Bearded Gang

Today is a truly unique day for me. You see my best friend/hero/father will be honored in a mini-series. Not just a mini-series but a big one Masters of Air. No you won’t know the actor that plays him, I’m actually fb friends with the young man that plays my father. That fella flew from UK to Bethlehem, PA to meet some of my family that lives up that way. To get to know some about my dad. The man he gets to represent in the show. The man who is my hero. My father will not be a main character in this show. I’ve watched Band of Brothers and the Pacific. I’m familiar with how characters are introduced and some you may only see for 30 seconds

I

Don’t

Care

I get to see what my father tried his best to describe to a 14 here old kid in high definition, by one of the greatest directors of my time.

To meet my father you would’ve never known he was a WWII vet. Other than the permanent limp he brought home with him from a large caliber shell he took in his calf, while being a sitting duck in a ball gun turret of a B-17 bomber- Paddlefoot Proxy, he’s affiliated with a couple of B-17s if my memory serves me. sorry I haven’t brushed up on my dad’s war history in a bit. I want this show to captivate the shit out of me and o know it will.

My dad flew in the “Bloody 100th”. I won’t go into detail about his missions because Spielberg is gonna take care of that for all of you. That little ball turret he was in, if you’re a fan war statistics, your average life span was 37 seconds. Not minutes, not days, years. Shorter than the 400m world record and if you were unfortunate enough to get vaporized in one of those there was no time for mourning. They’d hose you out and have another to take your spot. Even worse is if they lost any landing gear the ball turret underneath the carriage would get crushed upon landing. I’ve been inside one of these turrets. And I thought my heart would explode. I’m walking proof that trauma can be hereditary. I have mild claustrophobia and it takes an act of God to get me in the sky. My dad would ride any ride at Six Flags or Carowinds. The only thing he wouldn’t get on was the parachute drop. That’s cool dad! I’m not getting on that fucker either.

My father was unique. If he suffered major trauma, which he had to have on a level I hope to never understand, he never showed it to me. He was careful when describing his time in Germany. Not sure if it was to protect me or him. My dad had two expressions on his face. He was either smiling or looking at you like he was about to hit you. Listen, I get my face honest. He laughed loudly but never raised his voice at me unless he was calling me home for dinner in that Holly Springs neighborhood where I’d go visit him every weekend. He’d talk about his experiences overseas but only if you asked. He never wore a hat that represented his Air Force background or any paraphernalia other than a POW license plate, if you wanted to see all the medals he almost died for he kept them in his closet next to his golf shoes in a cardboard box that was probably issued to him when he retired. He never took them out but by god I did. Every weekend. They were in cases. I only ever took one out one time and pinned on my t shirt when no one was looking. I immediately took it off. It made me feel weird. Like I was breaking the law. I was 8. I remember one late Sunday afternoon when my dad was taking me back to my mother’s I said “Dad! When I graduate I want to join the Air Force just like you.” I could visibly see my old man wince. Like I poked him in his side. “Son, do whatever your heart says. But I think the Gangwer’s have bled enough for this country.” That’s all he had to say about it. He patted me on my knee, lit up a Winston Red and kept driving down 85 like nothing was said. I now keep his medals encased on an armoire in my bedroom. There are only a handful of things I would fling myself into a burning inferno for, my family (fucking duh) my pets and my dad’s medals.

My old man never really laid a hand on me. Yeah I got spanked by him a time or two but my feelings hurt worse than my ass. He never had it in him.

He loved a good scotch, cigarette and a dirty joke. I inherited all three from him but managed to put two of those away over time.

He cooked breakfast every weekend. Biscuits and gravy were my staple and they still are to this day. I’d wake up to my old man on his third cup of coffee, spectacles riding on his nose, working the Sunday crossword with a Winston dangling from the corner of his mouth. White v neck undershirt tucked in his boxers with his robe barely tied around his waist, slippers. Ron gave zero shits. The man had seen some shit. Lost his first wife right after the Korean War and had to raise his two daughters on his own. Just seeing the love on both of my sisters’ faces when they talk about my father is proof enough that he was just as good of a girl dad as he was to me. I am the last Gangwer of my line. My father treated me as such. My sisters on my dad’s side are respectfully 10 years and 20 years older than me. So my father had three kids 10 years apart. His youngest daughter also had three children 10 years apart. He inherited a handful of kids when he married my mother and then by a big fat surprise came me. My parents would divorce 8 years later.

He owned a nightclub in the 70s the Cock and Bull. A huge pub/disco bar off of old Augusta rd. I’ll go more into detail about his club another time. The stories surrounding that club were as engaging as his war stories. The club would close in the late 70s, pretty much bankrupting my dad in his 50s. Bikers gave his bar a bad reputation. I had a healthy dislike for bikers growing up. He would work a few service industry management jobs before retiring. I can recall him coming home wearing a paper hat and name tag from his management job at Weiner King and I wanted to grab that hat and burn it. It was the first time I recognized that my father was tired and getting old. I was too proud for him. My dad, war veteran, hero, fucking badass was wearing another uniform. One that didn’t fucking belong. He was almost exactly to the day 50 year older than me. I never really got to experience the dad throwing the ball to the son moments. My dad was half crippled from the war and almost 60 when I was playing baseball. I made it a point to always be in the best physical condition I can be. I want my daughter to always see me as strong. Want to know how trauma can affect you even 40 years later? I lost my businesses and two years later started selling hotdogs. It got in my head. I saw my old man in that hat. And then i saw me in that hat. I sold my hotdog trailer the next year. Can’t retire selling $3 glizzies. Also $3 hotdog < $100 charcuterie box. Do the math. Also to this day I refuse to wear a name tag. The only job I had to wear one was the Hyatt. I was written up numerous times for not wearing it.

Dad loved to golf and played darts too. I’d play Galaga and pinball while he played darts. Smoky old pool rooms were our jam. I could’ve given a shit less. I was hanging with my dad.

When he did talk about the war(s) he often talked about how the German doctors saved his leg when he was shot down. My dad spoke German and pretended to be one when he was found and captured. He spent 13 months as a POW. Fortunately for my father he didn’t experience some of the hardship in the other concentration camps. He didn’t speak highly of the Germans it was mostly business like. He spent most of his time in a hospital and was fed three meals a day. I have the letter my grandparents received when he was MIA including correspondence with another family member when they believed him to have died and then the elation they must’ve felt when it was discovered he was in fact still alive just in the hands of the Nazis. Still hard to believe for me to that this was just one generation ago.

He never talked about Korea so I never asked.

He smoked a lot. He drank but I never saw him drunk. If he was he didn’t behave in such a way that I’d notice. I definitely didn’t inherit that from him. In his 60’s he had terrible acid reflux that combined with his chain smoking made him cough uncontrollably. Sometimes he’d had to sit down until the coughing attack subsided. It always made me nervous. One night he coughed so hard for so long he lost oxygen and passed out. I thought he had a heart attack and I screamed for my sister (she was a nurse) and when we ran back into his room he was sitting in his chair like nothing happened. The cigarette didn’t even dropped from his hand. He was just as surprised as we were. He was getting older and started to look fragile to me. People aged differently back then. The smoking, drinking and Jesus the fucking trauma this man went through puts years on you. I was just remarking to my wife about a photo I have of him. It was the last photo ever taken of him. I mentioned that he was probably only 10 years older than me in that pic but he looked so old. Granted it’s a polaroid flash in a bar I never really told anyone this but ever since the day he passed out from coughing I knew my dad wouldn’t be around much longer. He had no long term illness, he never got sick he just looked tired. For a long time when the phone rang my mind would auto jump to “something has happened to my dad”. This went on for about a year until my sister called my mom up on a Monday night. Just from the tone of my mother’s voice I knew something was wrong. My dad had fallen outside of his little hangout and hit his head unconscious. By the time we got to the hospital it was discovered he’d had a massive stroke. He had just dropped me off home the day before. He’d never wake back up.

Obviously he’s been on my mind a lot this week. I’ve known since April 10th 2022 when a historian reached out to me on fb message to let me know they were making a mini series and my old man was to be represented. What a fucking honor.

It was suppose to be released last year. I’ve been waiting a long time. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to watch this in front my family. My daughter has never seen me cry. If she’s present she will. And she’ll get to tell all of her friends about her grandfather that she’s only met in pictures will be on TV this week.

I doubt you’ll see me on social media until I’ve digested this series. I feel like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life. If you have AppleTV you can watch is as of 9pm last night I believe. It’s the only reason why I’ve had it for the last 2 years.

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,

And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.

Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,

I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.

When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose – Randall Jarrell

The last 23 days I’ve probably worked 23 hours. This is not an exaggeration nor is it a flex. I don’t make money when I don’t work. I’m not freaking out mind you as I’ve said before chadcuterie just farts in the month of January. I’ll occasionally get a big order to keep me loose but I’m fine otherwise I just have to deal with my thoughts when I’m idling.

A casual day for me this month consists of my morning ritual of coffee/yoga/workout but now I’m headphones locked in on my head during this process. I had one box to deal with a $30 order for the humpday again no big deal I’ve got a small load to contend tomorrow. Im still learning everyday, that my success does not depend on pushing my craft everyday. I do it for 50 plus consecutive days up until 7 hours before the ball drops every holiday season.

I’ll take a nap and by nap I mean I encourage myself to lie still for at least 20 minutes. Sometimes I’ll snooze often times not. My naps have lessened due to most of my added sugar habits have been put on hold. The crashes don’t crash like they used to. I’m not suffering from that sugar crunch and my headaches have subsided for the most part. I still want ice cream every 20 minutes or so. I’m coping. Barely.

I make an hour free to write (which I’m currently clocked in for) and at least 2 hours to read. (5 books down for the count already) and as I’ve mentioned the headphones are a fucking godsend. I gave myself a promise on the off days to not spend my time growing or focusing my profession as much. I’ve read the same hustle books as you guys. I know success is achieved by the time and effort you put into it. I gave my time. I feel like it owes me some back now.

My alignment with success now revolves around the goings on above my neck. I stopped reading books that focus on the hustle. My book, the one I’m narrating in my head, focuses on sustaining. Sustaining my mental health, my physical health, balance and being present for my family. Listen some of you big shots are great with managing both. For me one of them or most get sacrificed. Usually the most important ones.

These three weeks have been unique.

Zero work

Zero income

Zero adventures

Also

Zero drama

Zero stress (other than my bank account ticking down)

Zero body pain from work

I’ve taken this month to rest well literally everything. I cut back on my work content and posts by choice, my toiling at home is mostly reorganizing my habitat. Out with the old but no new. I’m trying to learn to enjoy things without the fulfillment of a purchase. I make it a habit to spend to celebrate. The headphones are the exception. I promise I’ll stop talking about them soon. As long as they keep doing what they are doing I actually may not. Sony we need to collaborate.

My body and brain are in the best shape they’ve ever been in. Sure, I’ve had bigger muscles, I’ve had better endurance and most of any education I’ve learned over the years is mostly muscle memory now. I still know how some things are done its just I’ve lost all the instructions.

But

My body doesn’t hurt like it used to. I know sugar cut off has been paramount but combining the rest with the drop off of daily Tictacs has been a good one two combo. I’ve done sugar breaks before. The rest makes a big difference. I was always obsessed with physical fitness. To combat the drinking and the calories that came with it. 10 hours accumulated weekly workouts on top of 60 plus work hours. I used my body like a cross country semi. The workouts were also to correct the atrophied neck from looking down prepping for hours, the sciatica that caused me to put all my weight on one foot when I stood for hours. I used weights and endurance to offset my joint pain. A good sore to battle the bad sores. All it did was I couldn’t tell the difference between the two anymore.

I’ve dropped 20 lbs and have maintained it. My eating habits changed dramatically when I changed my lifestyle. Not even with effort y’all. Your brain will crave things that are good for you and sustain when the alcohol no longer has possession. I have cravings for fatty beef, mushrooms, tomatoes and fruit now. It used to be grease. Hot spicy greasy shit to coat my rotting stomach. Never underestimate what food can do to your brain. Good or bad.

My brain. Always took a backseat. It was used for business math and consumerism. Now it gets most of the exercise. If you accumulate everything I’ve written in the past 10 years, subtract work criteria and long Facebook diatribes, I now write more in one day than I’ve written TOTAL in 20 years.

Writing is mental masturbation. I can feel my mind, memory, creativity growing. It’s a healthy way to let off steam. It’s therapeutic. It allows you to get shit off your chest. Even if no one reads it, as you write it you can feel it leaving that labyrinth you built to hide things from yourself and everyone else. I’ve made peace with so many issues just from writing them down. Childhood trauma, heartbreak. Your therapist is your notebook, your oral expression is the pen. You are listening to yourself. Your inner dialogue. You should write it down. It’s much easier to understand yourself when you read it like a story or a journal. It also helps you when you are trying to express yourself. It allows you to go outside of your head and peak inside. It offers another vantage point. Its like when you think you have a clean house until you hire a professional cleaning service to come in and detail it. You thought it was clean but holy shit those baseboards now look amazing. I find it much easier to explain the snakes in my head to my wife once I’ve wrote them down. Which means better communication with my better half. Better transparency and no words I’m forgetting to speak that need to be said. I no longer sit on my words. I read them out loud. I will sometimes read what I’ve written a dozen times because it takes me to right where my brain left off. The elation of letting out steam. Refreshing as a rolled down window driving through a new country road in another state. I can relate to that.

I’m reading my words, my thoughts, emotions to reflect on. It’s one on one therapy but I’m the only one in the room listening to myself and that’s ok.

Sometimes I’d struggle to find words when I speak. Now I select which ones I’d like to choose from. Writing is walking for the brain. I don’t stutter as much. Yeah I have a habit of fumbling words especially when I get overstimulated or upset. I have no doubt the alcohol, stress, head injuries, sugar all play a part. I’m just enjoying a happy brain season and I’m riding it as long as I can. My brain is happy because I’m allowing it to be. Every day for the past few years I’m inching towards breaking a hundred tiny bad habits. My endgame is fairly simple. Balanced happiness. This month has been dedicated to feeding that reservoir. Using building blocks like bricks to make my mental health strong. I’m making strides. Somedays it’s two steps up and one step back but I’m no longer falling backwards. For now at least. I know there will always be bad days to come. This exercise is to help my brain to support the weight next time. It helps. It truly does but yeah it’s sort of a new hustle for me.

It’s not to make more money come my way I’m just creating a pathway for some happiness to sustain in my life. It’s an exercise for me. Some of us don’t get it for free we have to work for it. I call it hustling for happiness. Has a good ring to it.

It’s my new vibe.

A bad habit I built over the years was the disregarding of my mental health needs. Oh I knew my mind was need of an overhaul. My brain was that check engine light that always seemed to come on at inopportuned times. Always when I was too busy to address it or too broke to take it to the mechanic for analysis.

I’d put it off or drink it off. Which was the same thing, one made it easier to bear than the other. Staying busy is a great way to procrastinate on your dissolving mental health. I could go on autopilot for weeks at a time. Sometimes a larger issue would trump the others I had so I’d get a fresh start on a new anxiety. And then toss the others wayside to come back around on that perpetual revolution of snakes that would enter my mind.

My brain is never quiet. Chances are while we are conversing I’m currently having 14 conversations with myself about 28 different things. I’ve gotten into the habit of saying “please repeat that one more time. I can hear you now.”

I have become permanently overstimulated. Even without the 2974 cups of coffee (I don’t drink quite as much as I advertise, hyperbole sells tickets). Large gatherings are a real hassle for me. The masses of sounds, people, smells, clutter, clatter, chatter, elbows to elbows, feeling people breathing all over me, my ears ring and I feel suffocated. Sometimes I’ll go to the restroom just to give myself 20 seconds of stay the fuck away from me. Going out to eat with friends, I’m looking at the date and time to see how busy that restaurant will be at that time. If it just opened? Don’t call me for 6 months. I’m not dealing with that crowd noise. When people ask me why I will drive for 3 hours and back in 24 hours to camp, my truck is quiet, my campsite is quiet. It’s my reset button. Nature, solitude sooths me. It brings me back down. Unless it’s a horny whippoorwill perched on my roof rack at 3am crooning “wyd?” to his female friend 2 miles away. I also choose Mondays to do this. I can no longer deal with gridlock traffic. I don’t mean that I dislike it or it’s just not convenient. I literally can’t handle it anymore. I’ve been on the beginning leg of some trips that may take 8 hours to reach my destination and I’ll pull off even if it’s two hours in to find an exit for me to walk around my truck for a minute because my brain is screaming and wants to go back home. Sometimes I’ll have to call my wife to talk me out of it. She always does.

Lately I’ve been writing down things that help my head. Or the opposite which I guess is relatively the same. “Do this. It helps.” Don’t do this. It doesn’t”

Writing helps. It actually helps quite a bit. I don’t have any backwash left when I’m done writing for the day. I get shit off my mind. Sometimes to the chagrin of others. I highly recommend journaling. Recording your life by hand.

Walking is fantastic but I’ve slacked only because winter isn’t my jam anymore. Working out helps. It always has. I reminded myself last month that my hiking took a tumble but at the same time I used hiking to tire the demons when they were dealing the cards. It’s not as necessary anymore. It’s actually a good thing.

I’m hyper aware of my social media algorithms. It’s an echo chamber for what you love and what you hate. What a terrible balance. I benefited from it last week however in an go around your ass to get to your elbow way but I’m thankful I did.

Went online for record player speakers. Every year after chadcuterie beats my ass I treat myself to a small purchase for myself. A completely selfish purchase. Not a new dishwasher, lawnmower or roof for my house. Something.. fun I guess you’d say. One year it was my camping trailer, one year a bus to make into an RV, one year I bought my wife some sexy tires for her wrangler. This year it’ll probably go back into work. Give some, take some, invest some. Back to the speakers, I wanted to good quality speakers for my record player that was collecting dust on our shelves. Anyone familiar with ad algorithms knows if you are shopping for something eventually you will be pummeled with advertisements of those consumers items along with brands and products that align with your expectations. Its smart I get it. My ads were full of vintage stereo cabinets (I love mid century), Bluetooth speakers, record players, equalizers and headphones. I had no interest in headphones but I’m nosey and looked some up and was completely blown away by how expensive they’ve become. My last pair of headphones accompanied my discman purchase in the 90’s. I currently have beats earbuds. They’re ok. Sound great and pack a punch for sound but my ears are weird. They spit those fuckers out all the time. I spend a good portion of my time looking for one that will pop out of my ear and roll like a severed head for a solid quarter mile. They do what they are supposed to do. They put the music in my head.

I chatted with my wife about the cost of headphones and she said “you outta try them out. I have friends that swear by them.” Technology has changed the game in headphones. Technology passed me by years ago.

We drove to Best Buy and I dubiously checked out three different brands and it doesnt matter which ones I’m not trying to do a consumer comparison I’d say they were all similar enough to be happy with any of the three. The ones I chose were mostly due to the help of the Sony rep that just happened to be there at the time. I tried them on and loved the clarity. I thought these would be great on days when I wanted to play some vinyl and not torture my family to hear Sturgill for 3 hours so I said fuck it. I got em. A little buyers remorse as per the norm but I love my music. A solid investment regardless.

Noise cancellation was an obtuse term for me. I don’t research technology. Listen I’m lazy about certain things. I’m 52. Everyday tech steps over me to please the younger folk. I’m ok with that. I have a 14 year old to keep me abreast of winds of change. Sometimes it may be a magazine I picked up at Barnes and Noble to apprise me of current events . I thought all headphones were noise canceling. That’s what the fuck they do. They cancel the outside noise so you can hear the inside noise. My earbuds did it. Or I thought so..

I didn’t wear the headphones long enough at Best Buy to experience the full experience. I got home, took them out because I’m that kid that has to play with his new toy as soon as he gets home. If you aren’t this person then chances are you are a psychopath. I downloaded the appropriate apps, set up my headphone equalizer and played Van Halen’s first album. About 45 seconds in my head “thank you”

Noise cancellation kicked in. I was no longer hearing the music I was floating in it. There was nothing else. Just the music. You ever see those videos where kids get their first hearing aid and hear their mother’s voice for the first time? Wanna see me cry? Play one of those in front of me. It wasn’t just the music playing, the choice of album or the high definition and clarity. It was what I couldn’t hear that floored me.

My wife gets front row seats to my quirks, anger issues, mental relapses and rants. She’s there when I’m pacing through the house angrily, unable to be still, distracted by the smallest thing or thinking of something that angered me 3 days ago. If I’m sitting still in my house, on my sofa you may see me reading a book. I may looked completely enthralled and in my one little world. What’s usually going through my head is I’m reading the same page 4 times. The first couple of tries our refrigerator dropped some ice cubes in the bin, our old dog is snoring or her nails are clicking on the floor. Our kid is smacking her cereal, neighbors across the street are working on their roof, road construction is a quarter mile away and I can hear the truck’s back up signal beeping and beeping and beeping and beeping.. I’ll hear that chainsaw three streets over or maybe it’s the leaf blower. Cat purring from the other room or someone has the sniffles and for an hour all I can hear in my brain is that constant sniff. The water heater across the house in the laundry room clicks to reset the pilot light. I hear it every time.

I’m wound tight. Real tight. Its who I am. Its magnified when I’m in public. If I’m eating out I’m probably listening to the kitchen hood roar or the cheap plastic dishes getting stacked up after they were sanitized. Couldn’t tell you what was playing on the musak. Unless it’s loud and then I’d most likely leave without ordering. Noise has become pollution to me now.

The headphones took that all away. When that cancellation canceled I felt my shoulders drop and my neck loosen up. I could feel chills in the bottom of my fucking feet. My eyes went “holy shit” wide. I listened to that album non stop. Something I haven’t done without the benefit of multitasking in years. I just sat and listened. And melted.

I wore those headphones for 6 hours on day one. Alternating between telling my wife how amazing they were and just listening, sitting still. By day two there was no buyer’s remorse. In fact I would’ve paid double. If they were crushed by some random act of god tomorrow I’d run and buy the exact pair. If I didn’t have the money I’d sell something to build up my funds. My focus jumped and went into XL, hi-fi, GT, Shazam mode. My mind had peace. I can’t accurately describe to you how much that feels to me. It was like a mind controlling device. As soon as that cancellation kicks in I smile. It’s like a crown of sunrises. I make my morning coffee and put them on. Light jazz has never been my thing but now with those frequencies running through my ears untouched by distractions my mind craves it. In the middle of the day I wear them for downtime and I’ll use them at night while I’m in bed. I’m a fan person. A loud fan person. Not because I want to be. I have to be. I don’t care for the sound of the fan. I use it to drown out the other 39722 distractions in my head and ears. With the headphones on I can’t even hear the fan. No hyberole here folks. These headphones 🎧 are the ice to the cream in my head and over time much cheaper than therapy. For me at least.

If you have PTSD, ADHD or ADD get these motherfuckers. If I had the capital I’d be buying everyone one of these like that old Coke commercial. “I’d like to buy the world a 🎧… and keep them company.

That’s the real thing.

The whole time here it was a little surreal. Sometimes I think it was a dream and I never actually worked at Fatz at all..

Fatz was during a low point of my life (looking back on it I had quite a few). Fatz was one of those jobs I took because I had no choice. I had recently lost my job at the Hyatt as head bell captain due to a very costly DUI and spent quite some time trying to find a job that I could either walk to or my roommates could alternate taxiing me to and from. I roomed with four Furman football players next to the college in a house that could’ve hosted a Brady Bunch special. Tri-level home filled with shag carpet and testosterone. The front yard was essentially a parking lot filled with empty beer cans and revolving BMWs of the college ladies that hung out (just kidding there never any ladies there, just sweaty men)

I would have one of my mates chauffeur me around while I dropped off applications in every establishment that was hiring. I tried my damnest to stay away from restaurants. I had no interest in waiting tables.

You’d look through the newspaper want ads to find jobs in the early 90s or you’d just cold call places and say “Yo! Y’all hiring?” Lot of fucking footwork is involved. Door to door filling out applications.

After about a month I went to any and every place I could find and the only place that called me back for an interview was a small Fatz cafe adjacent to Walmart on Wade Hampton. Right down the street from the bowling alley. I applied there on a whim and finally got a call back. The location wasn’t ideal. It was almost 8 miles from our house. I was going to have to do some major ass kissing and bribery with my roommates to get a consistent ride to work. My ex at the time was also kind enough to give me a ride but that wouldn’t last too long due to the choice of my future girlfriend. I may or may not go into that. It’s an entertaining story but doesnt really apply here.

So yeah! Fatz fucking cafe, I had managed to go all this time in my short career without waiting tables and away we go. I was anxious. I had already built up my bullshitting portfolio from years at the Hyatt but the clientele here was vastly on the opposite spectrum of high rolling Hyatt regency folk. I had never eaten at a Fatz and when I finished my tenure there I made goddamn sure well that I never did again. Uniform was khaki pants or shorts, white tennies and factory made green shirt. No hue will accurately describe it on a palette Its just Fatz fucking green. It’s like they made thier own unique hue of green and trademarked it.

Why did I call this Fatz ish? Well right around this time this particular location had gone through a ownership change. Big Jimmy was no longer affiliated with this establishment and it was now owned by a local greek family. Meanwhile in the background of the transition the daughter of the family was about to be wed to the managing partner of the restaurant. Or the wedding would secure his partnership with the family and restaurant. Wasn’t really sure which came first. I wasn’t on that committee. The operator Mike, was an alright guy. Strong Applebees background (that was considered a good pedigree in the mid 90s) and I’ll give that man credit where it’s due, he worked his ass off. He was building his dream where he could create it. I’ll never fault anyone for that.

When I was hired here it was the first thing they told me. “Yes we are still called Fatz but a new concept was coming soon!” Well hell yeah! I thought. Because this concept was terrible.

The restaurant blended into the fabric of the Taylors shopping plaza that at the time hosted a Walmart, Blockbuster video and then your obligatory nail salon, hair place, dollar store and maybe some boutique- like and a free standing Ruby Tuesdays right in the middle. The parking lot sloped its way down and reservoired at the Walmart that corralled all of us into one blue collar resort. Gimme two fucking tickets to the Taylors Resort please! You’d walk into the dining room and we had a cash register up front with the dining room split into two rows. Each row mirrored the other. Booths hugged the walls and the four tops ran parallel to the booths. The bar sat on your left up two steps with a few high tops overlooking the herd munching roll eaters. The bar itself had the aesthetics of most early 90s bars, mini bottle storage lockers horse shoeing around the bar with the wood. If you sat dead center you could see the two fat tvs behind the bar or if nothing for shit was on you the tube could stare at yourself in the bar wall fashioned into a segmented mirrors to make the bar appear larger. The bar looked like some money and care had been thrown into it. The dining room was just green (Fatz grew) painted walls with wainscoting and cheap booths. The kitchen was nothing out of the ordinary other than you felt like you were walking through a swamp with seeping fry oil residue like thick, sticky dew on a hot and humid summer morning. I can remember the head cook Glen. Short, small ex con that was all in because if he lost his job he would have to go back to jail. There was another cook there for a bit, the owner’s brother and one other cat, can’t remember his name but he looked like D.B. Sweeney at the time. The only reason why he stands out is because we almost got into a fist fight over a mistaken song lyric. Stone Temple Pilots unplugged version of Plush was playing on repeat on every radio station and MTV during this era. I loved Stone Temple but that song needed a break. Sweeney would also play this goddamn song on repeat every morning while prepping. He would always fuck up this lyric. “Where ya going for tomorrow? Where ya going with the mask I found?”

Sweeney crooning at the top of his lungs “Where ya going for tomorrow? Where ya going with the master plan?”

I started calling him Master P. And then everyone else did even though I didn’t explain why they thought I’d came up with some whimsical nickname for him and hell he liked it too. Even referred to himself as that in third person. Ouch. Sweeney and I would get into some screaming matches on the line. He was the consummate Fatz cook. He talked a great game of culinary skills but his delivery was terrible. He wasn’t good. With my brief experience in high volume atmosphere I had already discovered Sweeney’s pedigree topped out at microwaver. Even his calabashing got bashed. One heated moment after he told me to go fuck myself as I was standing over a 50 gallon trash can, scraping calabash parts into the garbage. I threw the plate into dish and screamed “ITS THE MASK I FOUND NOT THE MASTER PLAN YOU FUCKING IDIOT! YOUVE BEEN SINGING WRONG THE WHOLE TIME”. My boss would have that all too familiar talk with me “You sure this is the right fit for you?” I’ve been privy to several of these conversations.

Calabash

I still cringe when I hear this word. Calabash. Fuck you calabash. Calabash chicken was our signature dish. Every restaurant has that one dish that when you order the server immediately turn around with their eyes rolled back into their skulls while they walk into the kitchen screaming “HERE COMES FIVE FUCKING MORE!” The fry cook had a big ass lexan laced with two buckets of ice soaked in kosher salt and three deep assigned 3rd pans filled to the rim with naked tenders, dredge and flour. The prep table holding this monstrosity would lean sideways between two 75LB fryers holding it steady to keep it from collapsing from the weight of the fried chicken carnage. After each shift the table would be hosed off from all the dredge and discarded mixing bowls caked with old flour and chicken juice. One of my sideworks as a server was to set up the premade salads. We’d use our hands and scoop lettuce on a small oval plate, throw two cucumber slices, one tomato wedge and two purple onions. We kept a little stand for dressings and when customers ordered their entrees the server would scoop the dressing on the premade salad that could sit on a sheet rack in the kitchen at room temp for up to 4 hours on a slow day. This was my first experience in a high volume kitchen. When I barbacked in the 80s the kitchens were mostly utilized for snack purposes and only manned with one cook on the weekends. I had no interest in the goings on in the kitchen. I didn’t like the idea of my forearms blistering up like the fry guy’s or come home covered in flour ash, reeking of three day old fry oil.. Also I’ll take the 72° dining over the fiery pits of hell any day. The only menu items my memory will focus on are the calabash chicken and those damned rolls. If Fatz cafe can take credit for anything, it gave me prejudice towards table bread. You know those rolls I’m talking about. Goddamn little baked bundles of Wade Hampton crack. We would bring a basket out to each table after beverage service. One roll per guest unless they requested more which they absolutely would. I’d average four trips per table. The owner would scream at you if you tried to sneak more than per table and yes he’d do his walk about and audit your bread per head. Plastic ramekins filled with whipped butter and honey. Apparently there were no gluten allergies at this time. Or after ingesting 14 vessels of yeast you’d run to the bathroom and shit yourself thinking “that’s peculiar” and then shoving another roll in your pie hole or purse before you shimmy back into the booth. The record was 16 baskets. That’s right 16. Every Friday, same table, same Butterbean. Always in my section. The owner’s face would turn deeper shade of red for each additional basket carried out.

If you’re a up and coming restauranteur do and I cannot stress enough NOT have free table bread as an option. Unless you’re a high end restaurant. You can shove the cost up the consumer’s ass in high end. The people that will consistently pay for a $75 plate of food will usually save their appetite for that plate and not a whole pack of knock off Hawaiian rolls. Just for a frame of reference one of the steakhouses I worked for spent over $2k in table bread a month. 24k of annual profits padding guts while forgoing appetizers because who’s hungry after 4 loaves of bread?

This was my first experience with how demographics can have affect on your clientele and check averages. Which would also apply to your tip average. Fatz was a blue collar restaurant with blue collar pricing, fare and somewhat continental setting. It was a restaurant of convenience in Taylors. You took family out here to eat. Not to entertain. Business folk didn’t bring clients here to wine and dine, you didn’t get dressed to the nines to eat calabash chicken.

I grew up somewhat poor. Sometimes days were more poorer than others but I was taught to mind my manners and be polite. My mother was a waitress in a diner with three kids to support. I’ve always tipped well. I was serving $2 tables. Rude fucking tables. Some of the patrons it would seem they were embarking on their first adventure outside of the RV park up the road. Didn’t matter what the check amount came out to be, calculators weren’t pulled out of purses to calculate 15% they gave you whatever change they had left over. Credit cards were hardly used at this establishment. Some lunches I’d have one whole side of the dining room and on the rare occasion it filled up I might walk out with $35. My biggest bank was $80 on a Friday night. I had friends come in and see me. These patrons were the type if they ordered tea as their drink choice they’d get offended if you asked “sweet or unsweetened?” If they ordered a steak the muscle memory in my hand would already go through the motions of writing that short handed “W” that would be incased inside a circle to represent the desired temp for that 1/4 inch cut ribeye. Well done bitches. Steak sauce and ketchup was abundant. Ranch might as well have been a beverage choice. I recall one regular that insisted on eating with a disposable fork and knife. We would keep a stack of paper plates on hand to serve her because “I’ve just always ate on paper plates with plastic forks it’s what I prefer. I won’t eat no dinner if it’s on a regular plate.” Someone actually brought this bitch out in public to eat. Maybe I would’ve been more appreciative to her toddler needs had she tipped me more than her plastic fork’s net worth.

After 6 months of serving I had approached the owner and inquired about picking up some bar gigs. He looked me up and down, paused and said “grow some tits and we’ll talk.”

Any day I worked there was a double. I didn’t have my license most of my Fatz career so going home to take a break on my double wasn’t an option. Transportation was a pain in the ass. Uber was still learning the alphabet with crayons and Greenville had 6 taxi cabs and one dispatch that never answered the phone. Some nights my 4 roommates would watch the phone ring at 11:00pm when I’d call for a ride home because no one would commit to picking me up until they all fought over who’s turn it was. Somedays no one would pickup. So I’d walk. From Wade Hampton, up Rutherford, right at Pleasantburg by the Shriner’s club and follow it to Poinsett, turn right and hit those peaks and valleys all the way to Furman U. I just googled the distance- 9.2 miles. I did this walk 3 times. Always after a double. It would take me 3 hours. Remember this next time you have that second drink before you drive home. Once I started making work friends I’d hit them up for rides or I’d be a transient for the evening and couch surf. I’d go out and get hammered with my coworkers at Crocs (the OG off of Howell) and pass out on one of their crusty sofas with whatever cover or blanket that was available. Never brought an overnight bag, I’d roll right out of bed (sofa), put my sneakers on and head into work. One night as I was slowly fading to black, on a coworker’s sofa , settling in after a slew of Jager and shooting pool at Crocs, I was jarred awake by some elevated conversation. Two females that were kind enough to share their sofa for the night had procured a drug deal with two rather large men in their kitchen. It was the exaggerated whispering that woke me up from my liquor coma. I pulled my head out of my borrowed blanket and witnessed what I assumed was an under financed drug transaction. Apparently if you call this “company” for services they don’t do layaway. I’m oblivious to how it started or what was involved. Sometimes I wonder if I was dreaming. Two very large men were having a very serious chat with my two coworkers about a transaction and lack of funds. The two females were hyped out of their minds, literally bouncing and sobbing with smiles on their faces . They weren’t concerned by the danger of the situation, their dilemma meter was focused on the score. I don’t think either one of them knew the smaller one of the two had a revolver sticking out the back of his jacket. Payment needed to be made. Not enough money to cover it? There were other means. And they obliged, both of them right there in that little galley kitchen. Dude’s gun never fell from his belt as he loosened it.

That next morning I crawled out of the sofa, quietly grabbed my things and walked to work. My two coworkers worked dinner that night. We made small talk even talked about going to Crocs again after work and I declined. I needed a shower, mouthwash and a fucking therapist asap. They never brought up that night. I don’t think it was their first rodeo as they say.

Fatz was transitioning into another concept the time I worked there. They kept it pretty hush, hush and little was discussed about it. By this time I was fairly comfortable there. I had made a good connection with one of the servers there and we began to date. Thank god I had finally found a ride to and from work. Bless that cute little, blond, angel’s face for knowingly becoming my taxi for the next 6 months. She was a sweetheart, we just never had that much in common. I made some solid friends there. The restaurant was closed on Sundays so we would all get together and plan some day trip. Either the lake, house party, bowling, Asheville. This would be my first work family. The Hyatt never did that for me. Too stuffy and too proud. I enjoyed the time I spent with those guys and gals. Restaurant drama was a thing. Sometimes we all hated each other during rush but we’d make amends over pool at Crocs. We were a close knit group for the short time we hung out. It’s odd though, of all my jobs that I’ve worked that lasted longer than a month, I still touch base with friends I’ve met over time in those places and some are social media friends, some are great friends. I do not have one representative from this era as a friend on any platform. I spent 14 months here.

Legends Cafe

For some reason I want to spell this with a Z “Legendz” not sure if they spelled it that way or I’m craving Zaxby’s at the moment but this was the name of the rebranding concept launch. We went from Fatz Cafe to Legends(z) cafe in on week. The hoopla surrounding the new concept and been unveiled. The interior got a new paint job from the Fatz green (like our shitty itchy shirts) to khaki (like our stained Walmart chinos). New artwork appeared on the walls of at the time current sports legends(z) and past favorites. We had sketched posters of Muhammad Ali, Michael Jordon, The “Golden Bear” Jack Nicolas and a few others I can’t recall. Menu didn’t change a bit. To my chagrin I’d still be dealing calabash and rolls to the masses.

I felt terrible for the owner. He had planned a big bash for the rebranding, radio station came out to play, there were games and shit to be had for the kids. I’d say around 30 customers showed up the whole day. The owner was crushed.

His wedding gift was shitting the bed financially.

Legends(z) opened up with a fizzle burp. That was my sign to start another chapter in my work resume. After weeks of ADSAP classes and signing my first born child to Leon Hix for SR-22 insurance, I got my license back. I was no longer tethered to that strip mall side of Walmart Supercemter. One of my best friends had a job at the Blockhouse. After hearing about my tip average he insisted that I come by and fill out an app. So I did. And thus begun my foothold into becoming a restaurant lifer.

Fatz, Legends(z) became my first stepping stone into the restaurant business side of service industry. It was a blur of fry oil stains, new friends and for the most part a fun time aside from all the walking I had to endure. I still remember most of their names, Mike, Jason, JB, Chad. Nicole, Misty, Trish (I called her Trisher) Tim, Laura, Gene, Master P and I’m sure I could remember a few more. Ive always enjoy the movie Waiting. It reminds me quite a bit of that crew. I’ve always linked myself to Justin Long’s character at that time in my life.

Mike (the owner) would later work with me for a bit at Zona’s after Legends(z) shut down. I liked Mike he worked his ass off and treated me with respect for the most part. He would later tragically die in a car accident. His brother who also worked in the kitchen, killed himself a few months after I left. Tim (one of my server friends) died of AIDS a few years later. The others? No clue as to their whereabouts but I wish them all well.

Fatz, I didn’t really like you. I liked the job because of the people I met. The serving experience not so much. The clientele, over all was terrible. It definitely started my all too familiar dislike for entitled consumers and cheap cunts. When I quit, I never walked into that space again.

This entire month of January I’ve taken my mental health and placed it on a pillow. I’ve tried to encase it with rest, soul searching and self reckoning. It took year 3 of my coochie business for me to resign to the fact that my business shuts off for the most part in January. It used to stress me out. Still does to an extent. You go from high anxiety 500 boxes in one month to high anxiety 50 the next. You make a profit in December but sip off of it like a hamster bottle in January.

My goal is to make the best of my downtime and travel whenever possible. This January has been a bear for traveling. It’s cold everywhere except the southern tips of the country. My travel outlet is my truck. I enjoy traveling in it. It’s my steed wherever I go. Flying is an option but I must’ve inherited my father’s past trauma of flying in the war. There is nothing that will put my mind at ease when flying. Especially now that I can’t drown in a bottle of vodka. I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. I know it’s coming one day.

My body kicked out the love for cold weather this year. That was shitty timing what with it currently 18° outside. I used to camp in sub 30° often now I bumped up my thermostat to 40° plus. Its also colder camping alone. I get antsy if I can’t travel or camp it’s almost became an obligation to me like I’m letting myself down if I don’t go out and be all you can be outdoors. I pushed myself too hard my last trip in August. Gville – Glacier Park – Tetons- Crested Butte – Gville in 9 days of road tripping solo. Crammed two trips into one. I lean heavy on these trips to calm my “nerves” I inherited through my mother and of course to explore and getting out of my comfort zone. It was an epic road trip for how much I traveled but I felt like I worked overtime the whole ride. Just trying to be too much of a cowboy at one time. I’m not tone deaf. To be able to take time off to travel is a great privilege. I just mucked it up.

Weather and timing is doing its part to keep me home for this month. I took a two nighter to Hunting Beach at the beginning of the month. Mostly to rest my wrists from the joint pain of folding salami and turning cheese into origami. Once I saw the writing on the wall that no epic adventures were to be had this month, I adjusted my expectations. I enjoy traveling, camping it’s my numero uno hobby. It can also be exhausting. The payoff is worth it but it doesn’t disguise the fact that it’s toiling. I travel to reset not relax.

Rather than bounce off the walls for the month I put it in reverse. I gave myself some sit on your ass tasks to exercise my mind. Not high stress more like a mental spa day but for the whole month.

Changed my workout routine (maybe forever) to mostly using body weight and yoga. I’m burning probably half the calories I’m accustomed to and can’t tell you if I’ve even got all my rings to close on my watch (something I used to obsess over) more than three times this month. Did some hikes but this time I took my time. No PRs to focus on, I’d rest intervally and take some notes.

I’ve read a lot, wrote a lot. I’ve felt my brain respond like a sponge. I know that rest is the best medicine for the body I just thought it meant for the people that needed it. I never allowed myself to fall into that category. I keep racing that one person in the mirror.

I also chose this month to rid my body of most of its processed sugar. That’s the silent killer. I’d snack on candy, chocolate, pastries whatever I had around me. Right after I ate any meal I had to have sweets to offset it. Sugar mucks and fucks your brain almost as bad as my other vice. It slid in through the back door while I was kicking vodka out the front one. Added sugar BAD (insert image of Phil Hartman Frankenstein skit). I treat myself once a week to ice cream because fuck off, give me something man.

I’ve spent some solid healthy time sitting still. If you pay enough attention you will feel your body letting out a barely audible loooong sigh. Like that big exhale in yoga it feels like you could give your whole soul a solid crack. You almost have to Velcro my ass to the sofa most days. I took some time off to embrace it. Sobriety also helps put that fire of chasing chaos all over the place. I’ll save some talk about chaos another time.

Rest has helped me situate my anxieties. Sometimes my anxieties are like bubble wrap you can’t pop. You twist them and stomp on them as hard as you can and they just won’t fucking pop. You poke it with a needle and it just fills right back up with air. I will visualize my anxieties when I’m laying in bed at night. I picture Tom Cruise in Minorty Report as he physically flips through someone’s memory banks on a big virtual screen. Using motion to slide and shuffle through memories and experiences. I do the same. When one of those snakes invades my head I visualize it like a film segment, I clip it and throw it in the recycle bin and replace it with a sunrise, sunset or some other vivid memory I’ve created to stomp on the snakes. I’ve practiced this over the last few years and the symbolism works for me. I use the recycle bin in a literal sense. I know they’ll be back.

Also when I move slower it allows me to focus on the other things I reckon with. Road rage, creativity blocks and just my general attitude towards society when I get these snakes. I know I come across as bitter some days. I try to break one small habit a week that needs stomping out. Little bads make big bads over time.

I spent a solid part of my day yesterday with headphones on vibing, eyes closed, head back with some music that I’ve loved over the years all the way up to bed time. And then some more. Tears rolling from my eyes in gratitude.

I

Could

Literally

Feel

Myself

Healing

In between music sessions I was talking with my wife and all I said was “I can’t believe I waited so long to do this.” To go sober, to heal my brain from the poison I fed it for years. “I feel like I just opened another chamber in my brain. I literally feel myself leveling up”. I wanted to cry when I told her this but I’m not a public cryer. She knows this.

I absolutely don’t have all the answers to combat my snakes but I’m winning more than I’m losing and that’s a giant step for Chad’s mankind.

I wouldn’t mind it a little warmer however.

It’s literally everyday. The constant act of juggling marketing ideas and actions . Engaging with your consumer audience. Creating an branding magnet that keeps you in the heart and mind of your wonderful patrons or future ones. Relevance and popularity are kitties titties in the service industry.

I break most restaurants and some retail businesses into three categories

You have the big box boys that with seemingly bottomless advertisement budgets. They have all the hwy billboards for the travelers to plan their next food stop 135 miles away. You look for that familiar branding on a 20’x10’ illuminated graphic star on the horizon and grip the steering wheel in glee “HOLY SHIT CRACKER BARREL EXIT 45 and you look around to check the next exit up so you can do the math in your head “I just passed exit 6 I can eat in 39 miles! Your family is online looking at the menu with their tablets and phones even your 3 year old toddler is screaming “CHICKEN NUGGIES” in her little seat with the remnants of gold fish crackers stained between her palm lines. Your wife phones in call ahead seating and in less than an hour your whole family is eating like Jockey Lot royalty. The exit you take is right by the highway in the new development part of the city named “Pleasant Almond Hills” although the only almonds you’ll find that are indigenous to that area would be in a 4oz vacuumed pack clipped up at a gas station counter right by the rainbow of bic lighters and rolling papers. Inside that new development you will most likely be surrounded by the rest of the high society of branding conglomerates such Buffalo Wild Wings, Outback or Longhorns (sometimes both if the current demographic studies show that their are enough beef lovers to sustain two steakhouse chains across the street from one another). Sometimes it might be another chain that hasn’t quite made it to your demographic yet but it’s edging to you closer at Napoleon conquering speed. That same development will have brand new shiny counter service heavyweights like Chipotle, Moes, 5 Guys and Panera. Let’s not forget every single one of these will have your 5 go to drive thrus (or more) Chic fil-a, Starbucks, Taco Bell, Hardee’s and of course McDonald’s, the heart slayer. There are brand new retail boxes with their shiny new brick paint and $15k signs on the front of the building. Sometimes you can look up and these big bright box stores have a big bright billboard with the same congruent branding right beside the store to beacon weary travelers to stop in and buy reprinted canvas of a llama smiling or some costume jewelry depicting half moons and sharks teeth. All of these corporate power houses have done research and studies on how far tables should sit from the kitchen, ergonomic booth seats, decibel and hertz levels of musak and popular song choices to nosh by. Interior decorators with color swatches to match the local weather patterns and soil content (slight exaggerations) Surrounding the new development are hundreds of brand new three story work/live condos giving thousands the options of convenient shopping and dining right outside your fucking welcome mat. For some reason I never see these filled. They all look so monotonously empty. Your family will hit these exits up, spend all your money inside of Pleasant Almond Hills and be on your way to your next destination. These types doesn’t care to know your name, face or what your new puppy’s name is. They will know all about you though. They’ll know your eating habits, the color of your skin, your religious background, how many Hershey bars you eat a day, if you’re obese or a health guru. They’ll know how far you drive to work, all of your spending habits and drinking habits. They do their homework on your consumerisms and your mannerisms. They’ll have circle graphs of how many generations from Traditionalists to Zs there are in your hood and how they react to traffic circles and pit bulls. The local restaurants and shops 3 miles down the exit in the actual city will never see your face if you’re just passing through. I am just as guilty as the next person. I’ve done this ritual a 100 times. The big guys aren’t dumb. They have the capital to capitalize.

Next up, let’s drive three miles down to this city on the outskirts of Pleasant Almond Hills and check out the city. We’ll call it Greenburg..

Greenburg is a well established little city wedged between two major cities in bordering states. Its also developing at a rapid pace, turning over old stones for gentrification, planting fancy lamp posts on street corners, aesthetic walkways over rivers, budding arts district downtown, tweezer food with award stickers and plaques by the hostess stand. You’ll still get some big box vibes here but if city planning has some creativity they’ll keep the locals in mind. That’s a big fucking IF. You’ll find local restaurants, boutiques, shops with gourmet popcorn and jerky, live venues and maybe a sports venue if you’re geographically lucky. This a good start to take in the heart of the city. Yeah you have your tourist teasers with the t-shirt shops with a thousand multi colored shirts, hats, keychains and dog vests that read “Greenburg” in its newly invested font that a dozen people collaborated for six months on. Even a catchy new hashtag embroidered on a towel #beTHEburg to wipe your hands clean after making your favorite squash casserole from the veggies you bought at the downtown market. You have your local restauranteurs with their Taj Mahals on main and other locals with their downtown niche firmly planted into the Greenburg roots of downtown. Whether it’s dive bars that have survived the test of taste or new establishments that did their homework and created a unique addition to the downtown vibe. These establishments slurp up the foot traffic of tourism. With the assistance of wide sidewalks, shaded by strategically planted dogwoods trimmed just enough to see everyone’s business signs along the Main Street. Picturesque, post card like shout outs in local periodicals and tourist commissions. When looking online for things to do in Greenburg a lot of these restaurants will get the star billing on the googles and a lot of the local press. Also coincidentally you see their advertising in said press outlets on the back pages that no one looks at. These establishments are some of the heart and soul of Greenburg and understandable so. Most represent the city in the city’s eyes. Some of these are the Best in Show. This is where the local pros throw down with their .5 star James Beard wannabes, $50 hanger steaks with truffled twice fried potatoes and 12 step cocktails served in cooper vessels. Downside for these guys and gals is you gotta pay the price to hang. $40-$50 a square foot for prime commercial makes the menu sky higher than most but someone gotta pay for the dogwoods. You get the best and worst here. You will absolutely find some top notch food, art and culture. Some have mastered it and sustained. Others put their life into it and lose it all in 6 months. Success can be a crap shoot sometimes. Even the hottest shit players get shut out. Their marketing strategy is to go after the tourists, that walk the streets, locals that tend to treat downtown as a once a week destination and to try to feed all the office tummies for lunch and happy hours. They have their pulse on who’s coming into town for entertainment. They’ll brace themselves for the denim tuxedo invasion if Luke Bryan is in town or open an hour early because Johnny Mathis is making a cameo and the boomers want to eat at 4pm. Other bars will compete the other happy hours, sin nights and roof tops. Some creative engineering sustain the old architecture and well paid interior decorators to make it look inviting. It can be dog eat dog marketing here at times especially in the cold months. Rent can eat you alive. The last thing you want is to have a solid concept for several years and watch 6 other exact concepts align down the road from you one by one. For some that small handful of regulars that used to come sit at the bar daily was the only way they sustained a profit. For others that big happy hour meeting paid to keep the open sign lit. Greenburg locals love that new carpet smell. They also love to be seen walking on it. Sometimes the big city out of town developers will try to park their ideas right along side of the downtown Mecca. They’ll rebuild old mills, churches or tear down old mills, railway stations and rebuild mill looking concepts with cheaper materials. They’ll also create developmental sparkly names to establish their new area usually using key words like Junction, Station or Railway. Maybe throw in some old ass mayor from 100 years ago and call it Johnson Junction. Alliteration is trendy and looks great on a t- shirt. Marketing trends are usually done by local marketing companies or within the heart of the organization as it should be.

The honorable mentions are the other guys that for the most part you don’t think about unless they have a traffic light beside their establishment. If you take the moment to look up from your phone at the traffic stop you might see these places in strip malls, repurposed gas stations or old homes. Most are roadside diners, end caps or may have gotten a deal on a lease because they sit behind another popular business. Some are inhabitants of a rebuild of a rebuild of a rebuild. Once a year the outside sign changes but the same goddamn planter is outside the door. You’ll see old burger joints that are now Chinese buffets. You can literally see the old burger sign on the window that’s been permanently etched in the tint from the sun. Old Greek eateries handed down father to son or daughter with their locally loved onion rings and baby clubs. Old steakhouses or Italian spots that have stood the test of time. They don’t worry about social media, mailers, current trends or cocktails with essence of local kudzu. They’re established. Family owned. You see their kids hosting and the dad in the kitchen cooking. Wife is making her rounds to hug and kiss the cheeks of the regulars that have been coming in since before Reagan took a bullet. They’ve captured the 3 mile radius of their business. You’ll see people waiting outside to eat at 5pm on a Tuesday night. They are the unicorns of the service industry. I envy the fuck out of these folk.

Along these roads you’ll see some of the old dinosaurs from the 90s. Applebees by the old Walmart (it was the shit 25 years ago because demographic studies), Ruby might be hanging around still unless a Chinese buffet moved in. Sometimes you might pull over the side of the road and take a pic of the old Bennigans still standing. Demographics still play a part in this area. Depending on your average income per mile you’ll find some check cashing places, dollar tree stores, smoke shops. Asian massage parlors, tire shops that rent rims and plasma banks. Being established doesn’t necessarily mean successful. Its oft times means consistency. Good or bad. Some retail and service businesses come here to start up. Like a launching pad. You can find rent for $10-$15 dollars a square foot. Maybe the landlord is tired of having a vacant building they’ve been paying real estate taxes on for 20 years and they help with buildout. Might save you $10k on ceiling tiles and updated plumbing. You put your frozen yogurt place here to build your launching pad into the downtown or station hot spot in 3-5 years when your lease ends. Maybe it’s just a yearly lease. You might’ve picked that spot because it already had the perfect size water heater installed from the previous tenant. Or your one sandwich cooler fits just right in that nook. You have big dreams but not the budget. Your business will never make local periodical without paying $1000 for an 1/3 page advertisement (they gotta pay their bills too). If you had a $1000 for a mag ad you’d probably be in a more desirable spot. You’re on page 10 on google if you even can afford a website or can design your own form watching YouTube . Most of your decor are mix and match tables, hobby lobby accents to hide the dry wall cracks and the uneven paint job you did yourself. You don’t have much capital to sustain your new business you actually may not have any for the first year and you juggle your full time job to pay to keep the lights on until you hit the correct number ass to seats it takes to make a buck. You may have plastic signs by the road to catch the consumer’s eye or even the dancing blowup dude to distract motorists. I’ve always said if you’re still using these props months after your grand opening it was never that grand. You might be a coffee shop without the money grabbing drive thru that the locals love but sometimes they don’t have the time to get out of their car to wait in line. You just aren’t convenient enough when they are in a hurry to work. You keep sidewalk cafe signs with specials of the day out in front of your store because you saw a cute little cafe had one downtown that you love. You don’t stop to think that sidewalk traffic is pertinent to their business not yours.

Youll find small consignment shops with painted signs on the door. Usually any empty shop with some simple shelving and a counter. You hope to update as the money flows. If it ever does.

You know every face that comes in your place if it’s more than once. After a while you’ll know their occupation, kid’s names and that their favorite pet canary can sing the Jefferson’s theme song. You depend on these little clusters of patrons because without them you may close next month. You’re hoping that new development of homes being built half mile down the street will help pickup business as long as you can hold out long enough for it to fill up.

I’ve experienced every level of this consumerism. 30 years of business management, ownership turns your mind into a mental marketing manager. I don’t see just restaurants or retail chains. I immediately go to start up costs, over budget fuck ups, marketing strategies. When I sit in one those establishments these are the things that dance in my head. Aside from the other brain washing of looking for cobwebs in the chandelier, ceiling light bulbs burned out or watching th cook dig for gold with his vinyl glove halfway up his nostril. The big boxes I’m sitting in a GM meeting discussing demographics, commodity prices, consumer trends and purchases. I’m not looking at individuals I’m looking at your household income, number of kids and how much you average paying real estate taxes a year. I want to get intimate with your wallet. I’ve done the big store walk thrus, corporate training, handbook acknowledgments even toured some of those 3 story work/live condos.

Mid level it’s almost the same but you want to know how the locals trend. Some cities roll up the sidewalk at 8. Some have 200 churches in one zip code and love to eat out after church. Some love beef but not $19 lb beef. You pay closer attention to your cross town rivals. You mimic what the successful places are doing if your ideas are going stale. You watch the trends like it’s the daily news. If you don’t stay ahead then you’re playing catch up. When you fall behind, most assuredly so will your bank account. You get antsy when you see new construction. Please don’t be a new fucking competitor. You create these daily trends to stay relevant all week. Weekday numbers are hard to hit due to over saturation of the market. Maybe it’s BOGO Mondays with apps, taco Tuesday, loose women’s Wednesday and so on. We won’t even touch base on staffing this is not what this essay is about.

My level now is that third level. I’m constantly looking for space to upgrade and grow without losing my savings account in the process. If I achieve my wants and wishes and find that magical spot then I’ll bargain shop for my equipment and refrigeration. I choose to look outside the city limits because fuck sign and other permits. I will most likely paint my own interior (no hobby lobby though) I have a game plan in my head but it has to be flexible around my plans. Demographics I still need to do my homework if I want it to suceed. If I like a space and it’s lease rate it may not be the best fit for my business. If I’m sitting beside a dollar general and a radio shack turned into a plasma center chances are I won’t get much foot traffic into my spot to buy a $200 custom built charcuterie board. So I have to ask myself. Do I need to add different options to my business venture to please more ass to seats or do I look around more to see if I can find lease that’s higher but makes more sense to for my product and price point? Which makes me a one man demographer. Which I am. My marketing budget is zero unless I feel like giving Zuch a Lincoln to boost my biz. I rarely think ahead on my content posts unless it’s for a special occasion. Guerilla marketing is my choice of advertising and sometime it’s exhausting. Creating daily content that will get people to notice you for more than 5 seconds is a lot harder than you think. If you slip so does your business. I’m not sitting on the side of a busy highway exit cuddling up to Cracker Barrel for $50 a sq ft and in all honesty if I were to do my diligence for demographics it would probably say it’s not a smart choice anyway to assume road travelers would call two days ahead and order a box while they go take a piss at the WaWa off of the Pleasant Almond Hills exit. It’s a fucking headache because you don’t stay relevant sitting on your dick beaters. You try to put yourself in everyone’s face in an unobtrusive way because if you’re too obnoxious then you become overbearing. Yes people buy from people they like but they aren’t obligated to do it daily, weekly or even monthly. Them you have a slow week or month you don’t sit with your board of directors, GMs, branding firm and brainstorm with coffee and muffins on the table. You’ll find you’re combing IG to see what smarter more creative people are doing because Goddamit sometimes you’re just tired. Or you get edgy and unhyped because everyone is crooning about the new charcuterie joint in town and maybe you just didn’t have the money or energy to do one yourself even though you thought about it 100 times. Before anyone jumps to some shit conclusion I’ll be the first to say that I pull for every single fucking local new business. Unless they carbon copy my blueprint. Which no one has done. Or at least to the level of what me worry?

Honestly I have no problem spending my savings account. I’ve probably drained it a half a dozen times with some failed ventures and looking to give it a try again. I’m just going to be much more selective this time. Sure there is always the opportunity to pull in an investor but let’s just say it hasn’t worked that well for me in the past. Also I know regardless of where I may end up I’ll be spending a solid month plus of my work time by poor boying it and building the damn thing myself. That’s a month of income I won’t get back while I build. Even losing a month’s worth of business is hard to get that ball rolling again. You tell a customer no or you can’t they’ll go right down the road to find another suitor. It’s the consumer way. I refuse to incrue ridiculous debt by using a loan to upfit someone’s old ass building that that was willed to them by their great uncle in ‘91. I won’t have meetings with architects and engineers about the best place to plug in 220 volt outlet for a convection oven fan or ideal place to cut into the concrete to make a drain for a three comp sink. My place better damn well have plumbing cap already. If I need a 220v outlet I hope to have room for one in the old breaker box. Need a store front sign? Probably paint something on the exterior. You don’t want to know the cost of a professionally made sign runs for and then you sit on a permit for three months before it can hang. That’s something you don’t learn in business school. How permits can fuck you entirely. I’m much more at home in places I support when I see their hard work presented in their business. Handmade bars, local art, woodwork all put together piece by piece. It touches my soul. It represents the local culture and community. Just as do the local places in the higher priced downtown places. I appreciate a hard work of art. The tough hide they’ve built from putting up with the amateurs and city politics. Weeks of high volume and annual street fairs can run you down.

Man I’m sure I had something else in mind when I started this blog and I might’ve switched my socks up halfway through but I took it for a ride and wanted to see where it went. I may do a part two sometime soon to follow through on my original point should I find it again.

I need to preface this first with that I spent a long time in this place, this company. I experienced some crazy highs and lows in my career here. Made my second generation of life long friends here, my family was created from this company as were many more. I’ve ingested more knowledge of the service industry from this company than any other in my career. This company built me as a lifer from the ground up. I had two mentors who started this company that groomed me, often times against my will to want to learn. 16 years i spent in that end cap in the Merovan center with Macy’s discount slacks and Perry Ellis collared shirts and cheap shoes I could never keep clean. Somethings I may mention may appear to shine a negative light on my old company, let me say that is absolutely not my intention. My transparency may come across as crass at times. Even the best of marriages have the shittiest of days. It’s like when you have siblings. You can say whatever you want about them because they’re your family. But if anyone else opens their mouth you best watch ya mouth.

At the end of the day (and my career here) this company became my family. They treated me like family. And they will always be a part of me. This is an abbreviated account of my time here. It would take a 100,000 pages to fill in the voids.

Spring ‘96

my girlfriend at the time Shannon, my fav third wheel Andy and I decided to have dinner at a fairly new establishment, Arizona Steakhouse. It was a Friday night. In fact a rare occasion for me to have a Friday night off from the service industry but due to a misunderstanding with the owner at my previous job (Blockhouse) I had some extra unemployed time on my hands. It was a packed Friday night, interior was darker than a cavern but alive with energy. As you walked into the restaurant you were immediately greeted by one of the three hosts, garbed in all black, standing curtly behind an old western relic buffet used as the hostess stand. Directly behind the hostess stand was the horseshoe ish bar with its illuminated pendants, perched perfectly between each barstool for couples to share the dim spotlight. Four top booths lined on the left the deuces on the right. Three brick steps up or come back down three steps, turn right and see the massive dining room. 48 tables were set up in the dining room and bar and 48 of them were full. Three round tops that sat 6 at the time (years later we’d update to 8 tops) all centered under elk antlers chandeliers with little miniature lamp shades over each pointed bulb. The little filaments would pop if you dusted chandeliers too rough. Cacti planters surrounded each corner and the brick interior was filled with old retro western prints and Indian portraits. Three brick window arches that settled behind the chandeliers separated the bar from the dining room. Even the open kitchen had mood lighting over the expo area. An area I would soon spend thousands of hours mentally chained to a stainless counter, calling for hot food hands and runners. Exposed brick wall ran parallel with the dining room and kitchen with a hardwood walkway that would slowly erode from all the carbon and grease wrecked. non slip shoes of the servers going in and out of the kitchen. Better not be goddamn tennis shoes. Wall sat just low enough for customers to prop their kids on the ledge at watch the 5ft hickory wood grill flame up when the grill cook would use the butter brush and splash the grill with old fry oil to bring the flames alive. It was my first experience with an open kitchen. I loved the energy of the line, all matched in pristine (from my back row seats) chef coats, matching hats and aprons, manager handling outside expo with his little moist towelette on the right to wipe smudges and excess melted potato butter off the plates. I was watching chaos transformed into symmetry. The hickory wood aromas, lighting, interior, atmosphere and well the food was fucking amazing.

The last time I had stepped foot in this building was when it was the Continental Cafe, a little deli that had launched itself from the Haywood mall . We sat right beside the upperwait station (I would permanently seal this waitstation up in a decade due to employees loitering) at the ass end of the smoking section. I was still a smoker at this time and in the 90s it was perfectly fine to establish a smoking area 3 feet away from the non smoking area. Even as a smoker I couldn’t comprehend the logic of having smoking and non in the same dining room. I ordered the Father Kino’s filet, my girlfriend and roommate both had the Table Rock Sirloin. A signature item I would eventually learn to loathe. We also split the spinach and artichoke dip. The appetizer staple of the 90s. 1996, the mid level restaurants and chains still reigned supreme. Outback, Longhorns, Logan’s, Lonestar, California Dreaming were the stars at this time, downtown was just a pup.

Arizona was similar to all of these the main difference being it was locally owned and operated. Having spent 3 years at an overly corporated Hyatt company I already knew a corporate job wasn’t a good fit for me. I like structure I just don’t like it shoved up my ass. Ironic that I would spend the next 16 years of my life helping them build into one.

My palate at the time was still mostly attuned to the like of Bennigans and Taco Bell but it was opening up. I had never experienced a steak over a live hickory wood grill nor a baked potato that wasn’t wrapped in foil. They coated rhem in bacon grease, kosher salt and then baked them naked as a jay. I cleaned all three plates I was served that evening. Even my side salad that accompanied my steak was on fucking point. The waitstaff were professional and clean cut. Adorned in heavily starched Tommy Hilfiger denim shirts and black Levi’s jeans. The aprons were equally starched with the Arizona Steakhouse crest over the left pocket. My two previous serving jobs were a lingering and dying Fatz on Wade Hampton and the Blockhouse. I was raised in a fairly strict household. Both of my father figures were ex military. I was craving some fucking structure after a three year roller coaster ride of cocaine and lunchtime mind erasers. I had made up my mind before I even signed my check.

I bought a tie the next Monday and filled out an application the following Tuesday. My intention was to work as a server there. The owner, Mark hired me on the spot.

Once upon a time in a galaxy far far away I had been thrust into the KM job at the Blockhouse before I resigned. Thrusted? More like “hey Chad can you grab an apron and jump on grill? Willy’s in jail again.” and then next thing you know I’m working 55 hours a week corralling crackheads for work and making sure the beer cooler is locked so my staff doesn’t get drunk at lunch. Listen, the Blockhouse is a whole ‘nother chapter that I’m just not ready to write about yet..

I should’ve left that off my resume because Mark was eager to hire me in the kitchen too. Cross training would be the key word for my training at Arizona. I would work on the line at lunch and serve at dinner. “With your experience and training, it’ll give you opportunity to climb the ladder in our company should you choose to do so.” I had zero fucking interest in ever being a restaurant manager ever again. I had already re enrolled at Tech for the third time. This time would be different! I had nursing school on my mind. It doesn’t take much discernment to figure out that I would never wear a pair of scrubs in my professional career. I spent one week at tech when I went back. I didn’t open up a single text book.

Kicking and screaming I had been drug back into the kitchen. I was to be trained to be the 4th man for lunch. The roll call for a regular day lunch shift consisted of your grill man, who obviously worked grill, manned the prime rib station and dropped shoestring fries from the reach in freezer to the fryer , sitting next the alto shaam that held the prime rib. The assembler was the quarterback of the line, calling all days to the grill and 4th. Palming loaded potatoes to the right side of the plates, hay stacking fries, toasting buns and pinching cases upon cases of parsley sprigs between the proteins and potatoes regardless of form. 4th man (that’s me) would work the deep fry station, scything clubs, manning chef mike(we had three when they all worked), and searing my fingerprints on the outside of 400° potatoes as I’d pop them open to load. All the while hearing assemble chanting out the abbreviated modifiers “I need an E!, E no V, BAC and three Bs! No this wasn’t a cheerleader during a football game. Cheerleading was for outside expo, these were how we synced the comms for potato building. E= everything, loaded, scrape that mother fucker on the floor gimme all you got. B= butter, S= sour, C= cheese, A= bacon (sorry butter got the b first it’s a primary abbreviation) and V for chives (see last explanation and consider cheese next). If you wanted a potato loaded it was just plain ol E. Everything but chives was E no V. If you wanted everything but chives and bacon it was a BSC. Don’t throw me a E no VA you’re fucking up the whole specs of system in place. Salad guy was the last on the line. He had his own station. You’d get pummeled with hundreds of dinner salads, specialty salads (we had one with 13 different ingredients) and manned the desserts. In the back you’d have P-1 and P-2. And on the other side of the kitchen you had the dishwasher with his boom box (wtf was a Bluetooth in the 90s?) sitting on top of the green wire racks where the dining room ovals would dry. I would spend 12 years of my career there constantly turning down the music emanating from the dish room. We affectionately called it the Hobart.

Training and prep was no fucking joke in AZ’s kitchen. Morning prep started at 6 am. You’d walk in through the back dock door and the km would greet you with your par sheet for the day. Mondays may be portion 10 club sets, 20 black beans, cut two 3rd pans of green onions and make 5 gallons of tempura batter. Listen, fuck that tender batter. We used to make tempura batter for the Tularossa platter and tenders basket. You would spend an hour of your morning cracking 90 eggs, with mounds of flower, chicken stock (that seeped for 12 hours and you better make sure it’s fucking iced down or the batter will separate) and you’d stand over this bucket like you just knocked it’s ass out on the floor and jab it with a two foot whisk until it blended into thick pancake batter. Sometimes it was so thick you’d break the stainless steel whisk in half. The kitchen staff when I arrived had it’s fair share of elitist cunts. Most were actually downright rude to me when I first started. I’d listen to some of the cooks gab during morning prep “I’ll give the new guy one week before he quits”. “You fucked up the club sets. Parchment goes in between the jack and chicken dipshit”.

I gave it a couple of weeks of getting in my comfort zone before I started punching back. Kitchens were different in the 90s. Shit talk was unabridged, words could come to blows and the KMs and or chefs would berate you for your untrained skills in front of the whole class.

Try that shit now and watch your whole line leave and get a job next door. Lord how the mighty have fallen over the years..

The steakhouse was big on food appearance and consistency. Each plate that pulled up in the window better look exactly like the last one. Your steaks better have seared diamonds don’t give them that zebra shit. Tenders better be laced with lacey, fries haystacked almost to the point that they can’t fit under a heat lamp. The carnita’s club? I hated that fucking club. It was like toasted origami on a plate.

You got 5 shifts to train on the line and then it was to the wolves with you. You’d either get hardened and knock it out of the park or you’d crumble and slide under potato warmer. My first four training shifts consisted of me doing all of my trainer’s bitch work and prep. Never saw the line until my first lunch solo, Secretary’s Day.

Secretary’s Day has evolved now to Administrator Assistant’s Day but at that time it was a lunchtime celebration. Lunch at Zona’s was always a beast. Centrally located in a huge business park on woodruff rd before the explosion and expansion of restaurants, big box chains and Wally World mart opening across the street would soon give birth to the gridlock in that godforsaken area. All you had for food options were Arizona, Applebees across the street and Boston Pizzaria. Who’d a thunk that after 30 years the pizza place would outlast us all.

I had been employed there for about two weeks, juggling between FOH and BOH training not quite getting a foothold in either one yet. I had established a friendship with a few of my orientation class alums and was planning on my first AZ employee meet up at Characters to see KC and the Sunshine band that night. I was excited to hang with my new coworkers and man I love a good disco band. One of my fellow new alums and I spent a half hour pregamming in his little pickup truck with some dank weed while dipping back into the steakhouse and chugging mini bottle shots of jager (go big or go home, what I always used to say before doing something ridiculously stupid). We rolled up and rolled out at Characters just in time to meet up with the rest of the Zona peeps and well we just had us a good ol time. From what I was told anyway. I had a nice blackout sesh that must’ve involved me hitting up my old Alma matter (Blockhouse) after the concert for some late night grub after they closed. No clue as to what I may have told the bartender that night as I made myself at home, made a salad and shoved it in a styrofoam clamshell. The only clues to this late night nosh fest was was the remnants of club cracker wrappers and smeared Parmesan peppercorn dressing on the steering wheel when I crawled in my jeep, still rolling from the night before ( I loved a good club salad as much as I liked a good disco) . Did I mention lunch shift starts at 6am? I should’ve gotten a goddamn trophy for showing up for work on time. Or a DUI.

I was thrown to the wolves that morning. We did about a $2500 lunch with a four man line. That may not seem that impressive now but keep in mind the lunch menu average was around $12 in those days and that was with beverage. I had my first taste of what it’s like to be berated by outside expo. My tenders weren’t as lacy as what spec demanded so outside expo would toss them in the garbage. I’d get a verbal notification at first and then he’d just throw them out and expect me to keep up. Carnita’s club was next. There was a specific way we cut the clubs at Zona. We didn’t use three slices of bread we used two and then stack it, cut it diagonally, not that 45° shit that would be too easy. The club bread was rectangular in a quadrilateral sense but you had to cut at a certain unmeasured angle to ensure the next cut gave you that symmetrical ridge along the top. On a slow day, newly trained, you’re batting about .300. If it’s busy maybe 2 out of 10. My clubs were getting clubbed like baby seals. Every other one I’d make would be tossed in the little trash can expo kept next to the ticket stabber. That trash can’s existence was solely intended to throw used tickets and bev naps away. I managed to fill it to the tits with unlaced tenders and clubs cut by “Stevie Wonder”.

I crashed and burned. Ticket times hit around 30 and I was alternating between playing hot potato with assembly and puking up Parmesan peppercorn dressing outside by the loading dock (a very underrated dressing). Fairly certain my boss Mark was reconsidering the money he invested in my two weeks of staggered cross training. I had a nice little pow wow with Mark and the GM at the time Kevin in the little office space beside the kitchen out door. “Buddy, you sure this is the right fit for you?” -Kevin asked me while I was visibly shaking from the all the drugs and booze I ingested the night before. I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs at that moment. “Motherfuckers you were sitting at the table with me buying my Jager Redbulls all night while me were dancing to Boogie Man!” I am literally the only person last night that made it here at 6am sharp!” I should’ve stayed in bed and choked on my own vomit but nope! My ass got here on time.” All I managed in between holding my head up with my palms was “I got this. It won’t happen again.” And by god it didn’t.

Serving was easy for me. I was quick, my memory was solid from never writing down my orders at the Blockhouse and I was a smooth sales guy. The first word they teach you in server training at Arizona was “unobtrusiveness”. You were a server not an entertainer. You didn’t introduce yourself when you greeted the table, customer didn’t need to know your life story or about your day. You were there to assist in their dining experience not to be a part of it. Sounds a little cold and unremarkable I know but hey, that’s how I served tables anyway so it was like peas and carrots to me Forrest. In fact during this era my haircut was akin to Gump’s as I quietly wrestled with my declining hairline. My ass fit right in service side of AZ.

Line ups

Morning and afternoon line ups were semi- militarized. At 11:10 every fucking morning we had line up. So of y’all call it pre- shift. At the Blockhouse we didn’t have a name for it because it didn’t exist. We’d literally line up shoulder to shoulder while the manager on duty would inspect our uniforms. Let me educate you on our spec

– professionally laundered and starched Tommy Hilfiger denim shirt

– white issued apron with Arizona Steakhouse logo above the pocket. Starched and laundered just like its fellow shirt mate.

– three to five spec pens. Spec was black, clear click. bic pens. They could be found at Staples across the street. They’d also keep them bulk, locked up in the office safe. $1 per pen. If you forgot your pens on the way to work you were out $3 before you even started your shift. I never bought pens after my first year. I’d steal them off the tables of the servers I thought were shitheads. There were plenty to be found on both accounts.

Arizona pleather server pad. Don’t try to individualize yourself by putting any cutesy stickers on them. They’ll make you pull em off or buy another one. If you are buddies with the keys you got em for free.

-Black Levi’s red tab jeans. They were $35 back then. I would wear the 550s for most of my red tab career. We’d ritz them in black dye if they started to fade to gray and we’d patch the holes in the thighs if our balls started hanging out. Most of the time we wouldn’t even do that. The aprons helped conceal the goodies just watch out when you sit down to roll silverware at the end of the night. I can recall some of the male servers remarking about how they sat in gum and would pull their ball sacks out of the hole like dried up playdough. This was way before the movie Waiting came out. We did it first.

-Black socks inside of non slip black shoes. Don’t try that white sock shit. MOD would make everyone stick their legs out to inspect. I wonder how many pairs of black socks were purchased 5 minutes after pre shift at the Walmart across the street? I never wore white socks at work. With black pants? Gross.

The guys has to be clean shaven, no facial hair unless it’s a well kept mustache or goatee and you’d have to grow that shit fast on your days off. The gals had to keep their hair up at all times, no earrings bigger than quarter and no body sprays or perfumes. Customer needs to smell the food not your whore ass I always would say to me fellow servers.

It was strict structure y’all and honestly I was here for it. This was the equivalent of service industry boot camp. I needed to be reined in for a bit after my time spent at Fatz and the ‘House. I had gotten a little fat, drunk and lazy.

Like the BOH, the front had its share of comfortable cunts with seniority complexes at first. When you’re the new kid on the block you don’t walk into the restaurant on day one and get the closer’s section even if you’re closing. When they tell you there are no “bad sections” they are full of shit. Listen I had to sing the same song and dance to the kids when I was a manager. I get it but we all know it’s a giant pile of bullshit. The new kids also get the shit side work. If you’re lucky one of your fellow veteran servers might come in late or god forbid get busted with the wrong pen their apron and they’d get to share that shitty sidework with you. Or you and the other new kid get to tag team it together and share encouragement and words about getting c fold distribution as your sidework just one time this week. The sidework nobody fucking liked was the condiments. My first full week I had condiments every. Single. Night.

Electric word, condiments, it takes forever and that’s a mighty long time..

All of how many did I say earlier? 53 tables? Each had one bottle of Heinz ketchup sitting next to the sugar caddies. At the end of every shift those ketchup bottles would be turned upside down into the ketchup cow (a plastic bucket who’s sole creation was for the purpose of hanging ketchup bottles upside down to drain to the bottom of container. You would place an used ketchup bottle under the little slide opening and carefully watch the bulk ketchup drain into the bottle like a cow teet. Hence the name. When it got to right under the top label you’d shut it off. Grab a warm wet bar towel and rim the bottle to rid it of any excess ketchup around the top. The lids were soaked in hot water, rinsed and placed back on the bottle to give the ketchup bottle that new purchased look each time it went back out to the table. We kept back ups in the kitchen and upperwait for high volume times when the server didn’t have time to do it in between table turns. You’d sometimes get up to 80 bottles of ketchup that needed a solid rimming after a busy Saturday. When rinsing these lids in hot water it was important to remember to wipe them down and drain completely. A little hot water in a ketchup bottle can go a long way when you open it up after it’s been festering for a few days. On slow days you could hear the bottle pop open at the table like a shaken bottle of champagne when Joe Consumer was about to smother his steak with it. I gave out quite a few free app cards and paid several dry cleaning bills. Sometimes you’d forget you left the little slide open, throw four half empty ketchup bottles in the cow and walk away to grab more. Come back to a pile of ketchup diarrhea on the dining room table you were doing your diligent sidework.

And then there were the multiple steak sauces. You were trained at day one to never encourage or ask if they wanted steak sauce with their steaks but for the sake of hospitality and geography we still kept our shelves stocked with multiple choices of sauces to pair with your well doners. They were also a part of the condiments opus. These you would individually marry together and like the ketchups they got their hot and wet rim jobs to make new once again. I’m talking to you A-1, Worcestershire sauce and Heinz 57. On the weekends two people would deal with this and it would take a solid hour. Sometimes you would watch grown ass servers cry when they saw their name next to condiments on the laminated chart.

When the condiments were married, rimmed and wiped down they were placed on a shelf in a storefont manner, label facing forward (just like you see in those fancy grocery stores) so when the customers walked by the cabinet they would see clean, professional uniformity. When you were finished you had to get your paperwork signed by the closer. Some closers were alright folk. They’d inspect a bottle or two, check the rows just to make sure they are straight and sign you off. Some you could payoff to “see” your silverware rolls. Then there were the cunts with a chip on their shoulder. They’d open up every single bottle, white glove the rims and sniff the bottles. If there was a bottle facing the wrong way they wouldn’t adjust it. They’d leave it and just tell you your sidework was incomplete. Sometimes coworkers can be cunts. Some people don’t deal well with condiment power.

So yeah I had that shit 5 days in a row, solo and I get it. I was being tested and I can be a tough SOB when it’s necessary but I also have zero tolerance for bullshit so by day 5 I was close as I could get to vocational violence. One of the closers had a thing for me, I won’t say his name but let’s just call him Cocksucker. My server schedule always seemed to pair with Cocksucker’s so he always did the sidework chart even though it was the MOD’s responsibility. After the fourth consecutive day of condiments (I kept score) I had made some snide off hand comment such as “man I think I’ve aced condiments after a week’s worth of practice” to the closer to see if maybe he hadn’t paid attention to his flagrant consistency . I got a smirk of attention and later that night got condo # 5. I gritted my teeth but went about my business. Regardless of the cunt I was happy with my job there. Money was good and my kitchen prowess had recovered. When it came time to get my paperwork signed Cocksucker went through the motions of checking each bottle again and found one bottle where the inside of the lid was discolored but not dirty. In fact it still had the plastic seal around it. The teeth holding the lid to the bottle had not been disturbed until he opened it. He tossed me the bottle and told me it was dirty and to fix it. I had just worked an open to volume Saturday, finishing up my 5th day of condiments and now Cocksucker had just tossed a brand new condiment of Worcestershire at me and talked to me like I was his dog. I smiled through gritted teeth and told him to shove the bottle up his ass. In a respectful manner of course. Like the Cocksucker that he was my attitude was reported to the AGM Robin. We had a similar conversation about this job being the right fit for me. I never mentioned my predicament of having condiments multiple days in a row or that Cocksucker had a thing for me. I nodded my head and said “yes ma’am. Won’t happen again.” I stayed in my jeep for an hour after close to have a one on one with Cocksucker when he left after work. He personally never assigned condiments to me again.

I lumbered through the first couple of years at the steakhouse like a worker bee. I showed up on time, worked the open to volume doubles like a good boy, did my job diligently and kept my nose clean. I was made a key employee not because I wanted it but because they needed it and eventually was made into full time front of the house. There was much better money to be made in the front. $10 an hour wasn’t bad in the 90’s but I could triple it waiting tables and now I was weekend bartender so I was a made man in the steakhouse of Zona. My intention from the day I was hired was to work a little and focus on finding my niche in the world. I refused to see the service industry as my be all you can be I would consider myself nothing less than a failure if I was still waiting tables in my 30s. This was my own personal pov and not meant to imply that this in someway defines anyone else’s choices or career. I had my own timeline I built in my head and it was lingering sideways. My girlfriend at the time had made some friends with some mortgage brokering folk while she bartended happy hour at Rio Bravo. She hit them up to give her man a chance at an office job. That’s right 9-5 Monday – Friday, my own desk, my own office. The great American fucking dream of one hour lunch breaks, weekday happy hour specials to be enjoyed on the other side of the bar wood and weekends to enjoy in the gridlock of everyone else’s weekend activities.

I was hired to work for a local mortgage company right off of Roper mtn rd. I had a little unassuming office with a window facing the outside of a unassuming office building inside of an unassuming business park.

My training consisted of sitting in front of a computer screen retaking tests on origination points and fees. Up until this moment I didnt know who the fuck Fanny Mae or Freddy Mac or how they met. Even after I passed the test with an 80 I still had zero clue what in the actual fuck was going on. Then they handed me a telephone and a stack of printed out numbers. “Cold call these people and sell em a refinance. You’ll get a base salary of $400 a week plus a percentage of what you make on origination fees.” I had come into the playing field when interest rates dropped 3 points from 9 to 6% apparently this was a big deal. Again I didn’t know shit at the time. I couldn’t go to google and research I learned it all through ease dropping and one test.

Ok sounded like a solid plan. I called about 200 people that week, got hung up on about 30 times and was told to fuck my mother a few times and it made me to rethink my future plans in th 9-5 world. I didn’t broker a single deal my whole time there. What it did do was give me a enough insight into the banking world to never ever trust a bank again.

I also found out that maybe that 9-5 life wasn’t a good fit for me. I found it herd -like and too much pressure. I only had one hour out of the day to do my bank run, grab lunch and any other errand that had to be run before 5pm. The world was a tad less accessible in the 90s y’all. You couldn’t buy shit online. Internet was just pirated music, chat rooms and slow streaming porn. A lot of places business hours mirrored the the 9-5 dream. To me it sucked. I was used to having Mondays or Tuesdays off and sort of having the world to myself. Malls were slow, bookstores were quiet and I didn’t have to plan ahead to eat out. Weekends it felt like I was being followed or pursued by half the population of Greenville when I went somewhere. Everyone was on my time or reverse. I had become one of the herd. Careful for what you wish for. Sometimes I’d get anxiety while trying to cram my errand running into one hour lunch breaks. After work I fell into the happy hour abyss during the week. I’d be by 8pm drunk, cooking ramen and continuing my happy hour at home untll bed time. Get up, throw up, rinse and repeat my day. I kept my job at the steakhouse and worked part time. Fully intent on leaving once my commission checks started rolling in.

I lasted about 3 months. Maybe. Gained 20 lbs all in my face and gut. Every single job I had I worked on my feet. Sitting still didn’t fit or suit me. Or my knickers . My happy hour visits had slowly turned me into a functioning alcoholic just like the rest of my loaner gang. Little did I know the impact it would have one me over the next two decades. I was just getting started.

I resigned to no surprise from my supervisor and went back to Arizona with my tail tucked between my fat thighs.

When I returned to my one person ticker tape parade celebration I told my boss “use me any fucking way you want to. I’m yours.”

One week later I’d make AGM about a year later I’d make GM.

I had worked under two GMs during my early tenor at Arizona one of that would become a mentor to me and later become VP. The other had a solid hand in helping learn things you shouldn’t do as a GM. Don’t get me wrong I liked the guy and we worked well together but we weren’t on the same playing field when it came to professionalism and conduct. Rich loved the company of women, hell most of us men do but he used the steakhouse server schedule like a dartboard for his dating pool. Many a women would get cornered in the produce cooler by lover boy and he’d use that cooler to try to stick his tongue down their throats. Or the office behind closed doors, or behind the dumpsters or bar cooler when he made his girlfriend at the time head bartender. The Me Too movement was still decades away but I bet his name and face were brought up in conversation a time or two. On Sundays he’d open up still wearing his pajama bottoms until we opened the doors. Later on he’d just keep them on the whole shift sometimes borrowing a starch uniform shirt from the office and tucking them into his flannel jammie. I seem to recall his sebagos were always filthy. By this time we had opened up Steakhouse number two 8 miles down 385. The first thought that ran through my head daily was “this wouldn’t have been tolerated a few years ago.” Travinia was already in the talks by this time too.

Rich saw the writing on the wall after a couple of years and resigned quietly. I was put into his position by proxy and by experience. I had soaked in a few years of the steakhouse by now and I exuded the company fabric and tact. I was now the guy that gave opera like pre shifts and line ups. I’d throw your cellphone in the safe if you couldn’t keep your damn hands off of it and I’d inspect your uniform like you were standing next to your bunk at Parris island (don’t drink the water). For the first real time in my life I was and felt like a company man. My name was finally on that front fucking door. I had a good salary, benefits and a house, soon to be 2 properties. I had a girlfriend I liked and maybe down the road we just might live together. At 32 and 6 years with the same company life wasn’t so bad. I had built up an amazing circle of a support system with friends I had made with the company. Many I still consider family to this day. We had an Italian restaurant right down the street making waves, a successful upscale steakhouse in Atlanta and of course the little brother AZ down the road in Simpsonville. The company, what I considered to my future for years to come was on the up and up. I was smitten as smitten can be. We’d throw giant anniversary parties and pass out gifts to all the tenured employees. My second year I got my first real wristwatch. I wore that motherfucker with pride. I earned that little prize.

One thing I don’t think anyone had accounted for because let’s face it I don’t think we really did our homework on demographics during that time was when we opened up Simpsonville or what we referred to as B town at the time put a little dent into Woodruff road’s location. Sales dropped a little. Not enough to warrant a worry but yeah it was noticeable. Wait times shrunk a little, lunches dropped a little. When I’d go visit Simpsonville I’d see some of my old regulars there having lunch. When we’d chat I’d hear this a lot “well this location is actually a mile closer to us! It’s easier to get in and out of when we are in a hurry.” Well good for the company I suppose as long as the entity is preserved.

I failed to mention one of our steakhouse adventures in Chattanooga. I suppose for the brief time it was relevant would make sense as to why I forgot about it. Before the ground was broken in Simpsonville, the company had turned a turnkey property in Chattanooga, Tennessee into a makeshift Arizona. I went to visit only once I believe at this time I was still working for the banking world. My ears wouid get filled with some not so good stories of how things were ran and already hearing the all to familiar “we do things differently up here.” Not sure as to what that meant exactly but all it took was a bandaid in a Sedona salad to shut that place to shit in a year. I can barely recall what the interior looked like.

The company was growing. I was excited. I was there when it was just one and now we were at 4 and buying shovels to break more ground. I lived and breathed this place for years. It was my family and my life. And it was expanding . The one thing that kept popping up in the back of my head was “how much can I grow with this company?” I was all in and then some. I wanted to grow and learn with the company. The bigger they grew the more I wanted to learn, to grow also. I wanted to sit in the meeting with architects, engineers and purveyors I wanted to soak up every inch of knowledge. I had the service aspect down, I could throw down on grill on a Friday night if needed. I wasn’t privy to p&ls other than what I was emailed at the end of the month. I knew food costs and purchase habits just fine. My mind craved proprietary knowledge. I watched the big cats smoking cigars and riding Harley’s. A goddamn private jet was just around the corner. I wanted that life. I loved the company but in the back of my mind I was getting a little frustrated of watching cigars get smoked from others all of my work and sacrifice. There were others in the company that came after me and had better pay and future restaurants set up for their liking. One chink in my boss’s armor was he liked to surround his business with his friends. Nepotism was stinking up the place a little bit. A lot of his friends took advantage of it and I was helpless to do anything. You have to really understand my old boss to get it. The man takes hardheadedness to a new level at times.

The larger we grew the more “partners” we accrued. By the time we opened Travinia number one down the road it was like I had inherited 15 new partners that treated most of the staff like they had been working for them for years and well some of these characters were the shadiest pieces of shit I had ever met. I have no problem referencing in that direction nor did I make my dislike for them hidden during that time. There was just something about them buying $200 worth of take out from an underperforming restaurant and then waiting outside for their friends to roll up and handing them the bag of food and driving away. When I would bring this to the attention of the owner I got the runaround for a bit and eventually was told to stay in my lane. Yeah, sure sir but the well being of this company that I’ve given a decade of my life to is my goddamn lane and I’m driving. Was I overstepping my bounds? Maybe but I was fully invested into the company. I gave a gigantic shit. These clowns did not.

As time went by went we continued to grow. More and more. Soon we’d have a Travinia in Columbia, then two along with another steakhouse.

The company was growing but I was still perched atop woodruff rd. I had pretty much reached my max pay for my position and I wanted to grow more. My restaurant was showing some signs of age. Tables were getting sticky, bathroom tiles were cracking, ceiling tiles were cracking and falling, the tile grout was so bad that it had permanent seeped water in the cracks. The last few years I’d spend my time when we were closed for holidays fixing and repairing projects over years of dilapidation. One thanksgiving one of my friends and I grouted that broken ass tile in the kitchen. One New Years I spent all day refinishing tables to get the icky sticky off the wood grain. I’d paint or replace kitchen ceiling tiles during the slow times between lunch and dinner and finally when I couldn’t repair anymore holes in the tile in the bathrooms I started hanging the art work that had carboned its outline on the brick walls over the years to hide the holes and broken wall tiles. We got a fat $40k upfit check that was available from the Merovan center and used to put stacked stone over the bricks. It looked good. But my bathroom were barely tooched. We did get new partition doors that didn’t match and a new shitter in the men’s room. The holes were left alone. The hard part for me being the long time operator for one location was having to deal with customers melting my face off with discredits of having a nice steak dinner plans and then walking in a nd talking a shit on a cracked toilet and and holes in the bathroom walls. At least we got stacked stone.

By year 12 the open kitchen had become an eye sore. The ceiling tiles were sagging, I could no longer replace some of the fluorescent lights (the ceiling was a tangle of wires and I don’t fuck with electricity I draw the line on that one). Walk in coolers were coming apart literally at the seams. Summertime was a fucking nightmare with kitchen and coolers. The hvac unit over the kitchen shit the bed so winter time the kitchen would get as low as 55° which was fine. We had a fucking 5 foot fireplace right in the middle. Summertime the kitchen would get up to 110° which sucked complete ass because we had a fireplace right in the fucking middle. Imagine having me glad handling a table with sweat pouring off of my face and pit stains under my Perry Ellis shirts. It was worse for the waistaff , what walking around with fucking denim pressed into cardboard with black jeans and that heavy ass apron. I’d lose quite a bit of staff every year around June.

But I still loved and lived that company. It was my family and my life.

Right around my 35th year of existence and a decade of my career already spent at the steakhouse things went a little sideways for me mentally. At this time I was all in. All in at work, all in for my girlfriend but a little part of me started having doubts about myself. My primary steakhouse was steadily underperforming and I was having personal issues. I had just sold my main living quarters/condo and made a decent buck. I was going to move in with my girlfriend at the time. Things seem to be going good for us after a few shaky years. The year started off great and ended in a giant pile of shit. I had lost my brother recently to an accidental overdose and man it kinda hit me hard. Later on my girlfriend right after I sold my condo decided she liked someone else better than me without telling me and that became a hard pill to swallow. In a few weeks I’d do something completely dumb and try to play chicken with a rather large pickup truck while riding my bicycle and would proceed to wreck my brain somewhat permanently although I’ll say regardless, I’m one lucky mother fucker. I may talk more about that in another post although it ties right into everything I’ve become from that era.

I missed the truck but hit my head hard. Real hard. Won’t ever wear that helmet again. I did keep it around as a reminder of stupidity at that time along with an iPod that also suffered from my upcoming mental break down I was about to experience. I had parked my truck at the Simpsonville location and took a ride to Gray Court and back. After my little crash I walked my bike a few miles back to the restaurant and asked the gm for some bar towels. I was covered in asphalt and blood literally come head to toe. When I cleaned up I and went home to take a bath to get some more of the road rash off my legs and arms. I took a solid 4 hour power nap while in the tub. I guess you could say I passed out. I awoke to about 30 missed calls from my agm and best friend Jenny because it was 5pm, Sunday afternoon. My schedule was 4:30 and had been for years. I’m punctual to a fault. If I’m late, real late something has happened to me and that’s why Jenny called me and then 29 more times. And then sent her husband Tony to check up on me. I gained consciousness right before he arrived I think. I didn’t tell anyone about my stupid stunt. I had only said I wrecked my bike. And like the dedicated dumb ass I was programmed to be I went into work with a full blown concussion. Can’t tell you a damn thing about that shift. I know when I got home I started to get a fever and shakes. Not fever shakes I mean my goddamn hands were shaking from my concussion. Jenny was my landline for these emergencies I was talking to her about it. I didn’t tell her specifics but she knew I had hit my head. She called my very recent ex and asked if she could come check on me. I really wanted her too also because I wasn’t dealing with the breakup well at all. She never showed. She was playing hackeysack with her friends outside at her house. I didn’t die that night. I woke up at dawn covered in sweat, throw up, piss and shit. My ex never called, text or did shit. Again. I didn’t die that night but a large part of the last 34.9 years of me did. That concussion took a lot out of me in a hundred different ways. I went to the emergency clinic the next day and found out that no one really knows shit about the human brain or injuries pertaining to it. I was alive, somewhat. I honestly didn’t care at the moment. If a blood clot came along and zapped me into a corpse I would’ve given it my address to speed things along. I gave it my best shot. Saw a few therapist, took some antidepressants, broke down in front of my mentor and told him “hey buddy I need a break before I kill myself.” I told him I could wait it out for a few days until they get the schedule worked out. “Fire me if you need to I’ll understand.” I of course knew they wouldn’t but I felt worthless and was suddenly tired. Like I’m tired of breathing tired.

I walked outside and my mental breakdown officially started counting down. I made it to zero before I could light my cigarette. Jenny my bff, someone I had met through the steakhouse, who worked side by side with me for 15 of my 16 years. Met her husband through this company and grew her family from this company, the one I will always affectionately call Assman (not what you think) came outside, kissed me on my cheek and told me to go home and rest. Work was no longer my problem. My few day notice lasted 10 minutes. She had front seats to the meltdown show but she was my friend. I’d do it for her too. She’s family.

I spent a month away from work. Most of that month I drank and drank. Tried to drink myself to death. Its harder than you think. My friends were my best support system. Much better than the antis and therapy was ok. I cried enough tears to flood my condo that I would soon be moving out of because I sold it. I was going to be somewhat homeless if I didn’t deal with this breakdown. I made sure I reached out to my friends and they in turn kept tabs on me. They saved my life a dozen times during that ridiculously dark time and are clueless about it. After a month I went back to be with my work family. I missed them and needed to go back to the real life and fix all of my head plumbing. Crying on the floor every night for two weeks didn’t help my circuitry either.

The steakhouse never tried to replace me, never even took me off payroll even though it was discussed that when I was taking a leave of absence it was by my own accord. They werent responsible for anything. I didn’t want to be dead weight. Company man to the end.

Later one of my wine rep buddies would tell me about a conversation he overheard from my boss after I went loony for a month. “Do you think he’ll be back?”

“I don’t know it’s up to him. He needs time to sort it out.”

“How long you going to give him “

“As long as it takes. He’s family”

Anytime I think about that it makes me cry. And currently I am.

I changed a little after that. From head to toe I did. My therapist had said something to me about not putting all my eggs in one basket. It’s cliche as fuck but when he said it it clicked. Because I had done that all my life. I was balls deep in my company and completely dependent on its future for my financial security and my ass had put my entire heart that wasn’t calling for hot food hands and gave it all to my girlfriend at the time. I’ve never forgiven her for not checking on me that night.

Be it being brain fucked, heartbroken, burned out or a little of three. I’ve found out over the years that I move and go so fast for so long that when I do finally stop it’s like a freight train chugging up a 9% grade to get me going in the same direction ever again. Just ask Southern.

Listen, I loved my company, my friends I met there, my mentors and I am and forever will be grateful for every single thing they taught me good and or bad. But when I returned a silent countdown went off in my head. That month off started a reckoning. At the time I didn’t see it as that but in retrospect I was slowly reinventing myself. No not some phoenix rising from the ashes bullshit or butterfly from a cocoon. I’m not that asshat. My perspective on things changed is all. Apparently hitting your head can do that to you. Or sometime off to think or a slurry of both.

-10

When I came back to work I had to refocus. Ten years I had spent in the same building, doing the same line ups, taste plates/ shit I never touched base on that. Oh well. I had only been gone for 4 weeks. I knew the world hadn’t changed a bit but I had. When I returned my favorite restaurant in the world looked haggard and old. I took some responsibility for this because it had been under my care for the last 5 years or so. Regardless of lacking funds I did my best to keep the restaurant fresh. It was frustrating to watch my establishment slowly erode while new restaurants from the same company were being erected in their own stand Taj mahals up and down the coast. Sales were still struggling. My schedules and staff were shrinking one by one due to business slowing down. 2007 market crash really hurt the steakhouse. Several of those little Merovan offices became vacant. Steakhouse leaned on those offices for lunches and happy hour. For each new restaurant there would be a new partner I’d have to deal with. My table face got harder and harder to smile. I was just burned man. The company was growing but I felt I had reached my growth limit. Company started taking some hits. Come to find out it’s illegal to charge employees for uniforms and dry cleaning. One of the managers decided not to pay one of their employees overtime in one of the other restaurants and in came the labor board and their audits. Let’s just say it was ugly. Really ugly. I won’t air out my conpamy’ s old grievances too much. I’m not trying to sell tickets.

Sometimes really bad shit happens and creates really good shit. I started dating my future wife a year after my bad breakup and I’ll be damned but we got crazy and had a beautiful little baby a couple of years down the road. I needed to make some changes in my life. It just got really real. Being a GM of a steakhouse that was going through its twilight years wasn’t going to work anymore. There were already rumors of Travinia being the star of the show in the future. I’m just not a pasta and wine guy. I went job shopping for the first time in a decade. A headhunter usually called the restaurants about three times a year and I always told them in a polite manner because I know what cold calling feels like, no thanks I’m happy where I am. I got another one around this time and before I said “no thanks” I hesitated. Instead I said. “Tell me what you got.”

-9

“I’m representing two companies actually. Both are looking for energetic GMs. California Dreaming and Copper River.” I always respected Dreaming. Hard to knock a restaurant that’s been around that long and is still killing it. Facilities were always maintained and the salary for both Cali and Copper were more than I was making. Substantially more. I was a family of three now. Loyalty became more challenging. Directions and instructions to life change. I did something I hadn’t done in over a decade. I updated my resume. I loved the company CentraArchy (CD) and interviewed with both companies. Out of courtesy I had breakfast with Kevin and told him I was looking for a new start. He was very supportive and offered his help in anyway he could assist which as always the par for the course with Kevin. Caring to a fault.

My hands were shaking in my first interview. My nervousness showed and it was obvious. Cali pretty much said no. Their regional recruiter checked out the steakhouse and didn’t like the digs. The old beat up interior bit me in the ass. Copper hired me on the spot if I wanted it. All I had to do was stage for two different places. I agreed to stage on Haywood. Got cold feet the day before and informed the GM that I needed some more time. Something about that place just didn’t do it for me. Money was good but it always had that Fatz vibe I couldn’t shake off. I never submitted a resignation. I returned back to my company never missing a beat.

-8

Economy wasn’t so great for us for some time. To save payroll I started scheduling myself to prep in the mornings and I’d go back on the line and watch the grill while the KM of the month did prep and we’d cut the kitchen loose. Az had dipped about 25% in sales over the years. Woodruff rd was a force to be reckoned with. Over development and a reputation for shit traffic had put an ugly zit on our business. We were one of a hundred different restaurants now. Brand new shiny restaurants popping up all around the archaic Merovan center. I was knee deep in gorilla marketing, passing out flyers around the Merovan with margaritas specials and patio entertainment. After 10 years the owner had lightened up on menu changes and I was slowly coming around to my kitchen side again. I actually had items that made the menu cuts. This only intensified my passion for working in the kitchen more. Upon my return to work after my breakdown my affinity for cooking exploded. Some would and still say it was my concussion rewiring my brain. No clue I’m not a brain scientist.. but I enjoyed going back there with the other cooks and prepping. Their expressions changed when I worked back there. I was no longer the pretty boy in slacks barking food abbreviations and yelling for hands. I’d come on the grill on a Friday night and knock it the fuck out. I did orders with the km and did p-1 on the slow days. I’d do daily specials that sold out. Love the thought of creating food on my own and watching it get noshed. I was making this shit and people were digging it. I might get to enjoy this little change of scenery.

-7

I got a fucking promotion. I made regional manager over the steakhouses. I bought myself a fancy traveling machine (Camry XSE) and hit the road. I loved it. I was no longer tethered to one restaurant. I was officially introduced to the GMs in cola and Atlanta. We had met several times mind you but not in a supervisor role. I finally got my hands on all the P&Ls and I studied them and broke them down until I could manipulate the shit out of them. I used them to corral the managers together and taught them how to read and understand them because my company hadn’t done it for me. I made the GMs sit down with their KMs and we would break down every mother fucking line until they finally understood wtf all of those checks they wrote really meant. I broke down p mixes, reorganized kitchens and updated every single recipe in every store. Somehow everyone’s had manage ti quietly evolve independently under different supervision

The P&Ls weren’t great. Some changes I made were positive. Others were hands off. Nepotism was still an issue. I started spending more and more times in the places farthest away. For the longest time I only focused on my spot and it’s slow deterioration. It wasn’t alone.

-6

Columbia was the little big restaurant that couldn’t. It became my stepchild for the next two years due to its underperformance. We had four steakhouses at that time. Maybe Prime in DC had opened I can’t keep up anymore but I had the other 4 to look after. Az 1 and 2 were Gville and B town. Our menus mirrored one another. Az 3 and 4, Atlanta and Columbia had more of an upscale approach. Higher pricing and bread service. Atlanta had nailed its market sometimes doubling the sales of the other three. I learned over time that they did do things differently down there but it worked. So I didn’t fuck with the machine. Cola on the other hand wasn’t doing so well. It didn’t help that it wasn’t in a development that was shiny and new and mostly deserted. I loved that place and the staff. They cared they were just a little miss directed. By the time I got down there the writing was already on the wall.

Atlanta on the other hand was always busy. After I made peace with how they did things we got along just fine. Several occasions after work the GM Marcus would take me out to dinner. At that time my palate stayed fairly simple. My menu specials were elementary but still decent but all I had to leam on was the foodie town of Greenville.. Marcus introduced me to some of Atlanta’s finest. I got to try out South City, Optimist, JCT kitchen, Rosebuds. We dined at the 421, had cocktails at Two Urban Licks far too many places to name. I love you Greenville but you are not and never will be on that level. Sorry Charlie. On days he couldn’t make it I started checking out my own spots. Jotting down notes and ideas for my company. Using examples to push the company higher. Even going back to the OG Houston’s. I was learning quite a bit through my observations. It was no longer foh studying, service and plate tasting. I started taking in decor, menu writing, architecture, ambience. I felt like I had powered up in the service industry. Little things started clicking into bigger things.

-5

I started writing menus at home for fun or while I was in hotels on the road. I created concepts out of mid air. My creativity was growing with each new place I’d discover when I travelled. The places I enjoyed I’d go a dozen times more. Watching, observing, learning. I started to fantasize about my own place. I had made peace somewhat with knowing my company would never offer a partnership. The more I made peace with it the further I drifted off into my own dream of owning my own place.

-4

The writing was on the wall by then I loved traveling for my company and I did it diligently. But I also had a brand new toddler up to three hours away that would grow an inch each time I came home. I was falling in love with the road. I was in no damn place to be a rambling man I had a family I loved dearly. By this time my good buddy and I were drinking cocktails and discussing opening a business together. We had a little coffee shop called Fix we built together in the little flat iron looking building across the new Harris Teeter waaay before it opened on Wade Hampton back in ‘09. We kept her around for a year and let her fly. We wanted to test our compatibility together before we tried for something bigger. As in a restaurant.

-3

I had in the back of my mind a little transformation of the steakhouse on woodruff rd. She was dying. Not on life support but she was over that hill. My fav restaurant in the world was getting old and about to be taken out to pasture. I had designed a new concept during my downtime. An upscale southwestern taco joint (this was before the other 487272 taco places opened). I named it the Taco Social. Jazzy little club with indoor outdoor bar, upscale southwestern dishes and live entertainment. I worked on it for months. My very first menu concept completed. I even had it professionally branded and printed off to give it more character to show to my boss Mark.

I had it one a nice card stock 11×17. It was pretty damn good. I thought so anyway. I met with Mark to shoot the breeze for a bit. When I got the nerve I put the folder on his desk and told him “I have a great new concept idea I’d love to throw at you to maybe update the old Merovan building. Whatever Mark was reading seemed important. Without looking up he pushed the folder back to me and said “Travinia is too much of a bear. I don’t have time to look at another concept.”

I said ok grabbed the folder and put it in his trash can on the way out.

-2

I wasn’t mad. You have to know Mark to understand his quirks but man I was dejected. The Arizona brand was wearing off. I read the P&Ls every month. I fucking lived them. But what it did was kick me in the ass. My time with AZ was coming to end. I had the option of waiting out the storm and see where I land in the company or get off the goddamn pot and pursue my dream. 15 years I had given to this company and it had always been given back. I knew that it wouldn’t be that way for much longer. I got hungry for another adventure. It was time to control my own destiny. No offense guys I’ve loved you since day one back in ‘96 but you were moving along and I was not.

-1, 2012

My soon to partner again and I had looked a several properties over time. Liked a little spot in downtown Anderson, put our names out there for a few spots in downtown Greenville. Never really set our hopes up for any of them. In fact I was about one more place away from saying fuck it and taking my chances with wine and pasta. No exaggeration I was done. Tired of pointless dreams and nothing to show for it. We happened upon a little spot in Cherrydale by the name of Briosos that had recently closed. My partner called me up and dubiously we walked through. Something about that spot lit my ass on fire. We both looked at each other and smiled. He turned and looked at me and said – “Whatcha thinking buddy?”

“Something along the lines of southern cuisine.”- I replied. We had other concepts we had talked about. Mostly bar and pub. They wouldn’t fit here not with the giant chandeliers and fire places. I had a flashback to my first experience at Zona (just an fyi that’s how we referred to it). “Love the fireplaces, chandeliers.” My partner pointed the far wall on the right. “Perfect place for a stage.” I agreed.

That very next day I wrote my next full size menu. I had always had a little rockabilly spot on my mind but this wasn’t the right fit. I stayed in character for a bit as I was listening to one of my favorite bands at the time – Southerm Culture on the Skids “Fried chickens and gasoline”

I opened up my laptop and started on my creation on my first true opus – Southern Culture

We have take off. July 14th 2012

We sat around a large table in our future landlord’s office with blue ink pens in our hand. My partner looked go at me and said “are you ready?” And I said “you’re goddamn right”

After signing the biggest contract of my life I stppped by my old beauty in the Merovan center and did a shot. It wasn’t enough so I did another and then another. I drove that short drive to home office and sat in my car trembling. “Holy fuck this is really happening”. Shit was official. Shit was signed on the dotted line. I looked over and saw the all too familiar Acura in the office driveway. Turned off my car and walked inside.

I could write a thousand more pages about this place and how it made me, evolved me.

Chadcuterie would never existed if it weren’t for Southern. Southern would’ve never existed if it weren’t for Arizona. Just the facts ma’am. I will always love that company and will come to blows if you insult it. It’s like insulting my own family. I still think the world of Mark and Kevin and hope one day those two hard headed fuckers start talking to each other again. It’s funny now that I look back on it of all the places I’ve worked, owned, started up I’ve only got one of those that have been permanently tattooed on me. A ridiculous kokopelli on my left shoulder from all the koko shit from Zona’s. Even went to Arizona first the first time two years ago and put faces to the names of all the landmarks associated with that menu.

Thanks for all the memories Zona.

When people ask me to describe what service industry PTSD is like I always respond with “watch me make a pot of coffee in the morning”. I usually get an eyebrow raise or they will inquire as to which coffee shop broke me and I have to explain. Yeah coffee shop owner is on my proprietor resume but we were slinging about $100 a day in coffee while the baristas were giving away coffee to their friends so it wasn’t much of post trauma story. The only PTSD I got from there was paying $300 plus out of my pocket a month to keep it running.

I’ve done it for years without realizing it. It took my little “break” from the service industry to notice what I was doing. I use making coffee as the basis because it’s a good representation of how I go through motions of some of my everyday activities. So I use making my morning coffee as my example:

I wake up at the butt crack of dawn every morning between 4:45-5:30 for the last half decade. I never planned this it’s just how I sleep. I have apparently became a morning person after I evolved as an adult through no fault of my own. It’s grown on me. I get up to an hour every morning to myself and my coffee to start my day.

It ain’t bad.

If I’m out of bed at 5:01 and I’m preparing coffee at 5:03. My only pause is too put my watch on. My coffee is ready brew by 5:04.

Ok whoop-de-doo big fucking deal you can make coffee in a minute congrats.

No, it’s not that part.

It’s because I have to.

I may not go into work for 3 hours after coffee was made that day. I might not even have to work. It could be cold, raining outside and my day off. I could have zero intention of leaving the sofa but by god my coffee will be made in an efficient, high speed manner.

Efficiency

Sense of urgency

Move it or lose it

Dead lines

Ticket times

Countdowns

Timers beeping

In my waking moment my mind is already moving to complete my first task. As quickly and efficiently as I possible. I will grab the coffee pot and turn my sink on full blast. I’ll squeeze the little Dawn detergent bottle like I’m squirting paint onto a canvas. All the while scrubbing the pot like it has grease caked on the bottom. When it’s clean enough to pass inspection I blast the faucet on cold, stick the pot under the water and will turn to the trash can behind me and shake and slam the old grounds into the trash like it was on fire. I’m doing it urgency because I have the pot under the water faucet refilling at the same time.

Im multitasking.

It’s what I’m trained to do. When I’m pouring the grind into the filter I’m constantly tilting it back and forth back and forth to get the exact amount of coffee I need into the filter. Milligram by milligram I’m weighing it in my mind. I liken it too when Indiana Jones stands before the little golden monkey statue with a bag of sand weighing the granules just right.. I will literally rock the coffee container back and forth 6 or 7 times to get that bean ground at the exact spot I had it last time.

Consistency is key. It is everything

My coffee brews in 5 to 6 minutes. 9.5 cups. I add 10.5 cups because I know the grinds will absorb one cup of water. If it brewed less then I shit the bed on my grind measurement. Do better next time. Raw sugar measurement will be the half tablespoon I put in my palm. That’s how I learned to measure the spoons. I’ve got a fucking spoon in my hand that can do the same but it’s only used to stir. I will most assuredly spill some coffee while stirring because that made coffee should’ve been in my hands 45 seconds ago.

And then I sit to “enjoy” my coffee. Whether it’s for 15 minutes before a busy morning or for an hour or two on a rest day. Moving slow isn’t an option for me. “Why don’t you make your coffee the night before?” Sometimes I do but it’s my morning sidework routine. I don’t like to fuck with that. Some of you will understand.

Morning coffee is just symbolism for my everyday routine. I use it as the prime example because it’s who I’ve become from after living in the annals of the service industry. Of all the little quirks, habits, addictions I’ve tried to reckon with this is the hardest one. I’ve become wound up tighter than a Swiss roll shoved in a back pocket.

When I’m around slow moving people I get agitated. In my mind I can’t comprehend why everyone isn’t moving with a sense of urgency. I fight the urge to scream “BEHIND” when I’m approaching grocery cart mosiers or especially these mother fuckers that walk .02 mph and also can’t walk a straight line. You analyze their walking pattern to pass them at the right time and next thing you know they are leaning left because.. I don’t know, one foot is overpronating?

My wife won’t go to Costco with me somedays because of the anxiety I cause her. From the moment I put my truck keys in my hand to the moment I pull up to work with work inventory, I’m moving with the speed and efficiency of Tom Cruise when he’s packing his kids up after the aliens started dusting humans in War of The Worlds. I’ll look at my wife and say “we are leaving this store in 8 minutes.” I’ve already got my path navigated where I hit the exact spots I need to fill my inventory with the least turns. I go there every week. There are multiple aisles I have never walked down in Costco. They don’t serve my work’s needs so there is no reason for me to waste valuable time meandering through 2000 sweatshirts, multi-patterned hand towels or boxed sectional sofas. When Costco gets a hankering for changing their floor plan around and decides to move my crackers from an end cap I lose my fucking mind.

*side note- I may tell my wife we are leaving in 8 minutes but let me assure you we leave when my wife damn well pleases.. 8 minutes is just my suggestive time I’m not an idiot.

I’ve bumped carts and rammed a few heels on the folk that should be moving faster. I don’t mess with the elderly but sometimes I do wish they’d speed up the mortality process. Also I don’t shop around the One A Days aisle so that helps me steer clear of them until we bottleneck into the self checkouts. I will absolutely not fucking ever get behind one of these walking versions of expired milk. If they plod to self checkout I’m rerouting. The vitamins must be spectacular because some of these elderly are 115 years old with bandaged wounds over their head like they just walked out of the Tet offensive. I will grind my teeth down in anticipation when they start trying to scan their bulk oatmeal. If you don’t think I’m wound up tight just read those last two paragraphs again. It’s 5:30am at the moment and I’m on my first cup of briskly made coffee. I’m getting myself worked up.

Over the years I’ve been over programmed to do everything with efficiency and urgency. When I see disarray and or lack of structure it makes me uncomfortable and sometimes angry.

The first time you are thrust into this vocation you are given the instruction of the importance of timing and self awareness. To me these are paramount for any job but maybe I took it to heart so well that it absorbed me. 16 years of my management career was an extremely structured program where consistency went from the protein on the plate facing east every fucking time all the way down to pens (smoky, black, bic click pen) in all the servers aprons being in the same exact row, three wide across a professionally starched white apron. When I go out to eat I survey the whole dining room. I get antsy when people have been sitting for more than 2 minutes without being greeted. Or when I hear that familiar clink of ice that tells me someone just slurped their last drop of soda and the server has not been by to refill. When I see hostesses with their elbows on the hostess stand I sigh heavily. Don’t get me started if I’m sitting by an open kitchen. I can no longer watch them cook without jumping over the line to offer my unsolicited opinions on how to make their stations more accessible and streamlined. My standards were drilled into me. They were great assets to have in the industry in fact after a while some would eventually suggest I tone it down.

You created this monster not me..

If you give me an hour task to do and all day to complete it I’ll have it done in 30 minutes with 23.5 hours to spare in the day. I’ve operated under 12 minute deadlines for 30 years. That’s the golden ticket time average. Anything under is a bonus. 14 is ok, 16 is smooth on a Friday but when you hit the 20s your blood pressure goes up, you get that little ringing in your ears and your head begins to throb. Over 20 and you’re walking the dining room beat, repeating apologies to each table like a skipping record. Most are fine. Some can be as uptight as me.

When I parted ways with my company in 2020 I bought a journal to write down my thoughts. I wanted to look back and analyze where my mind and thoughts were resting during that time. I wrote on the first page. “Take your time. Learn to slow down.” And then wrote “slow down” over and over for two pages like a flashback to my 3rd grade classroom chalkboard, chalk stained hands, punishment for running in the halls (sense of urgency even back then).

That was the only thing I wrote in it. If anyone wants to have a barely used notebook for cheap I got you.

I am programmed to work but I’ve always tried to manage my time over the years and allow myself one day of rest/play. That’s all I needed. I could work 6 doubles back to back to back, all I needed was that Monday or Tuesday to repair myself. If it rained I’d do project in the house. If it’s nice I’d drive out of town and hike all day and get back home for dinner. That was my rest day. Unless I’m bedridden with sickness or injured you will not see my ass on the couch all day. I’m not judging you if you can. In fact, I’m downright jealous. I’m physically and mentally incapable of relaxing.

When I had downtime during Covid I didn’t know how to deal with myself. All three restaurants were locked up for one month. During that time I detailed all three kitchens, cleaned up 148 recipes, rebuilt order guides and did data entry to recalculate food cost for all the restaurants. I had a million home projects I should’ve taken care of but work comes first. Work always came first 🧠.

There wasn’t enough work to fill my day everyday during Covid and my idle mind took over. I slowed down just enough to question what in the actual fuck my existence was all about. One day I was going to drop dead over a damn wood grill or if I’m lucky just a prep table that will break some of my fall and still land me an open casket. I had never had time for self reflection and honestly didn’t know how to handle it when it fell in my lap.

When I parted ways at the end of September I took that two pages of slow down and tried to take it to heart. I didn’t work for two months and almost lost my mind. I would spend hours blowing and raking leaves in our yard. I would rake them in heaps in the yard and leave them. After a couple of days I’d go back out there and do it all over again. My wife would keep a watchful eye on me from the kitchen window. We could both feel me slipping. R&R just ain’t my bag baby but I tried.

I got drunk one night and created Chadcuterie. It started off as a drunken play on words. I had my mind on a food truck initially but I didn’t have the funds. Covid ruined that. By December I was right back in my comfort zone. Working my ass off, daily sense of urgency, stress and the security I get from financially supporting my family.

Chadcuterie really fucks with my programming. It’s consistently inconsistent so it throws me for a loop on how I’ve managed to deal with myself. Once again timing is everything in fact it’s worse. I’ve mentioned before you don’t want to fall behind when you’re 20 boxes deep. You aren’t swallowing the cost of a $10 sandwich if someone gets pissed off. You may not get paid that day if you fail. Also my timing depends on the punctuality of my patrons on some days. I’ve managed to put that in their hands. Terrible mistake. Punctuality is another trigger for me. It is impossible for me to tolerate tardiness. I will not make plans with you if are one of those consistently late folk. It’s nothing personal. You are just fucking up my whole day. My old partners were notorious for running 20 minutes late for meetings. They would joke they are on “Miami time” while I’m sitting at a giant conference table by myself with three kitchens set to explode in three hours. I’m not an early person by any means. If I’m suppose to be somewhere at 6pm I’m walking in the door at 5:59.

Consistency

Positive side of Chadcuterie is I get to take time off. I plan for 2 big adventures every year and several mini adventures. I enjoy the mini ones more. The big ones, once I hit day 5 the old programming gets into my head and I start feeling guilty about not working. I get antsy. I don’t get vacation pay it’s all me friends. So I start feeling guilty. My business is suffering because I’m not focusing on it. What if I come back and I’ve lost momentum? My stock has been sitting untouched for 8 days I’m wasting product I’m better than that.

Every single long trip I’ve planned I’ve come back AT LEAST one day early. Usually two sometimes three. I’m capable of enjoying the short ones. I don’t lose any momentum.

I budget myself a weekly sales budget and hit it every week usually except for January. I beat the shit out of my mental health when I don’t hit my sales goals it gives me anxiety. I’m well aware that one week may suck and the next may triple but I’m a slave to hitting goals every day, every weeek, every month. This month always fucks with my head. It forces me to slow down. It’s too damn cold to camp or work outside, I don’t have any damn leaves in my yard. We cut the tree down.

I’m just now making peace with it. I’ve read a few books this month already and I think I’ve written about a dozen of these mind tangents. I’ve made it a point to reconnect that “slow down” journal scribble. I’ve binged on a few fun tv shows and spent about 6 hours on the sofa on a Saturday. Something I haven’t done since I wore pajamas with feet in them. I’ve changed my workout routines because they were a reflection of how I would work myself to death. My joints and muscles are feeling the effects of long work hours paired with 8-10 hours of weekly gyms, trail runs, cycling and long distance running. I’m mostly yoga and light dumbbells now and my body thanks me for it. I actually feel more body positive now than I have in decades.

I’m still dealing with the downtime it’s tough going from 500 boxes in one month to 30. It’s a full fucking reset but I’ve prepared myself better. I think..

Timing

I’ve been setting aside downtime to write first thing in the morning and to get unplugged at the same time

Efficiency

I’ve slowed down quite a bit but I’m still a maniac when I’m shopping for work. Coffee is still at a Tasmanian devil whirlwind level but I’m making strides. I’ve stretched it out another minute or two. Baby steps. Gonna ride out this day off with a thick ass book and a bag Doritos.

Consistency

How often do you think about your own death? I don’t mean waking up with a new mole on your head and furiously typing into WebMD or having a near death experience from a Cadillac almost rear ending you at the gas pump at Spinx. I’m referring to making peace with your life and all that you’ve accomplished or experienced over the years. I started reckoning with my mortality after my 50th birthday. I had never really focused on the eventual demise of my physical existence until I hit that mid century mark. I’m now in the same category as an Eames lounge chairs. Mid fucking century.

Year 50 was when I started my reckoning as I’ve called it, mentioned it, primed it, fell right the fuck into the center of it yes I did. 50 was an eye opening odometer. Can’t roll that shit back in reverse like they tried to do with that 961 Ferrari 250 GT in Ferris Bueller’s day off. I didn’t plan this little reckoning although for many a year I kept telling myself “you need to change” “you need to do better” “you need to slow the fuck down” . I’m well aware of all of my shortcomings and bad habits. I’ve had front row seats to them my whole life. The problem is I chose to sit in the back and not pay any attention to the plot of the book or movie until it was 3/4 of the way over. Sometimes, most times I am my worst critic.

The last few years have sort of set me up for my reckoning. A perfect reckoning storm for me. At 49 the realization that my lifelong commitment and career in the service industry was on the verge of either killing me or placing me in a soft padded cell. I had put all of my skills and craft into one egg basket and threw that mother fucker against a wall. When my old partner and I had our last conversation he in all earnest mentioned to me that maybe I should find another vocational direction and I responded with “you might as well ask me to walk backwards the rest of my fucking life”

There’s no way to calculate the hours of my life that was spent to build, maintain it, grow something I aspired to do for 2 decades and have it all end with a half ass scribbled signature and an obligated handshake. Try to climb into your mind when you were a teenager and to how you pictured what life would be like when you hit 50. I missed my mark by a country mile.

It’s hard for me to accurately describe how I thought I’d turn out because my future vision was always tumultuous and unstable. Most long term ideas or pathways always seemed to end abruptly without warning. Relationships, school, careers all had good intentions but were as steady as a tightrope over a gorge. I was never a get rich quick schemer, my brother was and died penniless. I lived vicariously through his overnight success tries and anxiously awaited his proprietary propulsion that never arrived. Amway, colloidal minerals and a few others that I can’t recall but all of them involved some sort of periodical that you could order from.

I was a slow and steady wins the race type of guy. Find a good foothold in a company and work your way up. I knew my work ethic was strong and what I lacked in experience I countered with tenacity. Moving my way up I was the stay and work late guy, picked up that short shift, closed when no one else was available, or did the deed that was too dirty for anyone else. I knew what it took to climb and on occasion I’d step on your ass if you were trying to climb that same ladder. I refused to let anyone out work me. What an odd flex to look back on. For me it wasn’t a “you can depend on me!” more like “I can do this shit better than you” attitude that could make me a little difficult to work with. Like throwing on another 20lbs on your bench press when everyone is watching. (265 max when I was 22)

Where the fuck am I going with this?..

Oh yes, my vision of where I thought I’d be now. Honestly I can’t answer that and maybe that’s why I’ve always had a hard time finding a foothold of stability in my personal life and career. The one thing I didn’t think about was the constant struggle for happiness and paying bills. I will say I’ve been more fortunate than most. Not lucky just fortunate. Nothing fell into my lap I have worked for everything I’ve made/accomplished and even had to manipulate people and resources to get to where I’ve gone and lost. For me I found a niche (service industry) that I flourished in. I’m good at hospitality. Not necessarily the glad handling mind you of if I had a weak link that’s it for sure but I understood the craft and what makes it “IT”. And I’ve done well with it for the most part. Only problem is your success rate is worse than a pitcher’s batting average. You win some you lose a whole fucking lot.

So where did I see myself? Probably what I was programmed to see. Neighborhood home, wife kid or two, dog, two cats essentially what I have at the moment but I didn’t account for all the mental and physical exhaustion that 50 plus years of life will put on you. Nothing prepares you for what the simple act of living can do to you.. also “simple”, there’s not enough of that in life unless you seek it. You actually have go seek simplicity. Or at least I did. I’m currently in that pursuit for simplicity. It’s exhausting sometimes.

I went around the roundabout a half dozen times to get to my flacid thesis for this morning essay- mortality. I brought it up a few paragraphs ago and went on a tangent. It snaps together somewhere here I’m sure I’m sort of all over the place on this one.

So

When you’re a kid you aren’t focused on dying and well Goddamit you shouldn’t be. Death only happens to villains in comic books or movies. Sometimes it’s a gold fish you won at a fair that went tits up as soon as you dumped it in the fish bowl or a gerbil that choked on a Lego. You don’t get dressed up and visit the villain’s family for his wake after the hero pushes him off the cliff. You’re incredibly sad about the gerbil but then mom breaks out your favorite cereal bowl of Fruit Loops and your on to the next temporary pet.

When you’re in your teens you are immortal. Death is the last thing on your hormonal mind. You’re filling out, growing up and buying ridiculous parachute pants to charm the girls with your breakdance routine. Death comes at you in mini tragedies. It may be a grandparent, family dog that’s been there since you were a toddler or even a classmate that died in a tragic car wreck. Sometimes a classmate will get really sick and you won’t hear from them ever again until the primcipal announces it over the school intercom. They always announced it during home room to really get your day going. I lost a few distant friends during high school to car wrecks. Unfortunately my high school is nationally notorious for car wreck deaths. Viva la Wren. You might work a little bit work consists of 10 hours a week max or you’re doing side jobs so you can hang out with your friends at Pizza Hut after the football game.

Your 20s are about the same. You’re at full strength, full of seed, you’re peaking all over the goddamn place. Your focusing on sexual matters, maybe seeking your future family’s better half, you may be somewhat educated, fun flexible hobbies and for the last probable decade in your life, you look good naked without having to pay for it. You may have lost your first solo pet you adopted when you moved away from home. A friend dies tragically from an mistaken overdose or accident. That one friend everyone liked dies from leukemia he was diagnosed with late in high school. Maybe you’ve put your best foot forward starting a career or like a lot of us you’re bouncing around happily because in your 20s you just aren’t in that big of a hurry to grow up. Embrace those 20s y’all. They don’t come back.

Decade 3 gets weird. You finally get a glimpse of what deterioration is starting to do to your body. Maybe it’s just that damn sciatica inflamed or you pulled your back. Strange ailments you’ve never experienced hit you from outer space and you find yourself on WebMd googling symptoms. You still think you’re still at your peak but you begin to watch all your favorite sports players retire or lose a step while the commentators explain about how they are past their prime at 35. Fucking ouch.

That bench press mark gets a little harder to obtain. Hangovers are hellish and over the counter pain meds have secured a permanent storage spot in your car’s center console. A lot of you start to lose your parents around this time. Some lose friends to mysterious illnesses or thar older neighbor that would help watch the all the kids play in the cul de sac croaked. Life gets a tad harder here. Statistically you should be married by now with 1.7 kids. If you haven’t found job security yet you’re starting to feel that pinch. You aren’t where you thought you’d be on the ladder. You aren’t even standing on the fucking ladder. Pressure hits hard in your 30s. I have an emotional breakdown badge to prove it.

40s, you know the 40s aren’t that bad. Your back problems are constant but you’re used to them. You stop counting gray hairs and accept them. Maybe you have a cool little gray streak in your hair that makes you look wise, fashion is more longer as important. Comfort trumps fashion the older you get. You’re still considered in your work prime even if it’s physical labor. You have some aches and pains but you’re used to it. Your body is deteriorating slowly but maybe you aren’t so focused on kicking ass physically like you used to. You have resignated to the perpetual motion of age at least somewhat. Some of us blossom in our 40s. We slow down and take better care of ourselves. Diets become important. You don’t digest your favorite sins like you used to. Your jeans don’t sparkle on the pockets anymore (hopefully) and your smedium shirts get a little too tight to pull off at your age. Wisdom changes your perspective on life. You know your better days have some and gone but your making plans to slow it down. Your parents start dropping like flies at this time and some friend’s death get real. Heart attacks, strokes, organ failure keep you visiting the mortuary annually. Coworkers may pass and employers. You start seeking out ways for your family to get a solid death check in the mail if something should happen to you. You’re changing lifestyles to suit your pace and watching shitty lifetime movies. Social life consists of early dinners and cocktails. Only on occasion do you stay up past 11. Vocationally by now if you haven’t found stability you may never. It’s become problematic. Some of us may have our jobs disappear due to technology or we just become irrelevant with our outdated skills. Some employers will see you as overqualified or too set in your ways to fit in their young company. You may be fortunate to have a solid 401k. You have good equity in your home. Or maybe you had to refinance to pay off some random medical expense. Hopefully your college debt is finally paid off. Your kids are almost old enough to move out or already have. Most of your stress is just maintaining your life. Exhaustion hits a little harder and comes around 4pm, your new witching hour.

I don’t know about the rest of you half centurions but my brain clicked when I hit 50. Even when I was approaching the mile marker my mind, my body both were telling me -“sit down, let’s talk about this”

So we did. We had a long talk. We looked back on what we’ve accomplished and what we haven’t. That lever was a tad uneven so we talked about the future. We laughed and had a good cry. “Your 50s are going to be hard on you chief”. Decades of stress from work and my lifestyle had worn me down to bone on bone. I don’t know a whole lot about my ancestry but all of my grandparents were dead and gone before I met them. My old man passed at 64. His old man didn’t make it much further. Gangwer men like a good cocktail and a smoke and embrace chaos. I had given up smoking years ago. The drinking is what I was reckoning with. Oh yeah and the fucking chaos.

I wrote down all my bad things/habits I had accumulated over the years and checked off what I could no longer allow in my life. Whether it would pertain to lifestyle choices or just some dumb habits that slipped through the cracks. I checked off a lot. A whole goddamn lot.

It was a good talk. Honestly it changed my life and my preception pertaining to it. I won’t go balls deep into it because well it was between me and me and no one else. It was a reckoning. It went 9 rounds. Reckoning won every round.

So I hit my 50s in good stride. I put some differences aside and made peace with my place in life. I threw out my old expectations and simplified them. I’m sorta on my own terms with life and I don’t follow some of your rules because I exhausted myself trying to play your game of life. 50s are fun. You no longer try to run the fastest on the playground. The Jones moved way years ago, actually I did. You may wake up every morning like you played an abrupt game of pickup basketball the day before but you’ve made peace with some of the pain. And a lot of other pains. Physical things are a tad tougher especially if you haven’t taken care of yourself over the years. You might limp for the first few minutes out of bed or wince when you try to tie your shoes. Spicy foods are slowly leaving your daily meals, hot sauces are getting dusty in the cupboard and now you don’t flinch if something stops working for a few minutes. People talk faster than they used to or maybe your hearing is a tad slower.. Eye prescriptions get hairier and soon you make a choice of which would you rather see better more consistently. close up or far away. You may not get both. Cold gets a tad colder and summers seem to get shorter. Its no longer “seize the day!” mentality it’s more like “sleep the day”. I’m catching up on years of no sleep. That I’ll sleep when I’m dead attitude is dumb. Life needs rest it needs balance. Too bad it took 5 decades for me to realize this.

I’m orphaned now in my 50s and have made peace with my parents being long gone. By this time you may start to lose a sibling which I have and some good friends which I also have. It no longer becomes as tragic but instead it’s just the flow of life. Mortality is on every street corner. Random fb friends die every month. You’ve witnessed some hard funerals during these times and each year you’ll lose a little more. Every book ends I’m just trying to enjoy the last few chapters as much as I can. I had a conversation with a good friend not too long ago. We talked a little about death I had mentioned I no longer fear death. I absolutely do not look forward to it but I no longer worry about it. Other than the chance to spend the most time possible with my family and some friends I’ve made peace with my inner peace. I’ve worked a billion hours and really don’t have that much to show from my work career other than multiple Wusthof scars, burns and a propensity for breaking down some monstrous accounting numbers in my head. I’m good at what I did. I just can’t and don’t want to did it anymore. I’m sort of ok with that most days. There are still some days I want to take over the world I just don’t have the passion or the staff anymore. I don’t think anyone has the staff anymore honestly. I think about death quite a bit. On a different level now. It’s not about how I go. We are all gonna go. If it takes a while and I’m aware of it I’ll write all my friends letters saying goodbye. I’ll write about all the things I’ve loved about them and maybe share some of the things they did to piss me off just for fun.

At the end of each letter I’ll write “See ya soon!”

I’ll write a letter to my wife and daughter. For their eyes only. Telling them how they saved my life a thousand times. How they helped this reckoning of mine. Helped? They were the subject for my reckoning.

If I go fast I’ll make sure my last words to my friends, my family are kind and full of love. When I hit 50 my legacy changed. It stopped being an empire of financial wealth I became fixated with. It became a quest to be a better person. I want my family to remember me for being compassionate, loving, caring , unselfish. Full of blemishes but somewhat mended. I’m rewarded with giving back what I’ve learned and experienced. Tough fucking road to drive. I’m trying to hand out rest stops and water. Maybe a little navigation along the way. It’s why I do free restaurant consultations, it’s why I enjoy helping others with addiction. I’m 52 and I’m looking to possibly starting over again. Three years ago I was terrified. Now I’m genuinely curious as to what comes next. Regardless I refuse to dread. Dread’s dead baby I’m taking his chopper for a ride.

Even if I were to die tomorrow by some freak accident I have acknowledged that this little reckoning I’ve sculpted over the last few years has changed me and made me thankful for surviving and healing some of the scars and trauma I’ve accumulated over the years.

I’ve spent more time with the people I love in the past 3 years than in the last 30. I can’t imagine being on my death bed without the last three years of that life being relevant. I’ll never get the years back I had slinging overpriced china out from under a 250 degree heat lamp. But no one can take these last three years I’ve spent rebuilding my character, my mental health and my relationships with the ones I love away from me. These have been precious to me. They have literally changed my life.

Have I peaked? No clue because everyday I take a new step towards my reckoning. I don’t fear death because I’m overwhelmed by the gratitude of changing my life for the better. Regardless of how that last chapter reads whether it’s a few pages away or I have a long way to go I know at least now I’ve figured out the plot. Now I can enjoy the story.

I hated that fucking bus man. Every goddamn day it was something. From the first day of 4th grade in Piedmont, SC USA I knew I wasn’t going to like that rectangular tank filled with Anderson district 1 livestock. What? Maybe 60 seats with 80 fucking kids on the bus. I was the second to last pickup so it always meant a standing room only for me for the first couple of months until it settled. Eyes ahead and don’t say shit was my plan until I got comfortable with mass middle school transportation.

For the first 3 years of my school life I had walked to and from school at Augusta Circle. From first grade to running out of that third grade class for the last time I hiked one mile up and one mile down Faris road, rain or fucking shine. Me and my posse of familiar 6-8year olds, sometimes in ball hugger shorts and other times wrapped up in wool from socks to hat in the winter months. School was an easy breezy the first three years and I thought I’d stick with it for a while. All my friends for the most part resided in Club Key East apartments just like me and we’d pick up a few stragglers from the condominiums right up the street. Life was not bad although my family’s little three bedroom apartment with mom dad, myself and 5 of my 6 siblings (the other had married off) was a little tight but when you’re a kid your focus isn’t on bathroom privacy or turns for shower time. I would’ve liked to have had more tv time to myself but Saturday mornings was the only time slot I was allowed and that was only because I got up at the crack of dawn to cement my tv privileges. I shared a small 10×10 bedroom with my older brother David. The oldest sibling gets control of the bedroom decor. I’d lay down at night staring at my brother’s black light posters while he’d listen to records with his ridiculously big headphones. Sometimes he’d light up a little something under his covers that smelled funny and I’d get a headache and slip into my parents bedroom when they got home from work. One night while lying next to my parents bed in that tiny ass apartment (I often did this when I couldn’t sleep) I heard my dad say what would change my life forever- “I’ll pack and move my things out tomorrow”. My parents had been arguing all night and didn’t realize I had snuck in the room. I had woken up from their whispering that had gradually worked its way up to angry hushed voices. It’s crazy that after 45 years I can still visualize that whole scene in my head. Wrapped up in whatever cartoon themed blanket (probably Peanuts I was a huge fan) I was fixated on at the time, curled up at the foot of my parent’s queen size bed, pitch fucking black bedroom with a curtain over the window that faced the playground that I would never step foot on again. Front row seats to the divorce announcement and I got to hear it before it made the family front page news. I started crying which obviously got my parent’s attention. Both of them leapt out of bed to see what I had heard. I didn’t want them to know I had over heard my father’s statement of resignation so I told them I had a bad dream.

Man was it ever.

That conversation between my parents would be the last they’d share in a bedroom and it caused a mass family relocation from Greenville to Piedmont. My mother had moved on rather quickly (literally overnight) to another suitor and I got upended to a little green bungalow ish home right in the middle of Hwy 86.

My mom was a little eccentric and had made the decision years ago that she “just didn’t have any interest driving a car” so she never did. Her new partner and soon to be my stepfather worked construction across the state line in Georgia so our only means of transportation was out of town 5 days out of the week. We had a plethora of locals my mother would reach out to for drives to the grocery store or snacks at Hazzards. But for school transportation I had one choice. That fucking school bus.

I had never ridden the school bus in my life. Nor had I ridden any large construct of mass transportation. Greyhound, plane, train or spaceship. I didn’t get out much I was an introvert and extremely shy as a child. Even after these busy 52 years I’ve never quite been comfortable in situations of mass seating. Humans aren’t meant to be herded.

First day of school, new school, first time in middle school, first time riding the school bus. Jumping on a 45 foot long vessel with Tonka toy paint with 60 of my peers. Hell of a way to start your life over at 8 years of age. They don’t give out handbooks to kids on how to handle divorce. Therapy was for rich people in Hollywood in the 80s. My behavior was monitored somewhat, for a bit, but I would become a superb actor at hiding my emotions and anxieties. My emotions were pretty much like any other 8 year old child until after my parent’s divorce. When people say “my parents got divorced and I turned out fine” I often wonder if they really ever dug into their childhood. What would make more sense would be “my parents got divorced and my life was permanently turned upside down and fucked” that’s another story for another time. Let’s get back to that fucking school bus.

My first day on the bus wasn’t that bad. It was crowded but the anxiousness of starting a new school was the real star of my anxiety for that week. The first couple of years I would be on the ass end of bus pickups, meaning the majority of the time I would have to stand in between the aisles for about 20 minutes until we pulled up to the bus curb at Wren middle school. I’d have one hand cradling my books (no backpacks yet) while the other hand held me steady palming the top of pleather headrest hoping not to touch another kid’s turbulent head while the bus bounced its way down 86. Sometimes there were places to sit but the high schoolers wouldn’t move over to let me sit down. Its fun to walk down the bus aisle trying to read a teenager’s expression to see if they are going to share some vinyl cushion with you or tell you to fuck off. Which many did and would for years. You evaluate and move on. Sometimes I would get lucky and find a seat with someone just as introverted as me and I would slowly slide in and we’d both stare at the back of the seat in front of us until we got to school. I used to bring comic books with me to read on the bus before the teenagers started taking them from me and ripping them up. In fact that’s how the bullying started.

I was the youngest out of a half dozen or so siblings so I had my share of bullying but never without my parents monitoring. I had never been punched in the face or anywhere else for that matter. My sisters like to pinch me when I was an ass and my brother wouid only yell and threaten to hit me but he never did. Well we did knock the shit out of each other as adults but it was all out of love..

The first few weeks on the school bus were a blur and somewhat quiet. I had made peace with standing and after a bit the school bus driver Calvin would yell at the kids to scoot over so I could sit down. I had spent my first summer in Piedmont making zero friends. We didn’t live in a neighborhood or cul de sac we lived on the side of a fucking highway so running into kids at the neighborhood playground or grabbing your bicycle to catch up with some other’s riding wasn’t an option. In fact my bike had been stolen off of our front porch the first month we had moved to Piedmont and two other bikes would follow over the years. My first week on the bus I had recognized that one kid lived on the same street as me. He was about 5 houses up HWY 86 from me and my age or thereabouts. He was a big boy and I knew his name was Jason because it was inscribed on his belt. I used that little bit of evidence to strike up a convo. I was starved enough for friendship that I had to come out of my introverted shell. “I bet I can guess your name is Jason” I had said to him or something close to that ridiculous statement and he of course looked at me like I was an idiot. I honestly can’t tell you exactly how it went from there but that little conversation scored me a best friend for life. 45 years later and he’s the first person I call when I get bored driving on the road and we’ll catch up for the next hour. But I digress. This story is about that fucking school bus.

I wasn’t a tough kid initially growing up. I wouldn’t say soft either, tangling with my older siblings they didn’t really pull punches when we’d fight but I was the youngest by 6 years so the kid gloves were still used at times. As I mentioned before I had never really been bullied. Sure there were some husky kids in elementary school that could’ve had potential but I never crossed paths. I’d say it was probably around the second week of 4th grade that I got my first taste of it. A real big bite of it you might say. Don’t recall the moment right up to it but I heard a resounding SLAP from behind me and immediately felt a sharp pain run down the back of my neck. A couple of 8th graders behind me apparently had found a giant insect on the back of my neck and proceeded to smash it. Or at least that’s what they said. I had never paid any attention to them or looked their way. Even at 8 years of age I was able to decipher who to avoid just from instinct. These two derelicts were always at the back, always the loudest, reeked of cigarettes (even sometimes smoking on the bus) and as long as the bus driver wasn’t paying attention they wrecked havoc on the kids such as myself. The bus was mostly segregated with the 4th-5th graders in the front and then the teenagers got progressively older as you walked down the aisle. The back of my bus gave off vibes like a mobile teenage biker bar from bad movie. Any given school day you could walk down the aisles and see kids reading comic books and doodling on their notebooks or trying to get that last 10 minutes of shuteye after mom slung them out the door for school and then walk 8 more rows back and have teenagers gambling, smoking, making out and planning their terror on the innocent lives in the top 5 rows. God help you if you happen to find yourself in one of those pleather bench seats that resided in demilitarized zones. For some reason that giant rear view mirror in front of the bus driver’s seat couldn’t pick up any SOS signals in those seats. I always ended up in these seats. If there were empty seats the bus driver wouldn’t allow anyone to stand up.

I’ll call the two in the back Mutt and Fuck because I don’t remember their names. I’m sure to this day if you were to cross their paths you’d think to yourself “I’ll bet their names are Mutt and Fuck”. I liken them to the two bullies from A Christmas Story sans comedy. There was nothing funny about these two and while one was larger than the other that other was still much larger than me. The Gangwer bloodline doesn’t breed large men. At 5’11” 175 lbs I’m bigger than my father ever was. He achieved 5’9” in his prime. In 4th grade I was also small for my age which didn’t help.

The slap in the back of my neck was hard enough to make my nose bleed and that it did, heavily. I started crying and my seat companion who seemed no stranger to bus violence immediately got out of his seat and moved up several rows and sat back down without looking back. I had never been struck like that in my life. My old man had maybe spanked me twice in my life and like I said before my siblings remained somewhat respectful and only left light bruises when they’d beat my ass for fun.

I had hoped my crying would’ve caused some sympathy or empathy but I all received in return was laughter from the last two rows of seats. I spent that whole day in school with a solid headache and a blood stain that had run down my shirt and dried to a dark maroon stain that zigzagged down my striped t shirt. When I got home I had told my mom I got hit in the face with a kickball. Had I told Peggy what had happened she would’ve burned the whole fucking school down. That’s my mom.

I tried my best to stay away from Mutt and Fuck and sometimes they’d lose interest in me, find another poor victim or just call me a motherfucker. Motherfucker was a fun word in the 80’s I guess we could give Richard Pryor and Ed Murphy mad props for making it a household name well before Samuel Jackson ever did. I’d cringe when I’d hear them call me that because it meant my day was about to be an adventure. Would they hit me again? Stomp on my foot as I walked by? Sometimes they’d scream faggot out the window when I got off the bus or point and laugh at all the trash my stepfather kept in the side of the yard. I would catch so much shit for that the next year I would walk to the house next door so no one would know that was the house I lived in. Comic books would get ripped out of my grasp and thrown out of the window. Sometimes it was my homework on the way to school, I would get incomplete grades and then I would get grounded so hooray, the bullies managed to fuck my home life too. I didn’t tell anyone about my predicament. My brother was out of high school at this time and probably would’ve called me a pussy. I only saw my father on the weekends and the last thing I wanted was my dad to worry about on the 48 hours I got to see him was me getting beat up at school. My stepfather and I had not come to terms of relation as of yet and it would be several years before we could make peace with each other.

So I took it on the chin. Sometimes literally. I felt like Andy Dufresne from Shawshank Redemption, swinging my textbooks back and forth to keep Mutt and Fuck away from me. Somedays they didn’t have the energy and I’d only get a middle finger and a smile to remind me that the show must go on. Those two cocksuckers would torment me for two years. Then they stopped riding the bus. I assume one or both got their dream Camaros and started driving to school. I used to fantasize about seeing them lying dead, sprawled next to their wrecked car on 86 or 81, two roads notorious for being a Wren High School graveyard for reckless driving. Dark? You bet. Deserved? You goddamn right. Those bastards made my life a living hell.

There was one random year I didn’t get fucked with it might’ve been 6th grade I can’t recall. I only remember thinking I had made the turn to normalcy. Fairly certain my grades were passable and marginally decent. For whatever reason when puberty first hit me it went sideways instead of up. I got a little chunky in 7th grade. I’m sure it had nothing to do with refrigerator stocked with Lipton sweet tea jugs and 2 liter Pepsi bottles. I also had an affinity for Doritos and junior mints (still do). To add insult to injury my puberty also brought me Gynecomastia. That’s a word a seventh grade boy should never have to be introduced to. Everyone goes through that awkward phase during puberty but as a boy I hadn’t planned on getting 13 year old girl titties. Let me tell you this shit right here, I might as well have painted a bully bullseye on the front of my shirt.

Seventh grade bus rides brought back the bullying (no feeble attempt at alliteration). Add titty twisters to my trauma page for the next couple of years. I started to wear extra baggy shirts and always stood with my back hunched over and my arms crossed to hide my chest. Gynecomastia had a long lasting affect on my confidence and self image. Even when I would kill myself in the gym to try to correct it there is absolutely nothing you can do to make it go away without surgery. I did about a million bench presses and push ups and would never take my shirt off in public. The very first house I sold I used the money to have it surgically corrected. Best fucking $6k I’ve ever spent in my life. To this day it’s a rare moment to see a pic of me with my shirt off.

I had some new suitors for bullying, two more schmucks with small dick syndrome. Most of their pranks were stomping on my foot or flicking the back of my ears. Sometimes on slower days it was “hey faggot!”. You think you get used to bullying and name calling but you don’t. It goes into folders and files under trauma in your head and when you process it even in adulthood it can make you shakable angry as I call it. I kept it to myself. I really didn’t see anyway out of my dilemma at the time. I was just a fucking kid. I’d go to bed shaking in anger. Wake up with headaches from crying the night before. It affected my behavior in school. I was reclusive for the most part. My grades started averaging right at low Cs and would hover around that for the rest of my school career. I was 5’3” all the way until my sophomore year and then sprouted 8 inches without gaining a pound.

Eight grade my bus route went into a tale of lunacy.

The wonderful folks who controlled the bus scheduling decided to reverse the pickups and now I would be first to get on the bus. Pros- I get whatever seat I wanted and it was the front seat right next to the bus driver. I might get a sneer from one of the chuckle fucks but I was relatively safe. Also the bus driver had a thing for one of my sisters so he treated me kindly I could give a shit as to what his intentions were with my sister I was just happy not to get my titties twisted. The cons were the bus picked me up at 6:30 am. My grades were already shit so let’s make Chad get up at 5:45 every morning to see if that helps. Another con was if I wasn’t standing directly by the road sometimes the bus would drive right by me and I’d miss it. Which would bring the fury of my mother upon the school and myself. Sometimes that fucking bus would still drive right by me as I stood with my toes on the white lines of 86. I’d walk in just in time to hear my mom screaming on the phone to come pickup here child.

The most ridiculous part of it was I’d ride that fucking bus from 6:30am- 7:45am everyday. Around 7:30am it would drive right back by my house from the other direction. Like it had for the last 4 years. Finally someone on the school bus board figured out that “well shit! We could’ve picked you up on the way back this whole time!” Whoops! Haha!” It only took two years.

My final year of riding the bus was my freshman year in high school. It was like the bus gods knew my time of yellow tin box herding was coming to a close. Pretty soon my friends would be old enough to drive and I’d luck out eventually. I knew my broke ass wouldn’t be driving for awhile. So to get its last kick in I was put on the after school list. Buses were overcrowded so they added an extra wave. The bus drivers would run their routes until they were empty and then come pick us up for round two which was only about dozen of us at the time. Of those dozen there always seemed to be a couple of motherfuckers still around to fuck with me. For that last year I got on the fucking bus from 6:30 to 7:45 and then 3:30- 4:15. I had one hour after school everyday that I spent outside at the bus pickup. I’d hide in one of the cubby holes for drop off and do my homework and try to stay as invisible as I could. I’d get rocks thrown at me and could hear them laughing and their cigarette smoke around the corner. 9th grade was much more physical. I got headlocks, nut punches, slapped in the face. Sometimes I’d get picked up by my neck and thrown down. I was too embarrassed and scared to tell anyone. When I got home I’d stay in my room until the swelling in my cheeks went down. The only time I hinted to bullying was when I had bruises on my neck from a chokehold. My mother nearly lost her mind on that one. It made me despise school. Not just that year but for the rest of my school career. My grades showed it. I had created my own little fantasy world in my head conjured up with all of my comic books and fantasy novels. I didn’t want to be in this world it was terrible. In my fantasy I was a fucking hero, a badass. I played with action figures and toys until I was 14. Mostly because aside from my three friends I had at the time, my room was my escape. I didn’t want to grow up because it seemed every year I matured life got shittier. I recall going to one of the stores in the Greenville mall to get a new GI Joe vehicle. A girl that road my school bus was also there with her little brother and we had a brief conversation. It was the first time she had ever acknowledged me and I was pleased. I had the vehicle under my arm ready for purchase and she had asked me about it. I was all proud and gave her the rundown on all the specs of the vehicle and the background of the action figure that came with it. My dad always dropped me off at the mall and would come back to pick me up. We talked for a solid 5 minutes. I felt like I was on a date.

The following Monday when I got on the bus I was greeted with snickers and laughter as schoolmates got on the bus from her neighborhood. Our run in that previous weekend had been the topic of conversation before the bus picked them up. Now I was being made fun of for still playing with toys. The cute girl that had made me smile just two days before walked right past me like I was a bus seat . I went home and threw that brand new toy vehicle in the trash.

9th grade my dad passed. Late February. He walked out of his favorite happy hour spot, fell down and never got back up. Massive stroke took him out without a whisper. My father was my hero and my best friend. After my parents divorce I got to spend 48 hours a week with him from 8-14. No one should ever see their parent just part time. I took it hard. I took a week off of school and came back to some heart warming cards from my classmates that had never even looked my way. A few of them even spelled my name correctly.

When my dad passed I kept to myself. My weekends were spent at home instead of my dad’s and I became even more reclusive. I’d draw some dark murky pictures filled with violent connotations. Bloody battles conjured by some really dark thoughts.

One afternoon as I was dropped off by that fucking school bus one of my antagonists pinched the bus window down, shoved his head out and called me a faggot. My mother just happened to be sitting on the front porch with her afternoon iced Lipton’s (it was a fine spring day). I heard the “faggot” just as I was about to hug my mom. She lept up in anger and charged the bus. Had that bus already not started its momentum I have no doubt in my mind she would’ve dragged the kid off the bus and killed him.

Peggy (my mother) was a spirited and proud woman. If you pissed Peggy off you better run. My stepfather was not a small man and there were several occasions he went to hide in the backyard when she got in her moods. When she got worked up she would claim it’s her “nerves”. Don’t mess with my mama’s nerves because it means you’ve pissed her off. Her nerves could make her angry and or sick. The woman was the hardest headest person you’ll ever meet. My wild and wonderful siblings didn’t make things easy for her so I always tried to stay on my mother’s good side. Sometimes she would go into screaming tantrums and shake a bottle of pills in her hand and threaten to take everyone of them so she would never wake up again. . New parents- don’t ever do that shit to your kid. You have not idea what that will do to them. I’d follow my mother around the house without trying to be seen to make sure she never followed through with her pill swallowing plans.

Well after the kid had called me a faggot the bullying world exploded into my mother’s face. The bruises and busted lips I always came home too all made sense to her now. Mom started bawling and screaming. “Who was that? What’s his name! I will find someone to kick that fucking kid’s ass! I fucking will!”

Peggy was pissed and that upset me. I kept my beatings and beratement to myself, I knew what it would do to my mother and her “nerves”. She was in her bedroom on the phone for hours. I couldn’t tell who she was talking to maybe it was the school but whoever it was I bet they still remember the conversation to this day. My mother could make quite an impression on you.

I pleaded with my mother to not do anything. The last thing I needed was have my mom champion me on the bus. I was going through enough shit as it was.

I didn’t sleep that night. I went to bed angry and woke up incensed. I literally had thoughts of murder in my mind. School shootings have always hit me different. I weep for the lives lost and am filled with empathy for the shooters. I wasn’t on the brink of shooting up my school but I had a few targets I would’ve pushed into the bullet if I was present during one. I was filled with hate and rage and should’ve received a superlative award for not scratching that itch for as long as I did.

The last 2 months of my school bus career the schedule had been changed in my favor once again. I was the last pickup on the route as opposed to the first. When I got on the bus the next morning I had no agenda or plan. I expected to get on the bus and resume my face forward and keep my mouth shut. The first person I see is that smug-faced shithead with a big grin on his face. I hate to say the cliche “I saw red” but it’s the most accurate way to describe my mood once I saw that fucker. “What’s up faggot?”- was the last thing he said to me before my trapper keeper split his nose and lip open. The first hit didn’t do it for me so I kept hitting him with it until the trapper couldn’t keeper anymore. My notebooks and stationary went left and right with my arms swinging. When I was done half the kids in the back of the bus grabbed my loose school work and collected it for me. Handed it to me without a word. The bus driver didn’t say a word to me. If anything I’m willing to bet he was thinking “it’s about fucking time someone smacked that cuck.” The girl that had told everyone about my toy purchased slowly sunk in her seat with her mouth wide open. The kid got messed up bad. I went to my seat without a word. I was shaking uncontrollably and tried to sink in my seat. Thinking that if I sank low enough everyone would forget what had just happened and life would go on.

By the time I got to school the assistant principle was waiting on me. I didn’t get expelled but they were going to suspend me for a week. Not sure what was said on the phone with Peggy but I was at school the next day. Apparently a few years before my stepbrother had been expelled from school for an unfair confrontation from a teacher. My stepfather being a rather large man in his own talked Dr. Christopher into changing his mind. I think all my mother did was remind him of who my stepfather was and that he would be on his way when he got back into town and that did the trick. That particular kid never rode the school bus again. Or at least not mine.

As much as I’d like to say that was the end of my bullying it wasn’t but it dropped it by about 90%. Never got fucked with on the school bus again.

I can’t calculate the fights or fuck withs I endured on those 5 years on that fucking bus. There were many. It changed me as a kid. It put a very unhealthy chip on my shoulder. It made me bitter and boy fucking howdy did it made me mean. It almost turned me into the same prototype cunts as the ones that used to fuck with me. Talking about some fucking PTSDs.

For years after high school I would always look for takers. If you looked at me aggressively in a bar chances are I’d swing on you. I’d fuck with the biggest motherfucking alpha male in the group with the thought “you don’t have shit on what I’ve gone through” hoping to prove my self worth by chopping down the biggest tree in the forest or bar..

Bar fights with head butts and feet stomping. Something my old man shared with me. “He ain’t going to do shit when you break his toes.” Listen, it works. To this day I will not go out unless I’m wearing shoes that have the propensity to stomp or kick toes. You never fucking know when you might run into a Mutt and Fuck.

At 52 years old that bus still has long lasting effects on my behavior. That chip is still there. I’m incapable of keeping my mouth shut in certain situations and dangerously hover that line of self perceived vengeance when people act unruly or are inconsiderate to others. Bullying unfortunately can still bring me to violence. Yes two wrongs don’t make a right but steel sharpens steel.

I spent 10 years in Piedmont and I have a love/hate relationship with it. My best friends for most of my life rear from that little town and I’ve called it my home when I lived there. The other side is there were some really ridiculously terrible humans that lived in that town too. Not sure how I’d react to some of them if I saw them out in public. One of them is dead. Shot himself in he head. I feel for his family. Him not so much. I saw another one at Lowe’s a few years back. He looked feeble to me with his reading glasses on the end of his nose trying to read instructions to a hitch mount with his little arm outstretched to see the writing. I was a breath away from thumping the back of his ear. He’d gotten much smaller even shrinkier if that’s a word. I’m 60 lbs heavier after high school. 60 lbs of constant gym visits and beating the shit out of myself to stay hard just in case I ever put in that situation again. Bullying fucks with you until the end y’all. Therapy can help but it’s a thin veil. I walked right past him without a word. I doubt he would even recognized me. I still hate that motherfucker with all of my passion. When he dies if I’m around to hear about it I’ll fucking smile. That’s what I’ve become. When I stopped drinking I put that person away for good too but goddam he stays right behind the door. It wouldn’t take much to open it unfortunately.

I haven’t been in a fight in years. I’ve slapped a few faces for being intolerable or my self perceived “they deserved it” but I hope to never see a fight close up again. It’s taken years for me to come down off that violent vibe. I don’t wear it. To meet me you’d never know. I detest violence which is a paradox because it’s how I would respond if I’m backed into a corner. And no I’m not putting myself on a roadhouse movie pedestal like I can go around and kick anyone’s ass believe me I’ve had it kicked a few times too. There’s a healthy reason why you don’t fuck with people twice your size. At the time I just wanted to see what I had in me and them for that matter. I often wonder what my personality would be had I never rode that fucking school bus. Would I have stayed mousy and shy? My mom was no stranger to speaking her mind. I used to think I took after just my father but I’m recognizing that I must’ve inherited my mother’s “nerves”. My dad was an easy going man but had the reputation of being a 5’9” old veteran that you didn’t disrespect. There was a story that went around about him beating a much larger man senseless with a maglite for being unruly in his bar. Probably being a bully.

Not sure what inspired me to write this particular memory since I haven’t been bullied in awhile. Possibly a spark from an old shit headed neighbor. Something about someone calling you motherfucker brings back some Mutt and Fuck memories. I guess I’ll always have a little motherfucker left in me until all the Mutts and Fucks are gone.