from the placid lake a good-sized fish. I stepped onto the rock to take a look at our only catch of the day. I looked down to get my footing and then back up. What did I see staring me in the face but a whiskered fish face wriggling. It gave me such a start that I lost my footing and plummeted a whole three feet into the water. Mike, my mother, and my brother froze, wondering if I was hurt. But when I stood - it was very shallow - I heard the first sputter burst from my brother's mouth. Followed by the flowing laughter of Mike and my mother.
Alas, I wasn't a particularly good sport back then. I stalked off to be alone, feeling utter humiliated, not to mention soaking wet. Fishing for me had been stymied.
I won't say I haven't been fishing since - although I can't imagine I've fished more than a couple times since then - but I lost any inkling I might have had.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
A Look Back: An Introduction to Freshman Honors English
September, 1995. My freshman year at the University of Delaware. Getting acclamated to a co-ed dorm. Wondering how I was going to endure two roommates named Chris - yet another story. Trying desperately not to feel homesick.
First day of classes. Honors Spanish. Good teacher. Great class. I still play fantasy football with a number of the people I met in that class. Also an International Relations class I would ace. Not so bad, I thought to myself as I journeyed back to the dorms. Those were the Monday/Wednesday/Friday classes.
The next day, I had English mid-morning. I had always had a love-hate relationship with English. That may seem strange to some of you. But it was true. I wasn't particularly fond of reading in high school. And I deemed all the English teachers overly dramatic abstractionists. They sounded more like bad psychologists than people who were teaching a subject. So, I wasn't particularly excited about the class.
I found the building - a chem lab named for some DuPont (Little Known Fact: The University of Delaware is publicly run but privately owned mostly by the DuPont and Gore - GoreTex - families. Delaware State University in Dover is the state school). I descended to the basement where I found a classroom reminiscent of one from a 1950s Catholic School. I entered hesitantly. Not the first person, but close. I sat in the one-piece chair-desk and waited. No one spoke.
The classroom filled with another 15 students. About 20 in all. There were a few people who knew each other. And thus a few random whispers. Enough to be really annoying, but not enough to have someone turn around and shoosh them.
We waited for 5 minutes. Then another 5. Still no one spoke. We didn't know the 15 minute rule yet.
She entered. A large woman with a bulldog face. She seemed to have brought a hurricane-forced wind with her. Books and papers flailing in her arms. She half dropped, half threw everything that barely stayed in her arms upon the table. We sat stunned.
She looked up with a grimace and paced the front of the room for a good 30 seconds before opening her mouth.
I paraphrase:
'This is Honors English. You will be reading a LOT. More than you've ever probably read in your life. If you're not ready to read, I suggest you don't come back. You will also be writing a LOT. If you're not ready to write, I suggest you don't come back. This class is difficult. And most of you probably won't do as well as you expect.' Then she looked us collectively in the eye with some mutant power acquired from some university in New York. 'I don't like you. And you'll most likely not like me. It's better that way. But anyone who does choose to stay will learn. Good day.'
With that she scooped into her arms in one motion the papers and books that laid about the table. And she was gone.
Some made a mad dash for the door, never to be seen on campus again. The rest, like me, sat stunned staring at the empty green chalk board. We had no words for what had happened. I returned to my dorm wondering if a life in gas pumping was really as bad as everyone suggested.
Whether out of stupidity or courage, I returned that Thursday to the basement of the chem lab. I watched the classroom fill with people who looked as if they were going to the hangman. There were 12 of us. Down about 10 from 2 days prior. We lingered as if wraiths on the cusp of dismal immortality.
She entered. Breezily. Gradually. Her papers and books neatened in her plump arms. She placed them down ever so lightly upon the desk and sat her body upon the desk. 'Now that we have that little episode out of the way, shall we get started?' We stared again, but this time with amazement at the reclining woman. 'Let me just say that I needed to separate the wheat from the chaff. But please don't misunderstand me. I meant everything I said during our first encounter except, of course, that line about not liking you. Just give me some time, and I'll learn to dislike you. But I have to give you the benefit of the doubt.' She smiled widely and delved into introductions.
First day of classes. Honors Spanish. Good teacher. Great class. I still play fantasy football with a number of the people I met in that class. Also an International Relations class I would ace. Not so bad, I thought to myself as I journeyed back to the dorms. Those were the Monday/Wednesday/Friday classes.
The next day, I had English mid-morning. I had always had a love-hate relationship with English. That may seem strange to some of you. But it was true. I wasn't particularly fond of reading in high school. And I deemed all the English teachers overly dramatic abstractionists. They sounded more like bad psychologists than people who were teaching a subject. So, I wasn't particularly excited about the class.
I found the building - a chem lab named for some DuPont (Little Known Fact: The University of Delaware is publicly run but privately owned mostly by the DuPont and Gore - GoreTex - families. Delaware State University in Dover is the state school). I descended to the basement where I found a classroom reminiscent of one from a 1950s Catholic School. I entered hesitantly. Not the first person, but close. I sat in the one-piece chair-desk and waited. No one spoke.
The classroom filled with another 15 students. About 20 in all. There were a few people who knew each other. And thus a few random whispers. Enough to be really annoying, but not enough to have someone turn around and shoosh them.
We waited for 5 minutes. Then another 5. Still no one spoke. We didn't know the 15 minute rule yet.
She entered. A large woman with a bulldog face. She seemed to have brought a hurricane-forced wind with her. Books and papers flailing in her arms. She half dropped, half threw everything that barely stayed in her arms upon the table. We sat stunned.
She looked up with a grimace and paced the front of the room for a good 30 seconds before opening her mouth.
I paraphrase:
'This is Honors English. You will be reading a LOT. More than you've ever probably read in your life. If you're not ready to read, I suggest you don't come back. You will also be writing a LOT. If you're not ready to write, I suggest you don't come back. This class is difficult. And most of you probably won't do as well as you expect.' Then she looked us collectively in the eye with some mutant power acquired from some university in New York. 'I don't like you. And you'll most likely not like me. It's better that way. But anyone who does choose to stay will learn. Good day.'
With that she scooped into her arms in one motion the papers and books that laid about the table. And she was gone.
Some made a mad dash for the door, never to be seen on campus again. The rest, like me, sat stunned staring at the empty green chalk board. We had no words for what had happened. I returned to my dorm wondering if a life in gas pumping was really as bad as everyone suggested.
Whether out of stupidity or courage, I returned that Thursday to the basement of the chem lab. I watched the classroom fill with people who looked as if they were going to the hangman. There were 12 of us. Down about 10 from 2 days prior. We lingered as if wraiths on the cusp of dismal immortality.
She entered. Breezily. Gradually. Her papers and books neatened in her plump arms. She placed them down ever so lightly upon the desk and sat her body upon the desk. 'Now that we have that little episode out of the way, shall we get started?' We stared again, but this time with amazement at the reclining woman. 'Let me just say that I needed to separate the wheat from the chaff. But please don't misunderstand me. I meant everything I said during our first encounter except, of course, that line about not liking you. Just give me some time, and I'll learn to dislike you. But I have to give you the benefit of the doubt.' She smiled widely and delved into introductions.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
A Look Back: September 11, 2001
Growing up, I heard the question asked, 'Where were you when Kennedy was shot?' Every American born before 1958 had a story. Their world stopped on that day. The first assassination of a U.S. President in recent memory. And a beloved president at that. The funeral ensued. Little John saluting the casket. The drums and the clip clop of horses' hooves.
Now, every American born before 1996 has a story. Where you were when the planes hit?
I had arrived just a couple weeks before at St. John's Seminary in Boston, MA for my second year of pre-theology. Classes had already begun. We seminarians were getting reacquainted with the busy schedule. Tuesday mornings meant Morning Prayer in the small chapel for the pre-theologians. Young and middle-aged men dozing in the padded chairs before the tabernacle. A warm, hushed place of comfort.
We all went down for a quick breakfast and then back up to our rooms. I didn't have class that day until the afternoon, so I lounged around the hallway with the others. I remember having a disagreement with a friend, though about what I can't say for sure. And then we went into our rooms to sulk. I came out of the room at about 8:55 and a new pre-theologian named Dan Kennedy - imagine a Kennedy in Massachusetts - was walking down the hallway toward the third floor common room. He said - in passing - 'a plane just hit one of the World Trade Center buildings; it must have been an accident'. 'What?' I knocked on my friend's door and told him. We walked down to the common room together.
As I walked into the room, I glanced at the television and literally saw the second plane crash into the second tower. The room - as I'd imagine most rooms in America did - froze. No one breathed. I sat. And we all proceeded to watch and listen to the live coverage. In fact, we sat and listened for three full hours. Numb. Stunned. We watched as the towers fell, seemingly demolished in an eerily controlled way. But how could it have been? We watched as news of the Pennsylvania plane - we all hoped an isolated incident not linked to what we were seeing - came across the airwaves. And the Pentagon plane. All too much. Airports shut down. Fears of attacks elsewhere in the US. Why not Los Angeles? Chicago? We all waited to see what would happen next.
Classes were canceled that day and Monsignor Lennon had a special prayer service in the chapel at 12:30. We heard the sound of jets in the sky. We felt the weight of the world.
I looked back to my journal entry on that day. I leave you with it:
9-11-01 SJB (Saint John's Bedroom)
8:35 a.m.
'It happens again. Formation strikes at the heart and soul. Escape is impossible if I open my heart. Where do I go now? The heat swarms around my tired form. A great weight upon my shoulders. Lord help me with the weight of this yoke.'
11:59 p.m.
'Thomas Merton warned that these attacks, these wars, begin with the sins of the world's people. We must all take some of the blame.
Lord God I pray for this world. We must pray. We must invite You into our lives. Come, Lord Jesus, though we are not worthy.'
Now, every American born before 1996 has a story. Where you were when the planes hit?
I had arrived just a couple weeks before at St. John's Seminary in Boston, MA for my second year of pre-theology. Classes had already begun. We seminarians were getting reacquainted with the busy schedule. Tuesday mornings meant Morning Prayer in the small chapel for the pre-theologians. Young and middle-aged men dozing in the padded chairs before the tabernacle. A warm, hushed place of comfort.
We all went down for a quick breakfast and then back up to our rooms. I didn't have class that day until the afternoon, so I lounged around the hallway with the others. I remember having a disagreement with a friend, though about what I can't say for sure. And then we went into our rooms to sulk. I came out of the room at about 8:55 and a new pre-theologian named Dan Kennedy - imagine a Kennedy in Massachusetts - was walking down the hallway toward the third floor common room. He said - in passing - 'a plane just hit one of the World Trade Center buildings; it must have been an accident'. 'What?' I knocked on my friend's door and told him. We walked down to the common room together.
As I walked into the room, I glanced at the television and literally saw the second plane crash into the second tower. The room - as I'd imagine most rooms in America did - froze. No one breathed. I sat. And we all proceeded to watch and listen to the live coverage. In fact, we sat and listened for three full hours. Numb. Stunned. We watched as the towers fell, seemingly demolished in an eerily controlled way. But how could it have been? We watched as news of the Pennsylvania plane - we all hoped an isolated incident not linked to what we were seeing - came across the airwaves. And the Pentagon plane. All too much. Airports shut down. Fears of attacks elsewhere in the US. Why not Los Angeles? Chicago? We all waited to see what would happen next.
Classes were canceled that day and Monsignor Lennon had a special prayer service in the chapel at 12:30. We heard the sound of jets in the sky. We felt the weight of the world.
I looked back to my journal entry on that day. I leave you with it:
9-11-01 SJB (Saint John's Bedroom)
8:35 a.m.
'It happens again. Formation strikes at the heart and soul. Escape is impossible if I open my heart. Where do I go now? The heat swarms around my tired form. A great weight upon my shoulders. Lord help me with the weight of this yoke.'
11:59 p.m.
'Thomas Merton warned that these attacks, these wars, begin with the sins of the world's people. We must all take some of the blame.
Lord God I pray for this world. We must pray. We must invite You into our lives. Come, Lord Jesus, though we are not worthy.'
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
A Look Back: Project Graduation 2000
Project Graduation. Many high schools throughout the country have instituted Project Graduation, an all-night, alcohol and drug-free celebration for graduating seniors. I partook in Project Graduation in 1995 during my senior year. And five years later, I found myself volunteering at another.
Let us set the stage... I had finished my student teaching assignment at East Catholic High School in Manchester, CT in early May 2000. I subsequently graduated from the University of Delaware in late May 2000. And when I returned from Delaware, I was assigned to St. Bridget's Parish in Cheshire. I had finally attained my bachelor's degree and could now concentrate on the road to the priesthood. Except, I had one more responsibility to my seniors... well, two. I had to attend graduation AND I had promised to volunteer at Project Graduation.
Graduation took place at St. Joseph's Cathedral in Hartford. In my suit and tie, I walked with the students and sat with them on the altar at the insistence of my mentor. The ceremony was awesome; I almost wished I had graduated within the Cathedral rather than on a football field. But I think the football field was more appropriate for me...
After graduation, I went to have dinner with my fellow teachers before heading to the health club for the night's festivities. At about 10 p.m. I found myself at the doors of the health club introducing myself to the parents. They put me to work. Carrying. Monitoring. Assisting with the sporting events. 'Hey, Mr. K' I heard at random from all directions. I had not realized that I had actually known about 95% of the entire senior class even though I had only about 50% of them in my classes.
The night gave way to morning. Those with unrelenting stores of energy continued with their antics on the wallyball and basketball courts. Those who had simmered were playing cards and ping pong. Still others had retired to the room where karaoke reigned. I decided to sit in that latter room. What a mistake.
'Mr. K, you gotta try it,' they pleaded.
'Nah. I've never done that before. I'll let you do your thing and then laugh at you.'
'Aw, c'mon Mr. K. For us.' A crowd began to form.
It was almost 3 a.m. I was tired. I threw caution to the wind and took the mike. The song? The Devil Went Down to Georgia. I knew it by heart. And it didn't really require singing per se. Just a whole lotta talking fast. I credit the old man with the fact that I know that song, because God knows it's about the ONLY country song I know.
I begin. Word for word. I'm keeping up. Until the line 'Fire on the moun boys, run boy, run'. I never get that one. I hear a few chuckles but keep going. I keep building the song. Even start swaying a bit - my imitation of dance. I'm getting into it. Talk-singing like mad.
After Johnny finished his fiddling, I spoke just above a whisper, 'The devil bowed his head because he knew that he'd been beat.' A little louder, 'He laid that golden fiddle on the ground at Johnny's feet.' Picking up steam, I sang matter-of-factly 'Johnny said: "Devil just come on back if you ever want to try again."' And then I let em have it, '"I told you once, you son of a bitch, I'm the best that's ever been."'
I missed by one word. And that one word had everyone - students and parents alike - staring at me in disbelief. The word? Gun. I said? Well, you know...
Let us set the stage... I had finished my student teaching assignment at East Catholic High School in Manchester, CT in early May 2000. I subsequently graduated from the University of Delaware in late May 2000. And when I returned from Delaware, I was assigned to St. Bridget's Parish in Cheshire. I had finally attained my bachelor's degree and could now concentrate on the road to the priesthood. Except, I had one more responsibility to my seniors... well, two. I had to attend graduation AND I had promised to volunteer at Project Graduation.
Graduation took place at St. Joseph's Cathedral in Hartford. In my suit and tie, I walked with the students and sat with them on the altar at the insistence of my mentor. The ceremony was awesome; I almost wished I had graduated within the Cathedral rather than on a football field. But I think the football field was more appropriate for me...
After graduation, I went to have dinner with my fellow teachers before heading to the health club for the night's festivities. At about 10 p.m. I found myself at the doors of the health club introducing myself to the parents. They put me to work. Carrying. Monitoring. Assisting with the sporting events. 'Hey, Mr. K' I heard at random from all directions. I had not realized that I had actually known about 95% of the entire senior class even though I had only about 50% of them in my classes.
The night gave way to morning. Those with unrelenting stores of energy continued with their antics on the wallyball and basketball courts. Those who had simmered were playing cards and ping pong. Still others had retired to the room where karaoke reigned. I decided to sit in that latter room. What a mistake.
'Mr. K, you gotta try it,' they pleaded.
'Nah. I've never done that before. I'll let you do your thing and then laugh at you.'
'Aw, c'mon Mr. K. For us.' A crowd began to form.
It was almost 3 a.m. I was tired. I threw caution to the wind and took the mike. The song? The Devil Went Down to Georgia. I knew it by heart. And it didn't really require singing per se. Just a whole lotta talking fast. I credit the old man with the fact that I know that song, because God knows it's about the ONLY country song I know.
I begin. Word for word. I'm keeping up. Until the line 'Fire on the moun boys, run boy, run'. I never get that one. I hear a few chuckles but keep going. I keep building the song. Even start swaying a bit - my imitation of dance. I'm getting into it. Talk-singing like mad.
After Johnny finished his fiddling, I spoke just above a whisper, 'The devil bowed his head because he knew that he'd been beat.' A little louder, 'He laid that golden fiddle on the ground at Johnny's feet.' Picking up steam, I sang matter-of-factly 'Johnny said: "Devil just come on back if you ever want to try again."' And then I let em have it, '"I told you once, you son of a bitch, I'm the best that's ever been."'
I missed by one word. And that one word had everyone - students and parents alike - staring at me in disbelief. The word? Gun. I said? Well, you know...
Sunday, August 31, 2008
A Look Back: Summer 1998
'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.' - George Santayana
This lesson, which we would all do well to heed, has prompted me to recall my past. With the aid of my memory and my journals - begun in April 1998 - I will attempt to recall my past every so often in this blog so that you who don't know these stories can come to know them and so that you who shared these stories with me can both recall them yourselves and see them from my perspective.
For this first look back, I will transport us to a time 10 years ago. A transition point in my life. I had just finished my third year at the University of Delaware. I packed my light blue Mazda with my belongings that last week of May and made the four hour trek - it's a trek to someone with an east coast mentality anyway - to my father's house in Connecticut. Although I was going home to relax, I had a lot on my mind, e.g. moving back to Delaware in June to begin my stint as a renter. Trying to figure out what was to become of the relationship between Steph and me. Trying to figure out how I was going to live in the same apartment as Steph when we were having so many problems. And, wondering what in the world I would do for money.
During that stay at home, I remember varied and lengthy conversations with my father, who was trying to advise me on a number of topics. But I was a cocky, insecure, and immature 20 year old. I didn't listen. Instead, I readied myself for a more significant move than I had ever made. I needed not only clothes, linens, toiletries, and books. Now I needed, cooking implements and bowls and silverware and cleaning supplies, not to mention I needed to bring my own bed and furniture. I packed the Mazda; my father packed the van. And off we went...
Steph arrived a couple days after I did. We settled in. And then we started fighting. The same old stuff. You don't love me. I think I love you. I'm not sure anymore. Why are you so emotionally distant? Why are you so overbearing? Wait, I thought we had broken up, so why are we even having this fight? We're trying to rescue this friendship, not rebuild the relationship. I don't know if there can be a relationship after what we've been through. Confusion reigned.
I still had no job. I had no idea what to look for in a job. I wasn't going to work at a supermarket again. My skills from the library and from babysitting weren't particularly helpful either. I started interviewing. Not many bites, especially during the summer. I started to become concerned. Steph, meanwhile, had a job on campus and dutifully left every morning shortly before 8. So, not only was I fretting about a job, but I had plenty of time to fret when I wasn't looking for a job because I had nothing to do and no one with whom to do it.
By mid-July, Steph and I hit a brick wall. After so much fighting, we knew we had made a mistake. Living together - as my father warned - seemed to be our attempt - whether conscious or not - to save the relationship, to fix what was wrong with us. But the relationship was irrevocably torn asunder, and neither of us could mend the fences that we had destroyed. She made the decision to move. I begged her not to move; I told her we could fix it. She simply shook her head each time with tears in her brown eyes and told me that it was time to go. I knew it, but I was afraid. Of loneliness. Of losing her in my life. Of not knowing what to do next.
And then I found a job. I drove into the Possum Park Plaza in Newark, DE and proceeded to walk into the Outback Steakhouse. A tall, stocky gentleman named Robert greeted me and asked me for my resume. I handed him what I had - which wasn't much. He asked if I had any experience in a restaurant. Nope. Any customer service? The library and a couple years in high school as a stock boy in a local market. He chuckled; I half-heartedly returned a chuckle expecting to walk back through the heavy wooden doors with another rejection. Robert surprised me. He was looking for a host. Hosting sounded fine to me. I just needed to pay the rent. I agreed to a base salary and tips. We shook and I walked out employed.
After a few training sessions, I was on the job. Rolling silverware. Taking 'Takeaway Tucker' orders. Seating impatient people. Telling the impatient people about our 'Bloomin Onion' and the 'Wallaby Darned'. Holding the doors open. Handing people devices that I told them would vibrate. Having those same people take the devices, snicker, and make lewd comments. Learning that you don't say 'vibrate', but 'shake'. Within the first week, I had met most of the staff, including two hosts to whom I began to talk on a regular basis - Brandon and Mike.
The night before Steph was to return with her family to Virginia, I made the decision to bring her out for a last meal. We agreed that we wouldn't fight, that we would be civil and enjoy these last hours together. I didn't have a lot of money. And Outback employess get their meals for half off. Outback, it was. We sat in what was then the non-smoking section. Against the wall. Rather late at night, I seem to remember, as most of the surrounding tables were empty. At one moment during that otherwise uneventful evening, Brandon came over to say hello to me and Steph. Given Steph's importance in my life up to that point and given Brandon's future importance in my life, I now see that the brief meeting between those two people spelled a significant and very real transition for me.
Steph left the next day. Heart wrenching sadness lingered. As well as a sense of freedom I had never known. An odd combination. Especially for a young, naive, immature, insecure 20 year old.
I had to look for a roommate. I found one. A gay, Costa Rican, graduate student. Nice enough, but I was in the midst of isolating myself from all but a few people. And he wasn't one of the exceptions. Even though I lived with him. In fact, I had no idea he was gay until the last day we were in the apartment.
During the month of August, I worked a lot. And for those of you who haven't worked in the restaurant business, the work hours - Outback serves only dinner during the weekdays - changed my internal clock dramatically. Instead of going to bed at 10 or 11 I started going to bed at 1 or 2 after I had completed all of my duties and had a couple drinks with my friends.
Speaking of friends, it was in early August that I learned that Brandon literally lived 30 seconds from my front door in the same apartment complex. I therefore became a fixture in his apartment drinking hard cider and smoking clove cigarettes. We talked for hours and hours. About life. About death. About Ulysses and Finnegan's Wake. About magic and Alistair Crowley. About religion and art. We talked and talked, becoming exceptionally fast friends.
August waned. Fall semester began. I returned to classes for my senior year. But I was not the same person. I lived in an apartment, had a real job, and didn't have a girlfriend. All for the first time in my existence at the University.
Ten years ago...
So, where were you?
This lesson, which we would all do well to heed, has prompted me to recall my past. With the aid of my memory and my journals - begun in April 1998 - I will attempt to recall my past every so often in this blog so that you who don't know these stories can come to know them and so that you who shared these stories with me can both recall them yourselves and see them from my perspective.
For this first look back, I will transport us to a time 10 years ago. A transition point in my life. I had just finished my third year at the University of Delaware. I packed my light blue Mazda with my belongings that last week of May and made the four hour trek - it's a trek to someone with an east coast mentality anyway - to my father's house in Connecticut. Although I was going home to relax, I had a lot on my mind, e.g. moving back to Delaware in June to begin my stint as a renter. Trying to figure out what was to become of the relationship between Steph and me. Trying to figure out how I was going to live in the same apartment as Steph when we were having so many problems. And, wondering what in the world I would do for money.
During that stay at home, I remember varied and lengthy conversations with my father, who was trying to advise me on a number of topics. But I was a cocky, insecure, and immature 20 year old. I didn't listen. Instead, I readied myself for a more significant move than I had ever made. I needed not only clothes, linens, toiletries, and books. Now I needed, cooking implements and bowls and silverware and cleaning supplies, not to mention I needed to bring my own bed and furniture. I packed the Mazda; my father packed the van. And off we went...
Steph arrived a couple days after I did. We settled in. And then we started fighting. The same old stuff. You don't love me. I think I love you. I'm not sure anymore. Why are you so emotionally distant? Why are you so overbearing? Wait, I thought we had broken up, so why are we even having this fight? We're trying to rescue this friendship, not rebuild the relationship. I don't know if there can be a relationship after what we've been through. Confusion reigned.
I still had no job. I had no idea what to look for in a job. I wasn't going to work at a supermarket again. My skills from the library and from babysitting weren't particularly helpful either. I started interviewing. Not many bites, especially during the summer. I started to become concerned. Steph, meanwhile, had a job on campus and dutifully left every morning shortly before 8. So, not only was I fretting about a job, but I had plenty of time to fret when I wasn't looking for a job because I had nothing to do and no one with whom to do it.
By mid-July, Steph and I hit a brick wall. After so much fighting, we knew we had made a mistake. Living together - as my father warned - seemed to be our attempt - whether conscious or not - to save the relationship, to fix what was wrong with us. But the relationship was irrevocably torn asunder, and neither of us could mend the fences that we had destroyed. She made the decision to move. I begged her not to move; I told her we could fix it. She simply shook her head each time with tears in her brown eyes and told me that it was time to go. I knew it, but I was afraid. Of loneliness. Of losing her in my life. Of not knowing what to do next.
And then I found a job. I drove into the Possum Park Plaza in Newark, DE and proceeded to walk into the Outback Steakhouse. A tall, stocky gentleman named Robert greeted me and asked me for my resume. I handed him what I had - which wasn't much. He asked if I had any experience in a restaurant. Nope. Any customer service? The library and a couple years in high school as a stock boy in a local market. He chuckled; I half-heartedly returned a chuckle expecting to walk back through the heavy wooden doors with another rejection. Robert surprised me. He was looking for a host. Hosting sounded fine to me. I just needed to pay the rent. I agreed to a base salary and tips. We shook and I walked out employed.
After a few training sessions, I was on the job. Rolling silverware. Taking 'Takeaway Tucker' orders. Seating impatient people. Telling the impatient people about our 'Bloomin Onion' and the 'Wallaby Darned'. Holding the doors open. Handing people devices that I told them would vibrate. Having those same people take the devices, snicker, and make lewd comments. Learning that you don't say 'vibrate', but 'shake'. Within the first week, I had met most of the staff, including two hosts to whom I began to talk on a regular basis - Brandon and Mike.
The night before Steph was to return with her family to Virginia, I made the decision to bring her out for a last meal. We agreed that we wouldn't fight, that we would be civil and enjoy these last hours together. I didn't have a lot of money. And Outback employess get their meals for half off. Outback, it was. We sat in what was then the non-smoking section. Against the wall. Rather late at night, I seem to remember, as most of the surrounding tables were empty. At one moment during that otherwise uneventful evening, Brandon came over to say hello to me and Steph. Given Steph's importance in my life up to that point and given Brandon's future importance in my life, I now see that the brief meeting between those two people spelled a significant and very real transition for me.
Steph left the next day. Heart wrenching sadness lingered. As well as a sense of freedom I had never known. An odd combination. Especially for a young, naive, immature, insecure 20 year old.
I had to look for a roommate. I found one. A gay, Costa Rican, graduate student. Nice enough, but I was in the midst of isolating myself from all but a few people. And he wasn't one of the exceptions. Even though I lived with him. In fact, I had no idea he was gay until the last day we were in the apartment.
During the month of August, I worked a lot. And for those of you who haven't worked in the restaurant business, the work hours - Outback serves only dinner during the weekdays - changed my internal clock dramatically. Instead of going to bed at 10 or 11 I started going to bed at 1 or 2 after I had completed all of my duties and had a couple drinks with my friends.
Speaking of friends, it was in early August that I learned that Brandon literally lived 30 seconds from my front door in the same apartment complex. I therefore became a fixture in his apartment drinking hard cider and smoking clove cigarettes. We talked for hours and hours. About life. About death. About Ulysses and Finnegan's Wake. About magic and Alistair Crowley. About religion and art. We talked and talked, becoming exceptionally fast friends.
August waned. Fall semester began. I returned to classes for my senior year. But I was not the same person. I lived in an apartment, had a real job, and didn't have a girlfriend. All for the first time in my existence at the University.
Ten years ago...
So, where were you?
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