Bearded Gang

2009 was a wild year

Just in one year I asked my girlfriend to marry me in Charleston, one month later on Mother’s Day I’d find out we’d be starting a family and I was in the middle of closing a coffee shop I had opened the year before. Tumultuous but exciting. Life was good, solid job at the steakhouse, wife and child on the way. Biggest issue was we were living in a little one bedroom 900 sq ft loft downtown with two cats. We were going to have to move before our baby arrived and real estate was complete shit from the recent housing market crash meaning I couldn’t sell the condo for what I paid for it so I had to rent it out.

We shopped for houses for a few months and found a nice, little semi updated bungalow in San Souci. A good sized 4 bed 3 bath two level. The upstairs attic had been renovated hence the bungalow style but still two levels. The price was right. It was a little roomier than what we needed but knowing we had a kid on the way, both sides of our families would be coming to see the new crown jewel of the family. Man we’ve lost so many people in our family since that year..

We bought the house on the 19th of December, had to take down the tree and do it all over again. Celebrated Christmas while unpacking everything and putting together all the baby furniture that had been sitting in boxes all over the condo in transit, waiting for the eventual relocation. Jess was about to burst at the seams 9 months with Lily kicking around . We were under a little pressure. Jess’ health insurance ended January 1st and well, we needed Lily to pop on out quickly. And on the 29th she did. Jess and I never really had time to enjoy hanging out and doing regular couple things after our engagement like normal folk. We had a family to plan. Sometimes I wonder if that made some of our marriage uphill at times because we had so many responsibilities immediately that we never seemed to have time to just be us together. We’ve done quite a bit since then to make up for it but we could’ve used some at that time. That Christmas was a blur. I don’t remember much. We were too anxious about the upcoming forever present on the way.

Our beautiful little girl was born with all things attached and we came home to build our forever nest.

Our home became a revolving door for friends and family to come hang out and see our baby. Gifts were bought, food was always on the counter to graze. The kitchen in the house was the selling point. Granite everywhere, shaker caninets with expensive pull handles, stainless appliances with wonderful BTUs to cook with, extra wide sink to fill with baby bottles. The rest of the house had been somewhat updated with the budget of a People Magazine. But it was ok. During my free time I had intended on updating it room by room.

Before Lily could even crawl I had managed to rid the house of all wallpaper and had ripped the carpet out over the hardwoods downstairs and had it all refinished. The den and office had vinyl flooring and so much padding underneath that I had 2 inch gaps between the existing trim and the floor. This house was going to be amazing I thought at that time. I spent one weekend redoing my daughter’s whole bedroom. Made a bench for her, upholstered it, built shelves for her books I’d read to her at night. Even welded a giant metal “L” with lights on the wall. Spent my whole Sunday from start to finish. Four coats of paint. I’ll never paint a room yellow again. That nesting guy got lost in that house over time. I’ve been searching for him the last three years.

Two months after we moved we had some family come into town to stay for a few days. Unbeknownst to us the old clay piping leading down from the house to the street was getting swissed and crushed by tree roots. All it took was a few too many toilet flushes from a heavily visited household to fill those pipes up. I’m not ignorant to the logistics of plumbing. When you flush it’s suppose to go down. When there’s no down to go it comes back up. And it did. Through every orifice in the house. Sinks, toilets and tubs. All overflowed. The upstairs bathroom was directly above the downstairs bathroom. It rained on the downstairs bath while I plunged shit out of every sink in the house. What about your home warranty? Oh we had one. Called them immediately. They came out and surveyed the situation. “Oh article 6 paragraph 12 on page 59 states if your plumbing doesn’t have an existing clean out we can’t cover it”. $2000k was the estimate. I had just bought the house 2 months before. Cash flow wasn’t there. I reached out to an old high school buddy Kenny and his brother who were plumbers and they knocked that down by half and took care of it for us. And yes they added a clean out. By this time I had a stained ceiling over my one of my bathrooms and what would eventually turn into floor rot under the tile. I had planned on saving up to get that repaired sooner than later. Hopefully. The house behaved itself for a bit although that summer we found out the hardway that the hvac wasn’t enough to cool the whole house. They didn’t update the hvac when they added the rooms upstairs. Just shoved in more duct work. During peak summers we’d keep the ceiling fan in the bedroom on high with the door always closed. The master bedroom had a nook that I would tack a sheet over to consolidate the cubic feet in the bedroom to maintain a comfortable temp. Our other option was the bedroom downstairs on the other side of the house. Lily’s room was directly across from ours. Moving downstairs would’ve placed her at the other end of the house and upstairs from us. When you have an infant child that’s just not acceptable.

About a year after our purchase I was given a promotion to regional manager from my old company AZ. So from aside my regular work responsibilities my mid weeks consisted of traveling to Columbia and Atlanta. I enjoyed my new position but wasn’t big on being out of town with a wife and a two year old at home by themselves. Any home updates were put on hold for a bit while I transitioned into more work load and schedule. “I’ll get to that once I slow down again” was a popular phrase for me. Also around this time I was distracted with another project. My old partner and I were revving up ideas for a restaurant concept. We had been shopping around for awhile but recently it had been picking up steam.

We liked the house, it was plenty big enough maybe even a little larger than what we anticipated since we had no plans of expanding our family “unless you’re willing to carry the next one” my wife told me. Our daughter has her own playroom downstairs, I used the den for a little gym set up and we kept the back bedroom set up for company. Life was a-ok there for a the first two or three years.

When we opened Southern in 2012 I had commited some sweat equity out of my pay. I took a 50% pay cut from AZ to soften the operations account for SC and would sweat it out for a bit until we could possibly have equity checks distributed. Southern did well after the initial slow poke opening. The small checks kept us above water for a bit but there was no cash flow to assist any home renovations. My handyman skills are extremely limited. I know enough to get by but I’m sure as fuck not a DIY guy when it comes to construction or electrical. The house wasn’t falling down around our ears mind you but it always seemed a permanent construction zone at times.

Our neighbors were fine around the neighborhood. They all kept to themselves. We lived there for 11 years and I can’t tell you anyone’s name on our street. I’m not exactly neighborly myself so.. Our yard was huge and mostly due to my busy schedule I hired someone to keep our yard up. I never bought a lawnmower for that house. I had a rake, shovel and a leaf blower that would get some use in down the road.

We never used the back bedroom for anything other than staging a spare bedroom and we folded our laundry back there. It was also the coldest part of the house during summer so on nights I couldn’t sleep I would crawl down there in the corner of the house with a blanket wrapped around me and fall asleep. The back room was actually quite cozy, even had a little gas fire place. We never used it. Couldn’t keep the pilot light lit.

I often had odd dreams in that back bedroom. At first I’d remark to my wife that I had a dream about a relative that had passed. A very realistic one of my father while I slept one night where I could physically feel him hug me. Several about my brother and had a few from my stepfather after he passed in a motorcycle accident. I had never dreamt about them since we moved from that house. I can’t accurately recall if I dreamt of them upstairs in the master but downstairs it was multiple times. Nothing strange or any words just presence and the memory of seeing them in my sleep. Never thought much about it at the time. I used to have some whack dreams. I don’t really dream anymore which is strange.

I spent many a night down there. Sometimes I’d dream often times I just slept. The really odd dreams started coming a couple of years later. I’d go downstairs some nights and lie down back in that room usually around 3am. That was always the witching hour for me. If I woke up around that time it usually meant I wasn’t going back to sleep. I had terrible sleeping habits while I worked in the restaurants. Stress didn’t allow for comfort.

So for several years I’d go “nap” in that room until 5:30 or 6 when I’d get up for work.

On occasion when I’d lay down I would feel some “thing” would sit down beside me on the bed. Of course it would scare the shit out of me. I’d sit up and say my wife’s name and would hear nothing. I’d swing my arms hard to see if they would hit something. My child was too small to make her way downstairs. Sometimes it would feel like something was sitting on my back like sleep paralysis which is what I wrote it off as. How the room was set up if the moon was bright enough certain nights it’s light would shine on the main wall beside the bed. Almost like a projection screen. The wall would look eerie from the night time clouds causing the wall to look like it was breathing or smoky. I don’t believe in much and it takes a bit for me to get spooked so sometimes I’d just stare at the wall and watch it move. One night I watched it and it started to make out symbols. Sharp pointed curves, circles, star shaped would whisp on that wall and I just lay there and watch them dance. Hell of a dream.. Sometimes when I’d turn the other way I’d dream of a little girl praying/kneeling beside my bed. One time I kicked at her and she billowed away like a campfire smoke. I have to admit it gave me chills. A few times I remember feeling something breathing on me. I seem to recall someone house sitting for us and telling me the same thing. That room was never warm. The rest of the house could be 70° that room was always cold. Eventually we kept the door shut to that room. I still think I was dreaming. After several of these encounters when I felt something sit beside me I would sit up and say “go away” and it did. Then I lie back down like it was the norm. I didn’t share much of this with my wife at the time. She would’ve made us move. When we adopted our dog Lucy a pitbull/ Dane mix I started to sleep a little better. I forgot to mention that I would have multiple dreams of home invasions when I slept in that house. My wife always said she didn’t care for the back bedroom and rarely went back there unless it was to fold laundry. Once the dog started barking into the back bedroom with the door closed my wife pretty much stayed out of there. There were other little oddities like my wife would smell cologne in our bedroom at night when I was out of town. I don’t wear any sort of cologne or body spray. One night a light danced across our room while we were in bed. One morning around Christmas our den floor made a loud knock like something large hit it’s head under our house. Almost bold enough to make my feet leave the floor. I went under the house to investigate (heavily armed) and found nothing. The door to the crawl space was shut solid.

We never had a connection with that house. I often wonder if that house had wanted it that way.

When Dive started to falter in 2015/16 so did our finances. That giant pay cut I took started to catch up and my wife was let go from her job. Bills got hard as did our marriage. My little jeep wrangler got towed away a few times. Once when I was pulled over for failure to yield on Pleasantburg and our insurance hadn’t been paid. Cops took my jeep right out of Southern’s parking lot right before Saturday brunch. A couple more times from our driveway. The tow driver and I became familiar with each other. The last time my jeep was repo’d he knocked on the door so I could get my stuff out of the car. A few months later they took my wife’s Camry. We didn’t have the funds to get it back. The way your treated when you go into repo is embarrassing. They talk down to you like you’re shit. A few conversations almost landed me in jail.

Our account was so low from bank charges I was stranded in NC while hiking because I ran out of gas. Bank took our last bit of money from overdraft fees. Wife had to call and beg the bank to give some back.

We sold our spare bedroom furniture and some heirlooms to keep us in the house. My credit got destroyed. Our marriage almost did. There isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not thankful for my wife’s resolve during that time. It was all her that held us together those years. I was too busy trying to build a crumbling empire.

Financially things eventually got better as my company grew. Well at least until the germ arrived that is. I blocked the driveway during Covid. If one of our vehicles had been repo’d again you would’ve read my name in the news.

The house over the years fell apart like a few other things in our lives. Roof was leaking, our bathroom floor from the plumbing debacle the first year was slowly sagging into the ground. Wood rot around the windows. Insulation was terrible, man our utilities were outrageous. Every time it seemed we would get a break and fix a few issues ther restaurants had other plans.

During Covid I made an attempt to get a small equity loan to update but I was furloughed so the bank saw me as unemployed. Par for the course on Tindal rd.

After the first few months it never felt like home. Not our home. I do recall the family we bought it from seemed really excited to sign those closing docs.

My career was so charged with responsibilities and effort that I couldn’t welcome that house as my home as well. Its like we were fighting each other. Family meals eaten in that house were few and far between. I rarely have any afternoon memories there. Mornings were always dark and it was usually the same when I got home from work. Or I just don’t remember from all the drinking.

I will admit when I was furloughed during Covid I enjoyed being home with my family for the first real time. It almost felt like our house. Those warm fuzzies ended when my work partnership exploded. Then I went into a fine deep depression. I spent days blowing leaves in my yard, expressionless. Wind would scatter them and I’d go out and rake them into piles over and over. My watch would register 1500 plus calories from all the raking. I could feel my wife peeking through the broken blinds checking up on me. I wouldn’t take the leaves to the end of the yard after a while. I’d move them around. We had mountains of leaves sporadically around the house. I was toiling. Not working was literally driving me mad. I felt like the dad in Amityville Horror splitting logs all day.

One night while I was a bottle deep in vodka I created a Chadcuterie logo on my phone while I was feeling sorry for myself. I needed a way to make some cash until I could find my calling again. It was literally suppose to only last until after Christmas.

When I created Chadcuterie that late fall I turned our house into a slightly illegal commissary. Our kitchen was dedicated to meat and cheese storage. Bought a small dorm fridge to hold my stock and used our dining room table to host the building up of the boxes. The counter was always littered with folded boxes and dry goods. Kitchen covered in flour. I was making my own crackers at the time. Our oven door wouldn’t close all the way so I would lean a stool against the oven door to keep the gas heat in. We would have pickups in our driveway. On busy days I’d have to instruct everyone how to pull around in the yard. The lawn got destroyed during Christmas time. I had to hide our city garbage cans in the back when they would get filled with trash from all the fruit clamshells. If it got too heavy I’d dump my trash into Southern’s dumpster because well, fuck you.

On a whim we called one of those ridiculous “we will buy your house” signs in our neighborhood. After doing some simple math I stood to lose around 20% of our equity using one of these investors as opposed to me sinking up to 60k to fix it up. 60k that I did not have. 60k that the bank would not loan me.

I swallowed a little pride and after haggling for 3 months I said I do and we had 45 days to get the fuck out of dodge San Souci.

We hired a moving truck February 2021 and moved all of our shit over to a little rental house in N Main. I didn’t even look back the last time I took the last little load of boxes in my Tacoma. By this time I wanted to get away from that structure as possible.

It’s mostly my imagination that has caused my negative perception of that house. I realize that. I don’t physically blame the house. I became a different person during the 11 years we lived there. It was tumultuous, it was always hot or cold and never in between. My personality seemed to replicate that. I don’t think I ever had a good night’s sleep there.

A decade of discomfort and despair

There was just something about that place..

Taking some good from the bad there were good memories to be had there.

My child’s first words (kitty) and steps were in that home.

Me mockingly carrying my wife through the door when we came home from our wedding

Some fun Friendsgiving times

Sitting by campfires in the yard during Covid. Slowly feeling myself coming back to my family

Hanging our first family photos over the mantle

Look we did our best to turn this into our home.

It just wasn’t having it.

That house did something to my mind. I don’t put blame on it for any of our hardships it just seemed to encourage them.

It may sound like an over active imagination but I could feel myself slowly start to heal when we left.

It took a year at our new address for me to feel it. I have no doubt I’d still be drinking at Tindal. If I was still with my family and they didn’t kick me out. That house seemed dead set on fucking that too.

My reckoning wouldn’t have reckoned. I fully believe that. That house was a canker sore on my soul.

It’ll hold some memories true inspite of itself.

I am curious how the new family is doing there. Does the back bedroom speak to them like it did me?

I like this little place we live in now. It’s a third of the size. We all share a bathroom but we get to share many other things too. I’m home more. We all are. It’s a rental but it feels like home. Something I haven’t felt in years.

No more leaves to rake either.

I don’t remember any bedtime stories ever being read to me as a child. I’m sure my mother read to me but it was rare with her work schedule and my father’s too. Both working at the Cock and Bull late night. My brother and sisters might’ve read to me out of their babysitting obligations but I can’t recall.

I didn’t read one until I was 39. I can’t recall which one it was I read to you. You wouldn’t remember either you probably weren’t crawling yet. It was mostly me reading while you giggled and smiled. Even at that early age you knew it was bedtime when daddy got home. Mom was always good at having you fed, gift wrapped and ready for bed when I got home. When I worked all the time one of my few benefits with you was I got to wake you up most mornings (still do) and I got to tuck you in. Your mom made sure I shared responsibilities. It wasn’t only my obligation it was my privilege but sometimes I got lost in the industry. You were always a happy baby. Smiling and cooing with me. For months it would be me kissing your forehead and making sure all the entanglements were out of reach. I was always extra extra careful with you. I probably took them out of the room just to be safe. As you got older and more verbal I’d get a “NITE” and or a “MUAY!” when you’d kiss your tiny little hand and throw your baby kisses at me, I’d always catch them before they hit the door. As you grew older you got to choose the books to read. You’d jump up in your bed in your little onesies that you seemed to outgrow every single night, little belly full of dinner sticking out that I’d poke with my finger while you giggled. You’d stand up by the little bookshelves I built by your bed and go “uuuuuuuuummmmm this one! And you’d pull a Mo Williams book off the shelf which looked ridiculously giant in your tiny little hands and we’d read about Knuffle Bunny or the pigeon that couldn’t drive a bus. I bet I read Mo Williams to you a hundred times. Enough in fact that if daddy was tired and tried to skip a page to hurry it along you knew it immediately and I’d have to go back and read that specific page. I didn’t mind. Sometimes I’d skip to see if you would notice. You always did. Then I’d put the book back on the shelf give you a loud smootch on your cheek while you giggled and squirmed. Your vocabulary got better and better “GNIGHT DADDY LUV YOU!”

We’d go from Everyone Poops, Chika Chika Boom Boom to reading Shel Silverstein and shed a tear about the giving tree, we’d talk about the adventures of Eloise, Curious George, we’d rhyme aloud with Dr. Seuss and some Madeline as you got a little older. I loved watching you lying in bed with those giant books spread across your wing span as you looked at pictures that became words to you.

Always smiling ❤️

My favorite book to read to you was always Where the Wild Things Are. Mischievous Max taming his little monster friends. You always wanted me to read that book to you. When I’d get you your favorite part “And the wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws!” You would start giggling in anticipation because when I got to the last part I’d roar and scream “AND SHOWED THEIR TERRIBLE CLAWS” I’d pounce on you and tickle you with my claw like hands” you’d scream and laugh. Some nights I’d act like I was too tired and I’d only read the words. Then I’d tuck you in as you looked at me disappointingly and walk out of your room only to slam the door back open and tickle you with my claws. I would never skip over that part. I knew it wouldn’t last forever. Sometimes you’d insist on reading that part and you’d tickle me with your tiny little claws and I’d giggle back. God, to think growing up I didn’t want to be a father. Biggest blessings of my life revolve around you and your mother.

I remember reading something pertaining the fact that you won’t know the last time you’ll ever read to your child until it’s too late. I read that and found myself crying. We weren’t there yet but we were close. We started skipping a few nights here and there but when we did read it was always Where the Wild Things Are. We still giggled and I still attacked you with my terrible claws. It’s been a minute but I’ll never forget and I hope you don’t either. I hope you read them to that beautiful little girl I dreamed about. Look at me here just sitting on my sofa crying.

I still tell you goodnight and I love you every night. My job, my lifestyle that I changed just for y’all allows me to.

And when you finish growing up I’ll still text you goodnight no matter how far away you may be and even show you my terrible claws if you still let me. I know you’ve outgrown it but I never will.

I have a healthy anxiety when it comes to health inspectors. Talk about a bureaucratic position that can grab you by the service industry balls and walk you around by the scruff of your scrotum as they look in every nook and cranny for fallen food particles or remnants of roach shit 20 inches under the shade of an old prep cooler. They are the closest thing to boot licking that you can ever catch my lips lappin on the crest of their non slip dhec issued sketchers.

To be fair I’ve gotten along for the most part with 90% of the health inspectors I’ve dealt with over the years. Nine times out of ten as long as you’re making the effort of following all 8,482 guidelines with additional tabs that fluctuate yearly they’ll recognize you as competent and allow for some out of the ordinary hiccups.

They’re human and so are we.

Most of them are I should say.

What’s it like dealing with health inspectors well let me tell you.

Imagine taking a course in college. The most important course of your college career. You’re very competent in class. You show up for everyday day on time. You are judged publicly in this class by your peers for things such as your appearance, knowledge, grades, behavior amongst other things. You turn in your homework on time, you get A’s on all your tests. In fact you’re expected to.

You know you’re going to have three to four tests a year but you have no idea when the professor will spring them on you. Also to add a little more stress to your classroom you have 20 plus other students in your study group that you must have cliff notes handy to share your criteria. If they don’t know the answers to some of the questions on your test you both fail.

No sweat.. also just for fun let’s say some of those in your study group are folks made up of alcoholics, drug addicts, dealers and some that only have a 6th grade reading comprehension.

It may be 8am on a Monday morning or 5pm Friday afternoon when the professor pops in with a quiz. You may not even be in class. You might be at the beach with a little paper parasol resting in your solo cup getting a tan (extremely relevant). Your professor might be a brand new one you’ve never seen before and has a different way of testing. There might be new curriculum you had to study for that was emailed into your junk box 5 months ago. They do that a lot. Your professor might’ve had someone tell them to go fuck themselves in the classroom next door and now they are having a terrible day and wish to share with someone else.

They give you the surprise exam. One of the folks in your study group has a nose picking problem. Professor looks up and shakes his head. Writes something down. Another just had her hair done for a hot date that night and decided to wear her hair down. Professor checks something on the clip board. Someone forgot to replace the batteries in one of your classroom tools. Or they just threw the tool in the trash because it cannot be found. Another check.

Professor -“hey, you remember when the correct answer for the last 15 years was 42? Yeah well now it’s 41. Also the procedure we asked you to do meticulously for the last test has changed. Someone got the shits from it so we’ve decided to change all aspects of logic and follow through and now it’s a 5 point deduction. You should’ve received an email about it 13 minutes ago when we updated our site.”

After about an hour of this quiz the professor sits down with your test in hand and berates you for a solid 30 minutes. Imagine your professor grading your test right in front of you every single time.

They subtract all the points and for about 20 seconds you’ve lost the ability to do simple mathematics on your own because you’re hoping that 100 minus 15 equals no less than 90.

Nope you received a B. It’s a sold B but it’s still a B. You get a B on your report card and bring it home to your mom you probably won’t get your ass kicked. Hell I would’ve kissed someone’s ass for a B in school. I was a C student my whole life.

So the professor assigns you a B. Then they pull out this giant sticker out of a folder that reflects your grade and sticks in on your front door for the whole world to see.

Imagine being in college and your grade being posted on the door of your classroom. You’re whole college career is judged based on two grades. A- well that’s the standard. You’re supposed to have straight A’s. Anything else under that grade and you’re a terrible student. Newspapers may post your grade with generic explanations. Online articles exposing your grades along with boomer’s exclaiming how much of a dumbass you are and they wish to never step foot into your classroom.

Exaggeration? Ok just a tad but very very relevant.

I can count the B’s I’ve been apart of in 30 years on one hand. And for me that’s still too many.

My first week as km at the Blockhouse I got a B. The inspector Pam was very courteous and cut me some slack because I was fucking clueless as to what I was doing. I voluntarily took a class to better educate myself after Pam’s suggestion and it was all A’s at the House after that.

Raw oysters bring all the inspectors to the yard.

I was apart of 2 B’s at Arizona. One as a cook when I first started and one as the GM when my key hourly shit the bed. I don’t put all the blame on him I should’ve educated him better but it was ugly. The KM was terrible too but he had opened the store and had better job security than I did.

I dealt with a couple of B’s in the other steakhouses when I was regional. Chances were if you got a B and I showed up with a suitcase in my hand then that meant someone was going home. That happened twice.

My restaurants? No B’s. It wasn’t an option. I’ve seen how the public reacts to them. I didn’t instill fear by any means but there were warnings. I’ve always been a little uptight about inspections. My old company it was unwritten but if you got a B you lost your job. Well unless you were golfing buddies with the owner. I had been traumatized by one specific health inspector I had at the steakhouse for a solid decade. I won’t say his name. I don’t even speak his name aloud anymore. He’s been retired for sometime. I check his name in the obits from time to time to see if it’s time to celebrate.

About a year after I was hired at the steakhouse we had a little grease trap leak that had ran all the way onto Woodruff rd. I was a key at the time but not keying that day. We had a visitor from ReWa and DHEC to come survey the situation. I wasn’t privy to the conversation from the km at the time but it seemed he was having a heated argument with the health inspector by the leaking manhole. The inspector, we’ll call him Adolf, was around 5’6”, head to toe in grocery bag brown suit, glasses at the end of his nose, acutely trimmed mustache and his face gave way to someone completely devoid of a sense of humor. Or what you would call a bureaucrat. As my km was ripping his face off he showed no emotion whatsoever. He stood there with a clipboard in hand scribbling furiously. When the conversation was done he asked for the owner, walked with him to the front door and audibly slammed the big fat B decal on the front door facing the Merovan center.

Arizona had officially made an enemy. When I became GM I also inherited this enemy by protocol.

I was a salaried manager for the steakhouse for around 14 years. Of those 14 years I specifically had Adolf as my inspector for a solid 10. His stature, parted hair and short trimmed mustache makes the name fit. And his overall demeanor. He also used to tell some terrible off colored jokes and I’d fake laugh so hard and then go home and punch pillows to keep me from throwing up.

I despised this man’s existence. Look I get it. He was disrespected while trying to do his job but it was obvious that he was already a captain cunt well before that argument had been established. For years I asked inspectors that proceeded him their thoughts on having him as a coworker and they all had the same wince and smirk. Having a bitter health inspector with a Napoleon complex will keep you on your toes. For a decade I kept one eye on the back dock door every 4 or 5 months for that jackass.

He’d always arrive right when you forgot about him with his DHEC ID around his neck, fat tie that was tied too short, pleated brown pants and brown sports jacket. Summer days he’d show up in a short sleeve button up with the same short tie and a pocket protector to hold his thermometer, pen and little packets of sani wipes that resembled Trojans. I hope he used condoms. I have this irrational fear of him procreating and his short hitler youth children following his legacy. Like some version of a DHEC wunderkind.

He never made direct eye contact with anyone he’d look down through the glasses of his nose and stare at your neck or chest depending on your height. His voice was nasally and condescending as was his demeanor. He sighed with open mouth exaggeration. Almost like “ok dipshits, let’s see how you fucked shit up again today.”

He had a little wand/stick with a mirror on the end of it and look under our waitstation for debris. If there was no debris to be found he’d mark us for mold build up under the wood cabinets. He probably used the same stick to look up under women’s skirts.

He’d check the temps of our sauces and just to be safe he’d go back one more time right before he left just to be sure they were still holding temp. If they were supposed to be 145° and it read 144° he’d mark it. “That one degree difference could could be the difference between life and death”

Yours or mine jackass?

We had a reinspection one year actually every goddamn inspection had a follow up because that’s how Adolf played ball. I had missed one thing and when he asked me about it I was honest and told him I didn’t see that one deduction. Looking down from his glasses he turns to my KM and asks “Do people not know how to read anymore?”

If we had received an automatic letter markdown I had intended to follow him out to his car after inspection and slam the door on his cranium. Yeah sounds hilarious but I was at that point. Or at least trip him up and watch him fall on his face on the asphalt. I get warm fuzzies just thinking about it.

One inspection I went to the restroom to wash my hands only to discover someone had a bout of stomach issues and sprayed shit all over the bathroom stall wall. I grabbed a handful of c folds and proceeded to wipe/smear the shit off the wall before he came in to inspect it. I got incredibly drunk that night.

Our restaurant was old. The steakhouse had only been around 7 or 8 years but its bones were old. Electrical was the out of date amongst other things. Every summer all three walk-ins would struggle with the outside heat. I kept an emergency line open to my purveyors to lend me a refrigerated truck to throw all of our stock in when the coolers shit the bed. One hot summer afternoon as I was relaying 80lb boxes of sirloin butts to the refrigeration truck outside Mr. Adolf popped his head in the back door. We weren’t even close to another inspection but he saw an employee moving stock to the truck so he decided to be a good inspector and make sure we followed protocol. He watched me move three coolers of stock into the truck all the while sticking his thermometer randomly into items to make sure they stayed cold during the short transfer. Three hours he did this and then left without saying a word.

I hated that man.

Still do. If I saw him out in public I’d probably spit on his glasses while he was wearing them. Big juicy one.

The last time I saw him he let me know it was his last inspection he was being transferred. Not sure what reaction he was expecting maybe a high five which I wanted to give him but with my fist balled up.

He left and I got off of work and celebrated with a bottle of vodka.

I thought all was well and good but I’ll be damned if the next health inspector walked in 6 months later on Valentine’s Day morning while we were prepping and he had a trainee with him. You never want to see an inspector walk in with a trainee because that mother fucker has something to prove.

And he did. We had an awesome three hour inspection all the while trying to set up for Valentine’s Day service.

After that things settled down a bit. We had another inspector put on out route and our inspections mellowed out.

Some inspections can give you a bad rap. The public’s overall perception of these are if you have anything less than an A on the door then you have a rodent infestation.

Or your cooks are leaving band aids in food, roaches are fucking on top of your plates, spoiled food in the coolers, servers wizzing in the sweet tea etc.

Often times it’s things you don’t think about like a prep cook has their drink with a lid sitting next to their prep counter instead of just under it.

They find a crack in the FRP and just assume bugs are living inside of it.

One of your managers put wrong wattage bulb under your hood and your lumens aren’t lumened enough

Your hand wash sink is dirty

Your mop sink doesn’t have a back flow stoppage device on it. That’s 4 fucking points man.

Some places are absolutely disgusting. I’ve worked right next door to a few that were terrible. I understand the need for inspections. I’m not against them at all. But sometimes they make mistakes too and it can cost you. I got marked down two points for taking off a pair of vinyl gloves that were too tight. I had put them on right in front of the inspector, took them off to put a pair of large gloves on and she marked me for not washing my hands after changing gloves. I literally had them on for 6 seconds. Had those 2 points put us under a B I would’ve gone postal. I’ve seen the remarks people make online about bad inspections. All they see is the letter grade. Sometimes the cunts at the local press will post them online to sell tickets for clickbait.

Assholes

I’m a level one class now. Which means they only want to visit me maybe once a year. The only danger people have with me is the tiny bit of bacteria that comes from slicing fruits and veggies. I’m ok with that. I still have Adolf in the back of my mind each time I get inspected. The positives is it made me quite militant when I personally inspected my kitchens and comes in quite handy when I’m consulting new restaurants and even my upcoming one. I have a list a mile long that I need to take care of without having to contact dhec first.

Don’t go telling DHEC I’m out for their ass because I’m not. It was just that one little Adolf mother fucker that I despised.

I guess this cropped up in my head while I was making a punch list for opening up the deli.

At least I don’t have to fill out a ridiculous spreadsheet anymore.

I’m on Tacoma number 5 or 6. I’m not sure exactly how many I’ve had over the years I’m sure if I counted backwards over the last 30 years I could figure it out but man I love a Tacoma pickup. Ever since I watched Back to the Future when I was a kid I discovered Marty McFly and I had the same taste in trucks. I wanted the same Toyota pickup he had. I wasn’t even old enough to drive yet but I was getting there.

I also love a good jeep. My car purchases intertwined between wranglers and Tacomas most of my adult life. Throw in one Camry when I used to travel for work.

I was in my late 20s when I got my first one, black 4 door (black has always been my color for Tacomas. My dumbass traded it in for a Rubicon on a whim while hangin at Myrtle beach. Obviously I’ve always had a problem with my compulsions but I held onto that jeep for 26k miles and three check engine lights before abruptly pulling of exit 40 on I-85 to Toyota of Easley and getting another Tacoma.

Has to be a 4 door

Has to be a long bed

Black or gray

I’ve done that three more times. Wrangler-> Tacoma

Life’s short y’all

Car payments are bad financial decisions but then so is taking your car to a mechanic once a month or losing your job due to car breakdowns. I’ve experienced both.

I’m not a mechanic in fact I’m quite the opposite. I could change an oil filter when I was a teenager but I haven’t done that in 30 years. Nor do I wish to ever again. Mechanics is not my thing. I wish it was because I enjoy cars. I appreciate their value but don’t even like changing a battery. I can do some pretty neat things with a 8in chef knife but wrenches confound me.

I buy Tacomas for a few reasons. Obviously number one they are dependable. One of the best. Pricing is affordable usually. I don’t need a big truck the only thing I’m hauling is charcuterie and my camping trailer. Great size for me. Long bed is needed because I use mine like a spare bedroom. Not that I’m a doomsday guy but if the shit hit the fan and we had to head to hills (I’m assuming everyone means Appalachia when they say that around these parts and not Paris mountain) I’m in a lot better shape than most of you. Well except for gas mileage. Tacomas are terrible for gas mileage especially when you keep a decent payload of rei purchases permanently stored in back. Pulling a trailer I’ll get 10mpg downhill. Gets pricy driving to Utah and back.

My camping has evolved quite a bit over the years. Overlanding is quite the craze. I’m sort of into it but at the same time I scoff at how ridiculously expensive it can be. I caught the bug while I was constantly driving up to the gorge. I’d drive 2 plus hours, do a ridiculously long trail run and then head back home. My legs and back would cramp up on the drive back home. If I had a truck I’d pull off the parkway and I’d lie down with the tailgate down and stretch or just watch the tree line. For a moment I’d be at peace and then continue my way back home.

2019 I bought another Tacoma but I had them install a camper shell. I was hell bent on steeping up my trail running and camping game. The day I got my ARE shell I immediately threw an old futon mattress over a little wooden platform I built, sleeping bag and a pillow and that was my setup that year. I’d throw a cooler in the back with a bottle of vodka, lime, gallon jug of water and drive up the mountain. I had an overlander app that had caused me to put in the wrong coordinates and I came upon what is now my go to for overnight camping in the gorge. I didn’t bring a camping chair with me at that time. I’d prop my little cooler up on my tailgate, pour a tall glass of vodka on the rocks, squeeze a lime into it and watch the sun go down. I’d have some Isbell playing on my Bluetooth and I’d melt into my seat with a drunken smile on my face. When I could barely hold myself together I’d roll up the tailgate and close shop in my little camper bed and essentially pass out.

Aside from the murky moments and embarrassing secret hangovers I enjoyed these moments. They put my soul at ease. It would take a few years for me to realize the vodka wasn’t needed for my zen.

Lucidity was my goal. It took time for me to attain it

I fell in love with that tailgate ambiance. I’d perch with my legs crossed, cup in hand and watch the horizon. Breezy nights I’d watch the tree line dance. Weather when you’re camping on a ridge of a mountain can be unpredictable but I always felt safe in my truck bed. Like nothing could hurt me. My little safe place in the middle of nowhere. It’s probably why when I travel I can pull into most any shady old gas station and still sleep. I feel safe. Also I’m prepared. God help the first asshole that ruins that moment.

My first real adventure was 2020 when I took my first trip to Maine. My first pullover for the night was a small gas station in Virginia. I sat on my tailgate listening to Tyler Childers, my favorite blanket over my shoulders and watched the big rigs slowly roll down the mountain side. My first two nights I camped rather illegally in a little retirement parking lot that sat in a neighborhood in Bar Harbor. No one even noticed me. To them I was just a dude chilling on his tailgate with an illegal smile on his face.

I’d get up in the mornings and drive up to Cadillac mtn and watch the sunrise. I’d back my truck up by an inlet and watch the sun go down while I had a lobster roll crumbs in my lap. One morning I fixed some bacon and eggs on my tailgate while I watched the tide roll in.

Food just tastes better when you’re cooking outdoors.

Coffee is better

It could 100% be that my brain is dancing when I’m camping.

I bought a burrito from a food truck in Delaware. Sat on my tailgate in a Publix parking lot. Devoured that burrito and went to bed for the night. Love that vagabond life.

I hit Colorado two weeks later in that truck. It was fall so I added a few old throw pillows to insulate the windows and another blanket.

Durango was on my mind so I spent two days driving to Colorado and spent a night on my tailgate in a vacant lot outside of Oklahoma City while the wind made my truck swing back and forth like a sailboat. Spent a night in a train yard while eating homemade pork tacos watching the Durango nightlife. Always ate my lunches on my tailgate. I’d sit in public parks under a tree, read whatever book I had lying in my truck bed with a steady southern Colorado winds. The smell of pine all around me. Spent some time in that park with tears in my eyes when I read that a friend of mine had died in a car accident that morning. First time I cried on that tailgate. There would be many more.

Spent the evening on that tailgate warming my feet over an open fire pit in Ouray. Yellow aspens shading me while I cooked steak and eggs for dinner. Watching a bull elk grazing 10 feet away.

Pulled over outside of Moab and enjoyed my first cold Pepsi and junior mints in probably 8 years. I gave up soda 100 years ago but that was always my mother’s and I go to when we would to walk to the gas station in Piedmont. She was still around at this time and just on my mind so I took a moment to enjoy the vibe. Feet dangling over a roadside cliff with junior mint chocolate stuck to my fingers. It was hot but I didn’t care. Man what a moment.

Spent that night high on gummies and a warm tummy of vodka, in a gas station lot off of I-70 watching a beautiful sunset passing over Utah.

Drove through Leadville, ate an old saloon and took on Mt Ebert. A healthy 14er hike. Took a nap on my tailgate and headed east to Buena Vista. Shared a parking lot with a vanlifer and had a good conversation. It would seem we were both running away from a few things at that time. I failed to mention I was unemployed at the time. Had I been single there was a good chance I’d still be sitting on that tailgate somewhere in Colorado. I would’ve left everything behind here. I wanted to hold on to that moment for good. My mind aside from the glory of the Rockies was a tangled mess of shit.

It got down to 25° that night. I sat on my tailgate with my blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I didn’t feel a thing while I watched the Colorado sunset over the Rockies. That would be the second time I cried on that trip.

Hiked the Manitou the next day and headed back home east.

Shared my tailgate for 10 days with my daughter on a cross country trip in 2021. She’d sit on the tailgate while I cooked her grilled cheeses in South Dakota. She’d nap in my truck after our hikes in Colorado. We shared turkey and cheese sandwiches in Yellowstone. Obviously I was much more selective on my spots while I had her with me.

The next year I’d take that same truck back down that southern route and roost in Sedona for a few days. Camped for free in a little lot covered with Junipers by a little creek all week. I was 60 days sober then. I’d spend my nights sitting sideways on my tailgate rereading an old Stephen King novel and listen to the creek. I’d hike and park in the shade of the red rocks while I napped. Ate a half dozen donuts on my tailgate while I waited for a gate to open for a long hike. Sugar was my release when I stopped drinking. Sat on that tailgate with a belly full of enchiladas and commented out loud “yeah I think I’m done”. I was done with drinking. Sedona made me appreciate being present. I always associated drinking with camping. Didn’t think I could pull it off. I give the Sedona vortex the credit it deserves. The natural high I experienced there made me realize I didn’t need a chemical to retain my happiness.

My camping has evolved quite a bit over the years. I’ve added a rooftop penthouse to my set up. Bought a little scout trailer with an awning and secured storage for long trips. I can cook for 20 pple with my kitchen set up, portable propane tanks, extra blankets, tons of gear. Listen I love it all. It brings me joy camping is my passion. Sitting outside under the stars is what I’m here for. There’s just something about the methodical motions you have to go through when setting up camp, building your own fire, cooking your own food from scratch and boiling your own coffee that makes me life worth living. It’s my ultimate uncomfortable comfort zone and no one can take that from me.

I’m wrestling with the idea of going back old school on my next trip whenever that may be. Would seem a waste of gear not to employ all of my fun camping thingies but there’s just something calming about that tailgate. I even made two camping set ups. My tailgate one being my “express” option Don’t get me wrong.

Don’t get me wrong I love both but the simplicity and stealth I enjoy the most. I feel more at ease tramping along but I like having a well established set up for comfort. I guess there are a worse things to deal with in life. Sure I can sit on my tailgate in any of these scenarios but it just ain’t the same.

3am is my inner alarm clock every morning. I’m 52 so sleeping the whole night without using the bathroom is rare. It’s usually around that time. Rarely do I look at the clock. If I do my head starts its little mathematical equations

“it’s 3am you have two more hours of sleep if you can fall right back to sleep”

“It’s 3:55am now you only have about an hour chance of extra sleep”

“4:15 you might as well get up there’s no point in falling back asleep now”

If there could possibly be even one complaint about putting the bottle down is if I wake up I’m alert in 10 seconds. It’s not really up to me to fall back asleep. It’s still better than waking up with zero clue as to where I am and who I am.

I usually fall right back to sleep but I’m dealing with the all too familiar “life is coming atcha fast again” anxiety I get whenever I open up a business. It’s not a shock. I know it’s going to happen. I even try to prepare myself for it but is it really anxiety if you’re braced for it?

I’m sure this goes for all business owners or just about anyone that has a big event or project on their mind. I’m not exclusive. My sleep overall is much better when I stopped drinking. No more hangovers to keep me awake. No foreboding sense of doom or dehydration muddled with depression. The anxiousness gets to me. I’ve said 100 times I lost a lot of my confidence after Covid. You don’t just shake it off. It’s still there looming. It’s a long process to overcome for me. Like almost drowning in the ocean and expecting to wade right back in with no floats on. I know how to swim. The ocean doesn’t care.

Also it’s monster fucking soup. I don’t know how you swim around in that shit. Would you hike in the Serengeti at night? I’m going waste deep in clear water. I see a shadow bigger than my head in the water I’m out.

Where were we?

Ah yes anxiety.

I’ll try to fall back asleep and my brain goes “is there sufficient lumens already in place overhead for a kitchen?” Will I have to add more? I didn’t plan that into my budget”

There’s no back door. Will an electric convection oven fit through the front door? Will there be enough juice to power said oven? I don’t have added ventilation will a big oven heat us out? Shove it in the corner?

Menu? Piece of cake right? My dude writes menus all the time. Yeah! I’ve been toiling the idea of this deli for over a year.

“How many sammiches have you written down so far?”

0

Salads?

0

You see I have this (these) ideas but I haven’t translated them onto paper yet much less a plate.

Staffing. Fuck don’t even get me started on that.

How many people? Well that depends on the menu I haven’t written down. Skill level? This won’t be Subway. Aesthetics with speed is important. That means higher pay. I don’t mind paying anyone what they are worth. I just have to make sure the checks don’t bounce. This is a completely different monster for me. I’ve been working alone for three years. I’m also in control of the volume. The more I hire the more I have to crank shit out. Not sure where I want to go with that one. I did a little R&D at a place I consider somewhat competition although it’s really not but after watching the sheer volume the kitchen spit out for 30 minutes my anxiety spiked.

I wasn’t thinking about all the money pouring in. I was thinking “what happens on a day like this if you’re short-handed?” I waited 25 minutes on a sandwich. I’m a service industry guy. I don’t mind but at the same time I won’t go back in their unless I have ample time to wait again. So already I had a reason not to go back in there.

I don’t want that shit. So I have to create a plan that doesn’t fall into that hole.

I should probably work on a menu. Soon.

But first

I have to create a kitchen floor plan out of mid air. There’s no existing kitchen. I’ve always had a kitchen to build around this is quite the opposite. I’m not throwing around money so I have to be frugal and creative. No electrical engineering. No cad ops just me and a tape measure. And fingers crossed because it’s in the city I’ll have every fucking inspector in my face until I take the paper off the windows. Signage? Cost you $3k just to take a shit in a sign company’s bathroom. Used the same sign guy for my old company for years. For whatever reason he along a few others including some purveyors unfollowed me after my parting with my old company.

Ok. New people will be getting new checks I suppose.

I’ll always be petty

All of this I dealt with from 3am to 3:30am. Yeah I never went back to sleep. I go to bed at 8:30/9 every night so I still get about 5.5-6 hours sleep not shabby. More than I averaged for 10 years.

I don’t sleep very well in strange houses. I need my mise en place. The older I get the more I gravitate towards it. My bed, where I rest my phones, steps to the bathroom. My kid brought a friend with her to the beach so my night attire is business casual.

I don’t sleep well in clothes.

Room is shaped different so I sleep different. Windows moved, door is on the wrong side of the bed. Bed is soft but it’s not mine. Took us 15 years to find the right bed/comforter/mattress ensemble that works perfect for us. I don’t mind really. I’m at the beach with my family.

Sometimes when I can’t sleep I try to clear my mind so I can fall back into it. I don’t count sheep. Never got that. I do have this weird ritual of repeating in my head “white paper, white paper, white paper” to clear my head. Any Gen Xer that was a big fan of The Greatest American Hero may get that reference. To clear his mind to use his super powers he would envision clear white paper. It stuck with me. I’m not afraid to admit a moment of me standing on the edge of my bed as a kid with a blanket wrapped around my neck like a cape repeating “white paper, white paper, white paper” in hopes of flying like he did. Thankfully my bed wasn’t that high off the ground.

I like this house we are staying in but the lighting is terrible

Another game I used to play in my head to help me sleep was thinking of each state and it’s respective capital city. That just kept me awake. Fuck you Frankfort. It should be Louisville. And Jefferson City? WTF?

Also this house reeks of mothballs. I’m a bloodhound for a nose. I’ve always said it gave me an advantage cooking. I taste with my nose. The downside is any odor can overwhelm me. It’s why I don’t like most deodorants, perfumes etc. If you have an animal in your house I’ll smell it before you open the door. I can literally smell when my dog uses the bathroom across the yard with the door closed to my house. Numero uno and dos. Mothballs are offensive. And the odor has kept me up. I’m combating it with coffee but I don’t have a side table to reach for my coffee like I do at home so my whole morning is just fucked. Just a little early morning hyperbole folks

I enjoy writing out my thoughts. It’s like mental masturbation without the paper towel (you’re welcome for that image) but if it has any downside it’s that sometimes I start writing in my head when I wake up. Which also keeps me awake. I don’t mind. It’s a healthy habit. Writing is an efficient way of pulling out some of those old dusty words you haven’t used in awhile. My verbiage is usually grunts mixed with made up profanities but now I find words coming out of my mouth I haven’t seen since I used to read Cormac McCarthy. I have no doubt that I use them in the wrong context but I never said I was an intellectual. I also enjoy making up words because fuck you it’s my words.

Im starting to talk like I write. As I write more. It used to be the opposite. I reflect before I speak much more often. I’m sure that makes my wife ecstatic. My spelling isn’t really that bad. You see, I wear contacts to see far away. The downside is my contacts impair my vision close up. Without my lenses I can see a mosquito’s dick close up. While wearing them my phone is at arm’s length and if it autocorrects sometimes I don’t see it. No some of my words really are misspelled. The English language is a bucket of shit. I will look certain words up so I don’t look like and idiot. Sometimes I’ll google a synonym just to look proper.

Also

You become self conscious about using the same words over and over again. What’s a word that has become vernacular to me? (Also real fast I’ve been wanting to use that word this morning I hope I didn’t fuck it up). I sat and write the word “just” about a thousand times a day. It just comes to me. Fucking adverbs can just kiss my ass. Remember that school house rock song? Loly loly loly get your adverbs hurrrrrr. Just fuck off

It’s really bothering me not having a side table for my coffee. I just might have to relocate

Another word I overuse is “myself” but I’m journaling about myself so it makes sense. My autocorrect however types out myslef and it’s fucking infuriating. It also autocorrects to thier. Just pisses me the duck off.

Often times when I start a sentence with “just” it autocorrects to Judy. And then my brain goes to Goober doing his Jimmy Stewart impression on Andy Griffith “hey Andy! Wanna hear my Jimmy Stewart impression? Judy Judy Judy!”

Ask me why I have trouble sleeping again?..

Listen, (see this is another word I’ve fallen into the habit as a sentence introduction) I don’t have any idea what I’m writing today. I woke up. Needed to do my daily journaling and this is what I spit out. This was a healthy one though. I’m just vomiting words onto my phone screen. I’m either anxious, happy or both.

I enjoy it though. I used to paint but it just (there we go again) took so much time to set up everything and clean. This is easier for me. And less expensive.

I’ve been doing many express vacays this year. The upcoming brick and mortar poo poos on any grand adventures this year but that’s fine. They were becoming obligatory and not adventurous. I needed a break from adventure. Which is why I’ve been vibing on sand and not rocks this year.

It’s healthy to realize and submit to your limits. As long as you prepare yourself for it. I don’t have to climb every mountain to be happy. Or to prove myself.

Sometimes that 1 mph mosey on the beach is just what Dr. Chad ordered. In fact that’s what I’m about to go do right now.

Think I’ll plug some John Prine in my ears while I go.

Happiest of Mondays yall.

Also historically I’d be nursing one hell of a hangover today to celebrate my 50% Irish heritage.

“And I got no hate and I got no pride

Well I got so much love that I cannot hide”

Fall ish, 2012. Definitely on a Sunday.

Southern did not start off with a bang. Not even a puff of air. When we opened our doors on a Tuesday night in September we did a resounding $600. This was on the heels of inviting all the fancy pants and friends/family to our grand opening party where half of Greenville showed up, lauded our concept and then went to fuck home to hibernate.

The whole week sputtered actually I think we peaked at $1k that Friday night. We were worried but not freaking out. We knew it would take some time but man we had high hopes on a honey moon and it was looking like Myrtle Beach on a Monday for us. We didn’t open up with brunch we wanted to master dinner before putting another shift on our backs but since dinner wasn’t busy enough to master we had to up that ante and quick.

I was a steakhouse guy. That was 90% of my pedigree. High volume, turn and burn, big ass proteins on plates, keeping the steaks elevated higher than the starches. I could push a lot of food out of a small kitchen. I was programmed to do so. Hell I still am.

Brunch however I didn’t know squat. Sure I can write a menu for it just like a lyricist can write a hit song but can’t play a lick on the guitar. In retrospect, now that it’s been 10 plus years I’ll admit that I faked it til I made it on several plateaus in that kitchen during the early days. I shot from the hip to stay hip. It was shoddy at first but once I absorbed it all I got better at it. When Southern peaked she was the southern belle of Greenville. Exactly what I intended her to be.

Back to brunch. We had some high expectations for our brunch experience. We had a giant stage for live entertainment, bottomless mimosas, wide open kitchen and a 28 foot line that was made for high volume. Southern had the perfect brunch atmosphere. If we hit the fucking bullseye for one thing with our team I would have to say it was brunch over time. I had a sharp chef that worked for me at the beginning of Southern’s birth. He helped we write out some recipes and had a big hand in helping me create the first brunch menu. It was part of his stage to show me his creativity. He had the makings of a good chef. Creative, high volume, hard worker and hustled. He also has a few afflictions that comes with chefs too. Unfortunately those came to a head 48 hours before our first brunch launch. We parted ways with my brunch chef literally while we were creating our first brunch prep list.

I had never poached an egg in my life. A few omelets here and there and the only waffle I had ever poured over a hot grid was in a hotel breakfast buffet.

My kitchen line without the help of a trio of sous from Breakwater was greener than a harbor during St. Patrick’s day. These weren’t bad guys. It’s just they had never seen battle before and they were about to walk onto the sands of Normandy. And I was standing at point.

Oh we blasted the shit out of social media. We were desperate for some volume. Bills were billin’. My brunch chef was supposed to spearhead the operation and now it was in my hands. I wasn’t that worried at the time considering the amount of volume we were averaging I set my sights on a good brunch day but I didn’t want to overachieve. Some brunch stock didn’t replicate for dinner and I didn’t want to throw shit out if we shit the bed all weekend. In my mind I was thinking “it’s fucking eggs, fried chicken, pancakes and waffles how hard can it be?” Whoops

10:55am

We used to open for brunch at 11 before we found out we could squeeze another $2k in if we opened at 10. I was setting up inside expo and going over a last minute pre shift to jazz up my staff and had one eye on the front door. I started to take notice of the large group of early arrivals at the front doors. The front of Southern was all windows. The blinds were see through just enough to observe the dozens of silhouettes slowly building up on the sidewalk. At that time I was excited.

Hella excited. We might finally get to experience some high volume. All a restaurant needs sometimes is a little momentum to get her off the ground to fly. This was our time to shine.

My strengths in the kitchen at that time were grill and inside expo. I used to grill over a hot box the size of a small Volkswagen at the steakhouse. No gas mind you it was all hickory wood. Just like cooking over a live campfire but for 400 covers of steaks, ribs and fish not hotdogs. We wouid burn through $2k of wood a month. If you can cook on this grill at high volume you can grill anywhere.

Inside expo was another beast. I always paid my inside expo the most on the line. A good expo will save you hundreds of dollars in comps on a busy weekend.

I put myself at inside expo. I had a good grill guy, Barry who would end up brunching with me up until my last days there.

11:15

The dining room was full. The front of house management was as green as my kitchen and we missed the discussion involving the importance of NOT seating the whole restaurant at one time. Wasn’t something we had to deal with up until now. We borrowed a lot of staff from my partner’s nightclub so some logistics mixed like oil and water when incorporating logistics to high volume seating rotation. To put it simply, we just put every ass in every seat as fast as we could.

The end result was predictable.

Kitchen did about as well as the first kids that stepped on that beach in Normandy. Truly like a scene out of Saving Private Ryan, I was Tom Hanks, shell shocked, ears ringing, covered in blood looking over at a soldier walking casually around, only stopping to pick up his lost arm.

Only it was my pantry cook, covering his ears while watching his ticket printer replicate a hundred CVS receipts. I always thought that kid had a little ‘tism in him.. Barry held his own the best he could and my egg guy was solid but we prepared for a decent brunch not a holy shit we are all gonna die brunch.

The lead expo (me) crashed and burned. Outside expo was my partner and he wasn’t holding up well either. There might’ve been a tater tot or two thrown as a high projectile at his head during the heat of the moment. Lead expo (me) would later apologize.

We had a four man line. Should’ve been six. I pulled my dishwasher out of the pit just to drop fries and tots behind me. Our ticket time standards were as such

10-12 minutes -perfection

13-16 minutes A-OK

17-20 – watch your back

20-25 – time to touch some tables

26-30 – I smell smoke

31-45 – kitchen is in the weeds, let’s regroup, touch tables twice, throw some snacks their way, keep the mimosas going

45- 60 – you’re just trying to keep the forest fire from spreading into the suburbs. Humanity must be preserved at all costs

Anything after that – the goddamn plane has crashed into the mountain

We were that plane.

We done crashed

1pm

The bleeding ended just a quickly as the inventory.

We 86’d eggs

Chicken (all of it)

Waffle batter

Biscuits

Bacon

Tots

Fries

Crab cakes

Well, that was the basis of our entire brunch menu. It all tied in together. We were suppose to live to see 3pm. We made it to 1pm. My partner and I looked at each other and both said “we might as well close down for the day. There’s nothing left to eat.”

We locked up. The kitchen staff looked rode hard and wet. We might’ve lost a couple of guys that day I can’t recall.

The front of the house were limping, crying and probably went home to refresh their resumes.

Customers were patient. They were also probably pickled from the 10 cases of champagne we went through before 86ing mimosas also. And bloody Mary’s.

We were all fucking bloody

We got knocked down but just like Chumbawamba or whoever the fuck they are we got back up again. Honest way of learning a lesson is getting your ass kicked and boy we did. The next week we did it all over again but this time we nailed it.

We got better

Then we got best. Maybe four or five times I lost count (not really I know exactly how many) but brunch became our mantra.

We were kings of the hill for quite some time. Man we’d have a line so long out the front door we had to start coffee service outside. Staff used to take pics of the lines of people going all the way down to Verizon. We’d go on a wait at 10am and still be on a wait when we locked the doors at 3pm

I miss that rush

Sometimes

I’m retired from that level. I did my service.

I will always smile when I think about that machine we built. She was a beauty Clark. A real class act.

I miss her

Sometimes

I cry more now than I used to. If there is an amplifier for crying, lord I stepped in it.

Sadness?

Not really although I do get down in the dumps at times because well, life’s fucking hard some days. The sad times I’ll cry and make peace with that moment. You’re supposed to. Tear ducts are not after market accessories. You’re born with them for a reason.

They are like emotional lubricants

Little droplets of sadness to showcase and drip your sorrows.

Eye rain to caress your cheeks. It’s always the cheeks. A real good one those mother fuckers are dripping off your jawline. Man those suck sometimes. When your whole ass shirt is wet it’s been a day. I’ve had those too.

We all have.

That’s not my subject at the moment at all. My tears are just catching up on lost time.

Meaning emotions that have been repressed

Saturated

Ignored

Put aside

Given a rain check

I put things on hold for years. Not work, not duties not obligations although mental health should be your goddamn number one obligation

*big foam hand with index finger sticking up, waves in the background “NUMBER ONE! NUMBER ONE!

I used to cry behind closed doors or in a quiet lot while in my car. Literally losing my fucking mind but those weren’t good healthy cries. I was screaming for help a thousand miles away from any ear that could hear.

If you cry in a forest and no one is around you’re still fucking crying. If the trees can hear you they aren’t telling anyone.

I made plenty of sounds.

But those were sporadic. Unhealthy

Depressed

Unacknowledged is that even a word?

I hated those. Felt like I was losing a battle with the air. No one to swing at

Life has change a lot lately, it’s been a minute since I had one of those episodes

They don’t knock as loud as they used to

So why are you crying all the time Gangwer?

Funny you should ask. It’s easy to answer because I’ve been catching up on lost time. Time lost ignoring my mental health and wellness. Sacrificing my mind and body to just get shit done.

I always had so much shit to get done

Sometimes I had to get other people’s shit done. I’ve always felt it was my obligation

Put that one a tombstone why don’t ya? “He died getting shit done”

Hell yeah son. Tasks have been completed. Halle fucking lujah

Next line on the stone

“He was a hard worker”

Is that a solid statement or what?

He toiled! He busted his ass!

Man the fucking hustle he exuded!

Very punctual too

Sacrificed his well being, free time and time with his family to provide!

The

Am

Er

I

Can

Dream

Fuck off

Sorry for the colorful explicits. That ain’t the American dream for everyone

It was for me for a long time

So I’ll say it again

Fuck off

These last three years have been filled with big ass G’s

Gratitude

Growth

Generosity

I’m not making more money, I’m not building an empire, castle, acres of land to show my wealth. Hell I’m renting at the moment I don’t give a shit. I’m playing by my own rules.

A game I should’ve played a long time ago.

Sometimes you truly have to lose to win

Manifestation is an amazing thing. It’s not creating things out of thin air. You visualize it.

Find your compass and point your bow straight towards it and sail. Just watch your stern

In my reckoning I wrote down every single thing that took away from my happiness

I’ve managed to shake off quite a few things the last three years. Some harder than others but I visualized the man I wanted to be. Caught up to him. “On your two cowboy”

Now we ride together. We talk, communicate and man what a fella to have around. He’s sober, thoughtful and helluva bit wiser. He slows me down and gives me bouts of gratitude.

Swell dude. Grateful for his insight. He’s the one that showers me with good memories I’d long forgotten.

How to love again. And how to cry

Now

I cry at sunsets and rises

Sometimes I’ll watch a campfire with tears of gratitude

I’ll look at family pictures on my phone and cry. Why? Because they are no longer just pics on my phone. They are my everyday life

Not prep lists

Not financial forecasts.

Nor emails directing diatribes concerning cold platters

This is life

This is how it’s meant to be experienced. At least through my goggles. I configured my own.

Because

Fuck them too

I cry when I have family hugs in the kitchen

Joyful tears

Is there anything better?

Group hugs make my day. Dad, mom, daughter who’s shoulders keep rising up like a sunflower. She’s caught up to her mother’s height already

*insert tearful joy

Man what a thing to do watch. I know kids aren’t for everyone but goddamn what a ride

I cry sometimes when I wake up and see my wife made coffee for me after a terrible day before

Cry when my daughter kisses my forehead in the morning

Bought my wife flowers last week and cried as I drove them to the house.

What an amazing feeling

Somedays if we all go out to eat I’ll walk to the bathroom and wipe my tears on a c fold just because I’m spending time with them.

We’re all going for a short trip to the ocean next week and I’m already crying over the memories we’ll make.

Fucking gratitude is heavenly

I’ll cry over a damn commercial sometimes

It’s so damn therapeutic

I highly recommend

Grab a hanky folks

Keep it handy

Make your mental health your permanent road trip partner

Create your own system

Have a good cry

When I parted ways with my old company back in 2020 I can recall my announcement on social media and my state of mind at the time. I was like someone walking home from a car accident with a big knot on my head saying “I’m fine, I’m fine it’s just a scratch. I wasn’t thinking about my injuries I was more focused on buying another car I had just wrecked. I posted “will I be back? You’re goddamn right I will I’m a fucking mountain!”.

That ridiculous ego was still speaking for me. I hate to lose and boy did I. I got KO’d in the last round. Knocked my mouth piece right out of my mouth. I was concussed, punch drunk and pickled. I had fully intended on jumping right back into the driver’s seat and going right back at it. Luckily for me I took some time off to reflect on what I needed to do. Actually I had no choice.

Also I was fucking broke. Covid wasn’t very kind to my finances. I was a million miles away financially from having another brick and mortar.

I was approached literally 24 hours after my announcement to open up another concept. Thank god I said no. My wife did too.

I have a hundred concepts in my holster ready to pull out at any given time. Give me an empty brick and mortar and I’ll build an idea to specifically fit that space. I’ll spin one out while I walk around the floor. I can envision graphics on the wall, bar shape and location and of course kitchen layout. It’s what I do. Or did. I’ll create your concept, color scheme, menus, recipes, social media branding and break down your demographics with my eyes closed. Who we are going after, age range, spending habits etc.

When we split I had another bar in mind. I wanted a bar, a small one. Divey, quirky, in your face and outrageous.

That’s where my head was at the time. I was exhausted trying to maintain the high standard of three full service restaurants, all averaging 5000 plus sq ft with 30 plus employees per spot. We usually averaged around 25 per spot. Perpetually short handed.

And I was angry with Covid and how it was handled by hands that have no business controlling small businesses or our country for that matter but I’ve promised myself to make peace with that but it’s a big corner to turn.

I had an interview with one of my favorite local writers and she asked what I was wanted to do next and I immediately said “dive bar”. I was still drinking at that time and building something around that personality seemed to fit my headspace.

I had been approached by a few folk immediately about teaming up and opening a restaurant. I have to admit it was refreshing the amount of hooks that were thrown my way the week I left. I felt like a popular free agent that everyone wanted to have on their team. No one knew about my injuries except for me and even I was ignoring them.

I’m grateful that I didn’t follow that path.

In the back of my mind there was a little voice telling me to “just give it time”

“You aren’t ready”

“Another restaurant just might kill you”

I’ve told my story about the birth of Chadcuterie and how I created it to make some cash so my family could enjoy Christmas. Always in the back of my mind I was making boxes while I was planning my next vocational adventure. Like Bradley Cooper in Burnt tallying the shucked oysters in his notebook I was doing the same. Counting boxes. Paying my penance. He had a number I didn’t.

I rarely balance my books with this job. I’m very aware of my costs, I know if celery goes from $1.99 to $2.49 that I’m losing an additional $.03 per box that comes with crudités, I know my main purveyor prices have gone up 8% average across the board while my other’s have gone up an average of 18%. I change my inventory and box set ups accordingly as to not to have to raise prices. Consumer mathematics come easy to me. P&Ls I would read and enjoy like novels. With my old company we’d spend a ridiculous amount of time discussing forecasts, P&Ls, food costs, insurance rates, credit card fees, comps and percentages. It’s par the course. It was necessary but exhausting. The more of an accountant I had become the less energy I had left to be creative and I was expected to have high octane for both.

My work accounting for the last three years has been “if the account starts going backwards I need to adjust”. I’ve been very fortunate with this. It’s fucking dumb but it was part of my philosophy of not taking work so seriously. Probably not the best way to manage your business if I were consulting someone.

Do as I say not as I do.

The thought of opening up another restaurant has always been there. It’s my ego trying to find chinks in my armor of reckoning. It misses the notoriety, pedestal of recognition. I’ve been burying that guy for two years now he keeps poking out from time to time. I asked both members of my little family “should I open up another restaurant?” Both said they would support whatever I’d do but their eyes said “we’d rather you didn’t”

That wouldn’t have changed my mind in the past.

I think differently now

Chadcuterie wasn’t suppose to hang around if that makes sense. She’s like a person you only meant to hang out with for a little while and next thing you know you’re moving in together. We became compatible. In spite of ourselves.

When I started it I wasn’t very good at it. I’m being honest, you’ve seen the pics I’ve posted when I first started it. I felt like I was in the book “The Emperor’s New Clothes” everyone was telling me they looked great but gtfo they terrible. Not just by my standards. They didn’t look good.

I was the definition of fake it till you make it.

Well, I ain’t quite made it but I definitely got better

3.5 years I’ve been doing this. It pays well and gives me ample time to play. I didn’t have time to play for the last 20 years or so. It’s great to have some freedom but in the back of my mind I know nothing lasts forever. Especially in this industry. As time goes on there will be more charcuterie businesses. I can already count a few mimicking what I do and a couple of others doing bigger things.

And that’s ok.

I don’t mind competition it’s healthy. As long as you don’t directly copy my ideas

Some have tried. I’ve seen it. Doesn’t concern me I’ve seen your boxes. I do acknowledge that overtime if I’m expecting this little business to survive and thrive I have to keep up with some of the Joneses.

My business needs more accessibility.

More options

Room for growth

There’s always been more that I’ve wanted to offer but I haven’t had the access to the space or facilities. My kitchen at Birds was small but it fit what I needed at the time. Shawn and Lindsey were extremely kind and allowed me to do my thing.

Meadery has everything I need as far as space but at the same time it’s like living with a roommate. That is not a knock on them in any way. They are superb roommates and have been gracious with the space I take up at times and Adam is just a really good guy who works his ass off. It’s uncomfortable for me to use other people’s things. Regardless of the access to me it’s like wearing someone else’s clothes or driving another person’s car. You’re doing your best to make sure it comes back in one piece but in the back of your mind you’re always thinking “I hope I don’t scratch it”.

I gave myself a year to go with the flow of things once my mind settled after my partnership exploded

And then I added another year

The last year I’ve been planning my next move of expansion. No not more chadcuterie locations just adding a little more growth and responsibility. Taking my work a little more seriously.

I’ve had a good break but now it’s time to be a little more functional.

Christmas season is a busy one for my business and it pays off if I put my head down for 6 weeks and run that marathon. At the end of the year I analyze my finances and take a sizable chunk and put into reserve to invest into myself and then I give myself a little bonus that I purposely use for selfish reasons. Why? Because in my last business I wasn’t able to enjoy the rewards. There weren’t any to be had. In fact it was usually quite the opposite.

I also kept some to travel. To enjoy life because man I went a long time without being able to enjoy things.

Most goes into my “just in case” savings.

Just in case I try this one more time.

The perfect storm hit my shores when Covid collided with my impending burn out. It was the knock out punch. It was also the perfect opportunity for my partners and I to shake hands and fuck off. I essentially took the fall for Covid. Willingly I might add. I wasn’t sitting in the cockpit with two engines out screaming “what is happening??” I just handed them the yoke and walked off the plane. While I was in Maine eating a lobster roll they thought they had it all figured out. Even told everyone I didn’t get it. I’m sure after that 90 day LTO reopening they found out quickly just how much I didn’t get it..

Takes more than a new coat of paint and new partners.

I’ve taken some time over the last three years to really put into perspective what my future holds for me. For the sake of my mental health it’s paramount for me to have take on what I can control on a smaller scale.

I no longer want to corral 100 employees under my umbrella. Regardless of training standards the larger we grew the more inconsistent our product became. The more dams would burst and the less control I had as I would stick my finger in every leaking hole. The anxiety of looking at your watch at 8am Sunday morning with a little prayer of all your staff showing up for work. The odds were never in my favor. Sometimes I’d have to choose which restaurant would need bailing out over the others.

No one wins

It was the hardest when you’d sacrificed your body for 15 hours on a day you weren’t even suppose to work and read the reviews the next day on how your business shit the bed.

Chadcuterie? Probably 8000- 10,000 orders. Zero negative reviews. No that doesn’t make me perfect but it reflects my consistency and the fact that I have 100% control over my volume. This isn’t a business you want to get into a hurry in. It shows in the aesthetics.

I only employ part time employees for large caterings. And I hand pick those exclusively due to my past history with them and I trust them. Rarely do I pull anyone off the streets unless it’s an emergency. During Christmas I’ll cut back orders just to insure I maintain consistency and control. Three years ago I would’ve taken every order and ran with it. And then wonder why my body is beat to shit everyday. Not too mention the silent complaints of inconsistent orders and loss of customers

With patience and doing everything deliberately my craft gets a tad better everyday. High volume doesn’t necessarily make you better. It may make you faster and even adjust to a higher level of stress but eventually you’ll find yourself more focused on timing and speed as opposed to your plating and consistency. Don’t say your’s gets better the busier it gets. I’ve met enough of you guys to know you’re kidding yourselves. I used to be one of you.

So

Anyhow here I am looking over another cliff at the moment.

The anxiety is there but this one is a little different. I do manage to talk myself down when the build up of “here we go again” gets in there. It’s mostly financial for me. I’ve set aside three years of toiling to do this. Thousands of charcuterie boards and boxes. Thanksgiving and Christmas volume, bottled up into a small savings account. Every. Single. Day I took on the extra work load to build that capital up to do this little thing. Busy enough to want to quit it all by the end of the year. I even posted that I have one more year of this left in me. That was the sheer exhaustion of the last holiday.

It’s hard to describe how much work $40k worth of charcuterie in 6 weeks amounts to. It’s high volume arts and crafts. By the end of December it no longer looks like food to me. It becomes little geometric shapes and colors. In between the manufacturing of these boxes I’m prepping for them. I’m cutting, peeling hundreds of rainbow carrots, celery into tiny congruent sticks. Handmaking pimento cheese, shredding cheese by hand, spinach dips, beer cheese and other dips

I make around 20 gallons of pickles, English cukes all by hand and then add another 10 gallons of pickled cauliflower. Grazing tables I’ll pickle okra, red onions, cabbage and other veggies. I had six plus grazing tables all the while doing mass box orders. Most of these days during this time I’m already folding boxes at 4am.

You slice so much protein your slicer’s motor overheats and you have to let her sit and cool for awhile. And then you fold and roll it up into salami origami. 60 double folds per large box. You fold well into the thousands. If that doesn’t open your carpel tunnel then the cheese slicing will. Ever used a knife to cut through a block of cheese? I don’t mean hard cheese that snap with the blade like a solid reggiano. Cheddars, Gouda, Colby, Gruyère, havarti etc the knife has to be pushed down with effort the whole way. Your wrist don’t enjoy this. You’re also holding your blade tight because you’re trying to cut the cheese the same exact width with every cut. Thousands of times. I’ve never met a chef my age that doesn’t already suffer from carpel tunnel. This multiplies it. I’ll sit at home rubbing my wrists for hours during the holidays to lube them up for the next day. My first year I did my own crackers before I realized that I was burning 1000 calories a day just rolling out the dough to a nickel’s width to cut into rectangles.

I’m also my own purveyor. With the exception of Boars head I spend several hours a week hitting up Costco, depot, swamp rabbit, local farmer’s markets and grocery stores to get my stock. When I was big time they brought that shit to me.

The Meadery is 125 steps to the nearest spot to pickup. And then 125 step back. Doesn’t sound too bad until you do it over 20 times. While carrying boxes and boards. You’ve seen the food I pile on these. They aren’t heavy but over time they are. I’m also the cashier, I’m the delivery driver and if I forget something I’m usually hauling ass to the store in between box pickups. One box has 28 ingredients in it. It gets real easy to forget something when you’re shopping. It’s fun when you have 8 box pickups at 11am and they all show up 30 seconds after the other.

It’s a sprint. Weather can have an impact too. Cardboard and water don’t mix

These little equations go through my head in January while I’m analyzing my body and wondering why I’ve lost 10lbs and can’t even grip my phone to text. I remember some jackass commenting on my trade and called me a “middler”.

Come shadow me for one high volume day at work. I’ll hold your hand while you cry. I would’ve never in my 30 years of experience guessed how much this can kick your ass.

In all honesty I doubt I could do another holiday season solo again. Don’t get my wrong. My wife handles all email correspondence, most of my order scheduling and helps with deliveries. I absolutely could not do it without her. Not to mention she deals with my manic ass when I start to fold. That’s a full time job on it’s own. She’s like Burgess Meredith in Rocky. Bandaging my wounds, throwing water over my face and wiping off the sweat. All the while telling me “you got this” the whole time. Also, I have my two or three go to peeps who help me on the two big eves when we are pushing out up to 80 boxes in 10 hours.

I’m expanding to make things a little easier on me. Does that make sense? I need more space, so I can bring in help to assist. I can do it all but I don’t want to anymore. I use the goldfish in the fish bowl as an example. The goldfish will only grow to a comfortable size inside the bowl. Drop one in a pond and it grows within the parameters of the larger body of water. I’ve been that little fish in a bowl for three years. It’s getting crowded. Im also a little lonely. I find myself getting depressed when I work alone for too long. Its hard when you need help and there’s no one there to assist. I also miss the comradery.

I’m adding more depth to my craft. It’s getting monotonous and I need to see new shiny things to keep me motivated. So I’m adding deli, market to keep my mind sharp. My work life has become dull regardless of the volume. Dull makes me burnout. Can’t afford another burnout episode. So step that shit up sir.

Financially any business owner knows this is always the shitty part. I’m not involving banks, partners etc. I worked myself to the bone for three years to finance myself. I coming in under the radar and low budget. I’m frugal and creative. I can do a lot with very little. If you saw the size of my kitchen at Birds you’d understand. Throw out $3k charcuterie in a room the size of a bathroom. Not a master one either. I ran two businesses out of there for a year and a half.

Life savings. Didn’t take my whole life but every time I spend it sure fucking feels like it. Also when you do it in your 50s that’s my shitty retirement fund I’m throwing away on coolers that have gone up 200% in the last 10 years with shittier parts.

Yay.

Go big or go home is what I always say. I’ve gone home quite a few times.

After the fact.

Sorry yall these are the thoughts that go through my head while I wrestle with this. It’s predictable anxiety. I knew I’d have it before i got it.

So I get it.

Doesn’t make it easier. This is probably my last try at this level of business. The need to build a legacy will never go away but all I did was push it closer to the terms I like as opposed to “I’ll do whatever it takes” . No carrot to chase this time. I’m not as hungry. I just took a necessity and hopefully will make it comfortable in my lap.

There won’t be a hundred grazelands unless you want to borrow and franchise. My ass is staying put in one spot.

I will also maintain my lifestyle of balancing Chad things first and then work. While maintaining the highest quality. If I can’t do it the best in Greenville I won’t do it. It’s not about winning. I just refuse to be outdone. Pride? Maybe or just work ethic.

Anyways it’s already been announced and as long as I don’t get hit with something ridiculous it’s coming.

Come hell or high water here we go again.

Let’s climb that fucking mountain.

The book Into The Wild had a profound effect on me the first time to read it. Let’s go ahead and get out of the way the unfortunate circumstances that lead to the demise of Christopher “Supertramp” McCandless. He was careless, somewhat ignorant of his surroundings and made some terrible decisions that lead to his death. Every time I post how much I love that book and how it inspired me to get out of my comfort zone and enjoy some adventures someone always has to jump in and say “jUsT dOnT DiE LikE hE dID.” I get it. I just told you I read the fucking book. I have no intention of living in a vacant bus in Alaska.

Yet..

I read Into the Wild front and back twice in one week. I remember looking up from book on my sofa in my little house I rented off of Cary st on White Horse. I looked up at the ceiling and that room became small, really small. I was 25, I had been as south as Disney World and as north as Bethlehem, PA. West? I had moved to Colorado on a whim with my girlfriend when we were 19. Other than a weekend trip to a little lake in Nebraska we never did any outdoor activities. We were just kids. I never stepped foot on the Rockies while we nested in a staged home for sale in Aurora. That little adventure ended about as well as expected. We had fun but jobs were hard to find out there for teens.

Last time I had camped had been for a mountain bike trip in Sumter with borrowed goods from one of my roommates.

That book introduced me to that little hashtag you see on IG, wanderlust.

I had zero camping experience. I was a Boy Scout for about a year. Learned some knots and compass points that I would actually use a few times when I got lost while hiking in my 40s. I was as green as a greenhorn could be.

I would drive to Barnes and Noble and flip through big hardbacks of national parks, scenic highways and road trip destinations and write them down in a little notebook, making notes for an adventure that may never come to life. I was obsessed, something that comes easy for me and I wanted to go see the Rockies again. Not through the window of that tri-level home in the suburbs of Denver either. I wanted to reach the fucking top.

Money, of course was an issue and my beat up Jeep Wrangler was also a concern. I had a stroke of luck and hit a small jackpot on a little poker machine at my old steakhouse job that added a little over $3k in my pocket. 1996 this was a decent amount of money. I was probably taking home $400 a week serving at the steakhouse so this was the equivalent of 2 months pay for me. Was it a sign? Maybe but my mind was made. I intended on taking a month off of work to travel. I had the Rockies and Yellowstone on my mind. I was hell bent on driving there.

The steakhouse was always flexible with my schedule and gave me grace to do a lot of things many other establishments wouldn’t. I’m sure they weren’t happy to be short handed for a month but I would’ve quit if they had turned me down. I had to do this.

I bought every necessity for camping and then some. I cashed in a bundle at Sunrifters back when it was at the old liquor store location and also bought an atlas. We had to use those back in those days. Navigation was a little more literal in those days.

One of my roommates from the Furman football team was getting married in Chadds Ford, PA. My intentions were to drive up there for the wedding and then head west.

Two weeks before my departure I took my jeep to get an oil change at the local Grease Monkey and they found sludgy oil in my air filter and well that wasn’t a good sign. I told my stepfather Tom about my situation so we took my jeep to a garage on Hwy 20 and the mechanic told us my engine had shit the bed and needed to be rebuilt. I was devastated. The cost was half of my winnings and it meant the end of an adventure that had never launched. Tom told me to leave the jeep there and let me borrow his truck while the job sat at the shop for a week. When it was ready we went to get it out of the shop. I reluctantly pulled out my checkbook and the mechanic told me it had already been paid. I stood there with the pen in my hand and eyebrow raised thinking “if this is a joke it’s a terrible one”. Tom winked at the mechanic and told me to go enjoy my trip. I cried all the way back home.

I know I beam about my father quite a bit but after his death Tom really stepped up. I grew to love that man like you would a father. I’ll talk about him soon when I’m ready.

The next week I loaded up my jeep with a brand new tent, backpack, sleeping bag, some shiny new camping accessories and a single barrel shotgun I kept under my backseat along side my 5 disc CD changer I paid a ridiculous amount from a Circuit City credit card. Of course I had my book of CDs on my passenger seat as they should be. Whenever I’d pull off for gas I’d lift my jeep seat up and plug 5 new CDs in my disc changer. I had a cheap little handheld remote that I Velcro’d to my dash. Every time you shuffled a disc you could audibly hear the disc changers gears slowly rotating to play the next CD.

I drove up to Chadds Ford to celebrate one of my Furman buddy’s wedding. It was a significant memory for me I think. I roomed with four to five furman football linemen for a year or two. As to be expected we had some wild times in that house on Zelma and I made some solid friends there. Two of them have been lifelong friends. This would be the last time we would hang out together and the last time I would speak to quite a few of them including the groom Mike. We all had a good time but all the while I was itching to go west.

Although my jeep had been repaired it still have me some mechanical issues. When coming to a stop it like to shut off on its own. I would pop it in neutral and rev it up at stoplights to keep it running. My gas gauge didn’t work so I would monitor the odometer and stop for gas every 270 miles. While driving through Indiana I found out that 270 miles was over achieving and ran out of gas on the side of the road. Driving a canvas top jeep, I was worried about it getting looted while it sat roadside so I ran all the way up the highway for 3 miles to find a gas station. Pretty much everything I owned that was worth a shit was in my jeep. I didn’t own much. I bought a gas can, filled her up and ran back to my jeep with gas sloshing all around me. Luckily a trucker pulled over and gave me a ride while I still had two miles to go . I was pouring with sweat. It was late July. That jeep tried it’s damnedest to screw my ass on this trip. Aside from the mechanical issues the soft top was slowly coming apart at the seems. Those mid eastern plains winds tore it a new asshole. By the time I had returned, the top looked like Swiss cheese. I had used a shoelace to tie one of the windows together to keep the rain out. A week after I got home the transmission went out.

The atlas didn’t let me down. I made the drive in two days. I drove right past Denver and headed up to Boulder to have lunch. When I say we didn’t do shit when I had previously moved to Colorado I meant it. My first jaunt into Boulder and it was beautiful, I walked for hours around downtown I was in no hurry I had a month to myself. This was my first real time taking in solitude. I come from a very large family, shared bathrooms with several siblings growing up, rarely had a bed to myself much less a whole bedroom. Lived with a girlfriend when I moved out of my parents house and then as I apartment hopped for several years I always had roommates. Up to 5 when I lived at Furman. At 25 years of age I had never been alone for more than a day or two. I had lunch at a little local cafe by myself. I sat there by a little bistro table and ate a hot roast beef sandwich, cold beer in my hand and stared at the Rockies. If I could’ve bottled that feeling up I’d have kept it on my keychain I’ve had for the last 30 years. Actually I maybe I did. I’m fairly connected to that keychain. I even made it into a tattoo. It reads “Get high on a mountain” and at that moment I did .

I drove up 36w to Estes park. The gateway to RMNP. Pulled over as I crested Estes and took it all in. I had a stack of disposable cameras that I would use to take memories of this trip and clicked a few shots. No uploads, no hashtags, no ridiculous side face selfies I’d look through the little view finder and click. Go home and see what I photographed once the adventure ended.

I found a campsite off of 7 near Meeker Park Lodge. It’s a little motel/grocery at the top of 7. I’d buy groceries from there and if it rained all day I’d ask the owners if I could hang in the living area and read and blend in. The lobby has high wood beamed ceilings with furniture made from logs, pretty much what you would expect in a little bed and breakfast in the Rockies. They were as hospitable and pleasant and treated me kind. Any time I go to Estes I’ll pop in and support their little general store.

I pulled off and laid out my tent and shoved enough money in the camp registration for up to two weeks. I staked my tent as my home for the next 10 days or so. I’d buy phone cards to call home and check in about every three days or so on the pay phone at the lodge. Even at 25 years of age my mother was apprehensive about me adventuring around the Rockies. Before I had left she has asked me to fill out a form of identification and tattoo locations should I disappear. That’s my mom.

Estes park was beautiful. First hike was a simple hike around Lily Lake. I had to get acclimated and my hiking legs hadn’t found their true form yet. In fact I’d probably hiked three times in the last 10 years. Lily lake introduced me to the Rockies. First trail I ever set foot on in CO. Can’t quite tell you why but when I travel to Estes I immediately drive up to Lily Lake and reintroduce myself. It’s the gateway to my soul. Sharing my daughter’s name only makes it more so.

Man I hiked so many hikes, walked about town, I’d eat ice cream on a river walk bench, eat some street food and took in a show at the local theater. I think it was Air Force one or My Best Friend’s Wedding. I hiked Chasm lake beside Long’s peak and felt like I was on top of the world. At night I’d light up my little latern and read until I fell asleep which wasn’t hard. I exhausted myself daily taking in as much as I could. I look back at what I had to camp with in comparison to what I carry around now and smile. I’ve evolved quite a bit since then but there’s just something that’s so basic but romantic camping with just enough shit that you can carry on your back. Self sufficiency.

Once I got my fill I had Yellowstone on my mind. My girlfriend at the time had flown into Denver after week two of my Rockies adventure and we headed north. We got a hotel right outside of Laramie the first night. I loved watching the changing topography as we rode north. The vastness of Wyoming, the high winds were wrecking my wrangler soft top but I didn’t care anymore. I was too caught up in the moment.

We hit Yellowstone on a chilly rainy morning and I could smell the sulphur immediately. We found a camp spot right next to the western Yellowstone extrance and set to camp for the next three days. I took it all in. Any point of interest in Yellowstone I hit it. Mammoth falls, Old Faithful, Yellowstone Lake and the great falls. I saw my first moose that stood taller than my jeep, Buffalo, elk, foxes and tried to get my eye on a grizzly that had just passed. Yellowstone was amazing. It was congested but I was too caught up in the moment to care.

On the way out we hit the Tetons and hiked Jenny Lake. The whole time I was scanning for grizzlies. I really wanted to see one just not within 500 yards of me. Never did and still haven’t to this day. Not in the wild at least.

That trip tripped my wanderlust. I have driven to the Rockies around 10 times since and took a few flights just to hang out for a few days. If anyone asks where my favorite place is I’ll say Colorado Rockies before it can come all the way out of your mouth. My goal now is to hit it annually even if it means leaving my precious camping cargo at home. It’s my annual reset. Almost like shedding off my old skin. A majestic spa.

The only downside is coming back down the mountain.

Every time I visit Estes I have my little motions to go through. My itinerary is consistent. I’ll pay homage to Lily Lake, salute Long’s peak, grab an ice cream cone on the river walk and I’ll perch a hammock and relax by the reservoir. I’ll drive up to Meeker lodge and drive around that campground to find that little spot that brought me so much joy.

People ask me all the time why I haven’t moved to Colorado and often times I’ve asked myself the same question. I guess for me it’s a mental sanctuary that I hold dear in my heart. I don’t want to rock it. I don’t want it to lose it’s appeal to me. It’s like eating your favorite dish every day for the rest of your life. Eventually it may not taste the same to you or you’ll grow tired of it. Colorado to me is a heirloom. I take it down when it’s necessary and put it back on the shelf until it’s time to play with it again.

It calls to me every year hell it’s calling me right now but she might have to wait a little while this year.

Rest assured if I do I’ll have that same smile on my face as I did almost 30 years ago.

I used to be a good person. Does that mean I’m a terrible person now? Not necessarily I just used to be better human than I am now. Or was as little as a year ago or so. I hope through my little reckoning I’ve improved. I’m trying to at least. Sounds odd when you say it out loud “I’m working hard to become a good person”. Is it that hard? It’s harder for some than others. Some literally have to try. Like so many other bad habits you pick up over the years becoming or remaining a morally upstanding person can leave your senses. Your wits, your scruples. Habitually it’s like taking up smoking, drinking, eating like shit, speeding in your car without a seat belt or maybe stealing a candy bar just for fun. Hell I’ve done all of that in one day.

Growing up I was always respectful to my parents, read the good book, hesitated before I cursed or even apologized after I did. I had a conscious, broke down if I lied about something, wouldn’t even hold a girl’s hand until I asked permission. I opened doors for them but never had a chance to do the jacket over the puddle part but I’m sure I would have just because it was the proper thing to do. Proper, is not a word I would ever use to describe me. Not yet. But by golly gee gum I’m working on it. Again, people like me have to work on these types of things. It’s part wiring, part environmental or combine the two and call it environment wiring. My wiring absorbs my environment. If you put me in heaven I’d be a hall monitor for Jesus. If you put me in hell I’d be a hitman for the devil. Just let me take it all in. I won’t let you down.

I can’t pin down when I became this person with low morals. Manipulative, narcissistic. Those two accompanied me when I became a restaurant owner. Manipulation was easy for me. I did it to survive and I was a little scared at how good I became doing it. Man I’d make one hell of a politician. Maybe that’s why I despise them so much. Problem with manipulation is once you get accustomed to it takes over your actions. You find yourself doing it without trying. It makes you lie, dodge the truth and stick a few knives in the backs of others. Business is hell sometimes and you’ll do whatever it takes to pay your bills.

Morals, scruples, values I used to live by them. I think years in the service industry changed my perspective at first and then drove me to be whatever the person I had to be to stay on top. At first it was a mask but later it wasn’t needed. The actor and character became one. Sort of like Heath Ledger and the Joker.

I played a character for so long I became him. Chad was swallowed up in the play/system. I thought I was playing a hero but there aren’t any heroes on this stage. No antagonists either. Just me absorbing the system of the service industry.

I used to be a good person. I would go see my mother once a week, call my family to wish them happy births and holidays. Always saw myself as the eventual torch for my family’s heralding. The oak that held all the branches together.

I was genuine.

I think I managed to hold onto this upstanding human until my late 20s. Maybe a little longer but I was already hanging with bad thoughts. Lifestyle choices, lying to my girlfriends, friends just living knee deep in shit and shady things.

Life has a way of throwing hundreds of different exits in your path along the way and although it may be possible to take the right exit most of the time your environment/system may make most of those right turns without the whiff of a second thought.

Man I’ve done some ridiculously terrible things. No I’ve never killed anyone, hit and run, robbed a bank or anything like that. You don’t have to break the law to be a terrible person although I’ve broken the law on numerous occasions. You know when you’re a being a terrible person. Unless you’re a psychopath. I was never quite there. I would acknowledge I was doing something wrong and took it for a ride anyway. The more you do it the easier the ride becomes. Then it becomes habitual and starts to control your decision making.

My thoughts would become putrid with lack of morals. Drinking only intensified it and honestly it was the potion for the excuse. “It doesn’t make you do a thing it just let’s you”

The binge nights I’d wake up the next day waiting for whatever I did that night to come knocking on my door. Often it did.

Alcohol turns you into it’s puppet. My life, my personality needs a filter. Alcohol took that away with a smile on it’s face. You do something you would normally process as volatile or inappropriate and the bottle tells you “it’s ok! Just don’t tell anyone you did it” or “you did it before and nothing bad happened so what do you have to lose?”

I consumed myself in the industry. I created another person inside of me to absorb it all. The late nights, long hours, high volume trauma, drugs, alcohol, drama. I took it all in and made my own inner Frankenstein and allowed him to live inside of me until we became one in the same. Two peas in a Chad pod.

There used to be an on/off switch. Not sure when it went 24/7 but it did.

My perception at the time was I had to be the alpha male. The strongest, baddest loudest mother fucker in the building. Once I got into cheffing around I knew what it took to conquer. I did whatever it took. And I did it well.

Other than a few professional accomplishments and of course having a small family I was not proud of what I had created.

Reflection is sobering. Taking that information and rebuilding yourself is a monumental task.

It’s become my new system. My new environment. I tweak my personality and lifestyle more than I tweak my camping layout in my truck. Both are constant.

Habits are easy to form and bad ones can seem impossible to let go.

I take one at a time and have a reckoning with it. I win some and lose some. Manic emotional outbursts are my bane at the moment. Had a small one yesterday but had the presence of mind to come back into the room and apologize to my wife for my volume even though it wasn’t directed at her. But she’s my wife and she absorbs my emotions and environment. It took me years to realize that my emotions are contagious in small rooms.. still working on not blasting my emotions on social media. It’s an outlet but not an appropriate one. Sorry I have to get things out sometimes.

It’s on my todo list

My brain has been hitting me constantly with nostalgia. Little view finder trying to send me still frames of good memories from the past. Well before I became that person. Sobriety opened just about every single tiny door in my head that was locked up hiding some essential memories.

Good memories.

Now they come to me like little gifts. The smallest things trigger them.

I take and reflect on them to remind me of the person I once was. I write them down because it feels good to do so. My brain is doing its best to bring me back home through memories and patience. My long forgotten scruples, morals and conduct.

Please and thank you. Continue please.

The nostalgia brings me back to the old upstanding character I felt I once had. I find myself re reading old books during that era, music and memories. It’s like my inner self saying “See?? You aren’t that far removed from yourself!”

Come back home. It’s time

Listen, I’m not saying sobriety guarantees to make you a better person.

It just gives you a better opportunity.

It has for me anyway. Doubled with a whole WHOLE bunch of reflection.

Writing helps. I don’t think about what I write beforehand. I just write what comes out. Which is why you sometimes get short sentences with tangents.

It’s how I think. I hold it together sometimes but if I’m journaling I don’t focus on the point I’m trying to make. I just like to get it out.

Whatever is manifesting in me at the moment is a little surreal. It’s hard to put into words what it’s like to have your mind change the way it thinks. It’s like driving on the other side of the road.

For me the correct side for the first time in awhile.

I look in the mirror somedays and see a different person. And then another.

Growth? Maybe? Hopefully. It was much needed. Still needed. I still have quite the pile of laundry to fold.

At least it’s clean.