Bearded Gang

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.

Rocking chairs on big front porches

Sunrises piercing through tree clusters

Little wooden steps leading up to a child’s treehouse

Forever scriptures handwritten in the sidewalks

Freshly painted wooden fences while the good dog nostrils flare and sniffs out your familiar scent on the other side

That perfect song coming on the beats while I walk

Leaf piles teasing me to be a child again

The fierce but quiet ederly with their mighty walking batons

Little toy lawnmowers to mimic our chores

The occasional patio waves from people that still enjoy a good newspaper comic

Early morning porch lights flickering

Belly full of morning coffee and brain full of fresh thoughts

I’ll think about taking over the world at least 10 times while I pace

All the while enjoying the freedom of not having that responsibility anymore

Fall leaf drift on old roofs

Little yard signs telling Lassie “you can’t shit here”

Brave ground hogs on their haunches to watch me pass

That early morning air, misty and audible

Collect my ashes when I die, don’t worry with the urn

We’re going to some of my favorite places that have made me smile over the years

The places that built me, shaped me and healed me

First let’s take that vessel of ashes to that old street in Belle Mead. Where I remember my parents happy and together and all my siblings gathered around the holiday tree.

Leave a part of me in that yard where I played with my old dog, the mighty Sebastian, the yard that hosts the only pic of me and parents together.

Throw some of my ashes out of the window of an old pickup truck, cruising down 86 where my mom and I used to walk to gas station to drink a Pepsi and share candy on the way back.

Put some ashes of my soul around Lily Lake in Colorado. The lake that introduced me to the Rockies, the one I visit every each time I’m up in the clouds. The lake that shares my beautiful daughter’s name

Dip a bike tire in that port in Oregon while my ashes lap into the pacific. Talk about the cross country trip with one of my best friends that brought me there

Season the gulf shore sands with my dust, right where the waters run up to that house where my wife and I exchanged vows. Be sure to leave a dash near the halfway point on the way. She’ll know why

Scatter some in that half acre yard of our old house in San Souci, where I sat in my yard while watching my daughter dance over a sprinkler and knew my days of owning restaurants where coming to an end

Dust some rocks in Bar Harbor, Maine where I had my first lobster roll but save a little for that Cadillac mtn sunrise.

Go back to Colorado, strew ashes from the top of Mt Amimas in Durango where I took my whole family to hike up that mountain one at a time

Sprinkle me on that million dollar highway, take a left to Utah/Arizona and put a dash in Lake Powell, where I shared some laughs with my friend and found the universe during a full moon

Scatter me on the Sedona trails where I made up my mind to stop forever this time.

Have my daughter sprinkle some in that little roadside sculpture attraction in SD on our first road trip. I smile each time I think about that day

All my favorite peaks that became a part of me while I found myself. The Ebert, Lafayette, Longs, Table, Pinnacle, Jones, Caesar’s, Roan, Manitou and Causeway just to name few.

Go watch a sunrise over my favorite gorge, watch the sun as it rises over shortoff and cast the rest of my ashes there.

Don’t leave me on a shelf or on your mantle. I was never meant to rest

Live through my eyes one last time. Allow my ashes to lie around what created my soul.

I had a vision a few months back while mediating before bed. It’s a standard practice for me to put on my fancy, rechargeable eye massaging goggles for a 15 minute session every evening when I go to bed. I’ll do some breathing exercises to maintain my concentration and man it does wonders for my sleep. On occasions I’ll space out and travel around in my memories, places I’ve visited, mountains I’ve hiked, conversations with my family from decades ago. It’s refreshing and the experience for me is therapeutic. It slows my mind down before bed and keeps the snakes in my head at bay. Sometimes I’ll fall asleep with them on which isn’t terrible. They’re comfy and not all that intrusive as long as it’s not too hot in the bedroom.

One evening as I was lying in bed I was slowly absorbed into a vision of an open field. A meadow if you want to make it sound more aesthetic. It was late morning judging by the direction of the sun. I suppose you could call it a dream, I may have fallen asleep although my dreams aren’t as lucid as they used to be and I can recall just about all of this one vision. I wasn’t really there or at least in physical form I wasn’t. I point of view seemed more like a small drone, floating, following my wife and daughter around.

My daughter looked to be in her 30s, long straight hair, style mirroring her mother’s. She stood a few inches taller than her mother (she is approaching that height quickly already). She was wearing heels while my Jessica, her mother, wore flats. She had her head on my wife’s shoulder, they were both smiling sadly. My wife had touches of gray in her hair but still looked as beautiful as the day we met. A spry little girl was playing while sort of trying to keep up with the mother and daughter. The little girl could only be my grandchild and nothing else. She had the striking resemblance of her mother walking in front and even had a big white bow my daughter wore most of her early days until she was big enough to pull it off her head. She was in a pretty little dress. They all were.

They were standing in that big open meadow under the shade of a giant oak tree.

It’s became obvious in my dream/vision that I had recently passed and I was witnessing either my memorial or the spreading of my ashes. I don’t wish to be buried in a box underground.

They were both dressed in black although my granddaughter was wearing little dress covered in flowers. I didn’t see the father of the child. Either he wasn’t a part of the family or he didn’t want to have anything to do with the memorial. Which leads me to believe she was divorced or widowed.

They seemed at peace which gives me the impression that my passing wasnt unexpected. The look on their face almost seemed like relief. I may have been in pain for some time. Maybe cancer, dementia or something that may take some time to put me down. As much as dying quickly in my sleep may seem the best way to go, I hope I get the opportunity to say goodbye to all the people in my life. Regardless I’ll be going down swinging.

For whatever reason two numbers were in my head- 78 and 83. I don’t recall seeing a headstone or marker. Judging by the age of my family it leads me to believe that would be the age of my passing. Not sure as to why there were two but I’ll take the higher one if I get a choice obviously.

Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it was the sushi I ate or the nerds rope gummy or combination of all three but I did cry for a bit that night thinking about it. Oddly not tears of sadness. Taking the dream to heart I would have 26 (or 31) more years to enjoy my time with my family. It’s odd how you perceive quality of your time as you get older. Yeah I want to hike a thousand more mountains and go on a thousand more adventures but in that dream/ vision my mind narrowed to those two. And maybe a little granddaughter so I can relive just a bit of my daughter’s little girl phase one more time.

78 ain’t so bad. 83 is obviously better. Maybe the two numbers represent when I’m sick and pass. I’ll gladly accept 5 years of sickness to have more time with them.

My first restaurant child turns 11 tomorrow. She was born from bluegrass vibe and charm with a side of sawmill gravy. We walked through your dining room admiring the subway tiled walls along the open kitchen, reclaimed barn wood stage, magnificent fireplaces that made you feel like you could prop your feet up on the old round coffee tables while sipping libations and listen to string bands, acoustic sets and electric. We had Shovels and Rope and Marcus King, old school favs like Doug Jones and awesome bands that got the crowd going like Strung Like A Horse.

Grand chandeliers and dreams this concept had soul, energy and love. My partner and I walked through your doors after driving by and seeing a sign on your door. You were probably building number 20 we visited over the years and as soon as I stepped foot into that old Brioso place I knew it was the right spot. Like an arrow through the bullseye. I went home and created you in one night. I lie when I say that because although the concept was created that night I edited and re-edited the menu fourteen thousand times before we opened. My partner handled the FOH and together we made this concept unique. She was a time capsule of an upcoming musical generation of Mumford and Sons, Avett Brothers, Pokey Lafarge with a side of old school Southern Culture on the Skids (hence the name) and a dash of Drive By Truckers .

We gave our front of the house freedom to express themselves through style of white cotton shirts, suspenders, bowties and southern attitude. Our staff loved her and her vibe, the food, the experience. We had made a southern Appalachian oasis in the middle of a fucking Cherrydale strip mall.

I wrote that menu like a song. I poured my everything to get each item to read like a fucking sonnet. Fun names like Big Mama’s Meatloaf, Pleasantburger (still one of my fav names, thanks Jenny) Dixie Land Poutine. We made ridiculous waffle, and pot roast sandwiches, shrimp po’boy tacos and tater tots with pimento cheese fondue with chopsticks to dip and smothered with sriracha. Truck loads of banana pudding and enough fried chicken to feed Kentucky.

My chef and I closed up the friends and family night with a bottle of vodka and came into work opening day on three hours sleep. We didn’t give a shit we were too damn excited to be hungover. We made sauces and dressings on the fly. We even succumbed to the great site of Epicurious for last minute ideas for the 15 menu edits the night before. We made a great team at that time.

Southern opened with a whisper. Our first menu item that went out the kitchen window was the popular Pork nachos. Sort of.. We left off the pork, slaw and cheese. The first two months were sluggish and scary. We were a ghost town. We didn’t order our sign in time so all we had was a plastic banner over our doors. Our kitchen staff was made up of half talent and half rookie applicants that came from the bus stop. Our baby was in trouble.

We had brunch on our minds but we wanted to get the dinner service running smooth before we tried another shift. Once we realized that it was essential to be open for brunch we took our chance and holy fucking shit did we get smacked.

We opened at 11am and closed at 1. We sold out of chicken.. and bacon.. and biscuits aaaand eggs. We got popped on the chin and crashed. We wanted to be champions of brunch but we were only contenders at the time. I had just lost my chef the day before. No one on my line had ever cooked brunch including yours truly. I was a steakhouse man. After dusting ourselves off and tripling our brunch inventory we got back in the ring and kicked the shit out of brunch. For several years we were the brunch champions. That’s not pride that is fact. Brunch became synonymous with Southern. We had lines going all the way down to the post office. When we got our sign on the building December our dinner business literally tripled that night.

Southern Culture was my first album, my first top 40 hit that raced up the charts. You pour your heart into that first one. All your favorite recipes you’ve written over the years. We were like Jimmy Hendrix’s Experience, Van Halen 1978 or Guns and Roses Appetite for Destruction.

We were kicking ass. We were cocky. We had a great front of the house staff, cream of the crop. The kitchen at one time had 6 sous on the line all capable of running their own team. We were fucking loaded with talent like the Miami Hurricanes of 2001. We put Cherrydale on the map as a dining destination and let me tell you that ain’t easy.

We stretched ourselves a little when we opened Dive. We put a dent in SC’s armor by growing too close to home. Egos grew as did tensions. Strong business builds relationships slow business can burn them down.

When Dive opened we lost a little luster in the company. Our cockiness was replaced with another kick in the teeth. Greenville wasn’t ready for her and while we tried fixing it it caused some issues with creative expression from many sides. We tried brunch there but you don’t open up a Carowinds next to a Disney World. Families get split sometimes and it’s hard to keep everyone at the same cookout year after year. Talent leaves to do their own thing or they want to start a family and I tell people all the time I teach my staff to leave the nest and grow.

Southern started to change or evolve. She used to be fun, glam, big blonde hair, pearl snaps with cowboy boots. Suddenly she was wearing high heels, dinner dresses and drinking red wine instead of PBR. We were posting white table cloths, wine bottles and elevated proteins. We went from mason jars to stems. We were getting a little stuffy. People went from singing with the bands to complaining about the level of music.

LTO took all of the bar vibe from southern and moved it next door. Two popular restaurants with two others fighting for parking lot spaces on weekend nights.

Staff that were family became social security numbers. When it was just Southern I knew everyone by name, their significant others and even favorite poets.

When she turned 5 Southern lost some charm. Things change as do visions. It happens, families split when you get too big. When we opened LTO the whole energy shifted to growth instead of perfection.

Southern, being the mother ship, it meant taking her talent and moving it around. In other words diluting it.

2020 when covid hit she lost a little soul as did her creator. We tried to recapture some of the old vibe by going full blown Nashville with strings on the stage every night but that stage had sat empty too long, Greenville wasn’t having it.

After her 8th year she moved on to someone else. Like watching your child move on to an adopted family. I haven’t talked to her in years. All of the founding family have come and gone. I probably wouldn’t recognize her if I passed her on the street.

Happy number 11 SC. Hope they give you some candles to blow out this time.

Brining

Simple task of adding flavor and tenderizing of proteins by using salt and liquid. Usually water and or juice, wine, vinegar. Great for poultry, seafood, pickling. Don’t fucking cook that holiday Turkey without brining it first you Luddite.

Marinating

Similar to brining but used more to change the flavor and aromatic profile using the acidic of juices, oils and herbs to tenderize and breakdown the proteins or vegetables. Examples – mojo, chimmichuri, bbq sauces. Works for grilling big ass pieces of meat with no flavor or for when you’re tired of chicken tasting like chicken

Fuck ton

The form of measurement used to describe par levels, stock inventory or basically anything over say… 20.

Examples: Prep cook- “Chef, how many portions of pudding do I need to make for dinner service?”

Chef – “A fuck ton.”

Prep cook – “Heard chef!”

“What do you mean we are out of C folds?? There should be a fuck ton of them in dry storage!”

“We just had a fuck ton of people walk in the restaurant!”

And sometimes used for hyperbole

“We need to pull Chuck off the grill. I’ve had a fuck ton of steaks come back tonight.”

Shit load

See *Fuck Ton

Sharpie

An actually sharpie or magic marker, used for labeling masking tape, making permanent changes on recipe cards, writing prep lists, inventory, kitchen notes, drawing dicks on prep tables and on the back of line cooks necks. A must have for all line cooks usually found shoved behind an ear or in that little slot on the chef coat sleeve only to be forgotten about and ruin your load of whites later that night during laundry. A highly valued possession that if you’re sleight enough you can accumulate a healthy chef bag full by the end of your shift by borrowing every one else’s. Also can be used as currency for buying cigarettes and redbulls off of linecooks.

Bar towel

Also known as a dish rag. These can be seen holstered on the side of line cooks, bussers, bartenders and servers. When properly utilized it’s purpose is to sanitize prep tables, dining room tables, bar wood, kitchen equipment etc. It can also be used as a damp cold compression for 110° kitchens, hangovers and oven burns. Oven mitts, ass stingers, bandanas and bathing when you’re working a hot double. Two of them make for a great pillow when you’re napping off a hangover on the back dock. Bar towels are also another form of restaurant currency. Most places you’re given a small number to last your whole shift. Some line cooks have hidden caches of them in their chef rolls, trunk of their car or hiding in the ceiling tiles. I have had to come between many a cooks when someone has snuck a towel or sharpie from their hiding places. Solid pet peeve- don’t let your employees walk around with bar towels hanging by their side. I know it’s convenient to have a mobile hand dryer at your side during high volume but you’re packing enough bacteria on that towel to flavor kool aid for Jonestown. Restaurant owner wannabes, these little guys can cost you upwards of 3-5k annually on your bottom line.

Julienne

Do you like veggies? Do you like veggies all uniformed and cut to look like fucking matchsticks? That’s all that means.

Back dock

Employee lounge at the back of every restaurant. This is where red bulls and monsters are consumed voraciously. 2 oz soufflé cups of sweet tea and sodas while inhaling a camel wide in between dinner rushes. Gossiping about new key managers while swatting horse flies buzzing around the eight pungent slim jims left for the dumpster run the night before. Hidden flasks are sipped back here while line cooks talk about walking out on that asshole chef. Life long friendships and relationships have been created in this zone. Terminations, promotions and a solid boxing ring for employees to air out their differences. The employee that didn’t pull their weight that day got the sidework of sweeping up the dozens of discarded cigarettes butts by the back dock latern that had probably been burned out or punched out for 4 months.

Heard

Service industry lingo for just about all communication. Heard is the “Roger” or “10-4 good buddy” for restaurants. When asked to perform a task it is reasonable to reply with a resounding “heard” to show your compliance. When outside expo calls out a ticket you damn well better hear a “HEARD” from the line. It’s for when expo, management or hell anyone at the restaurant want to know you’re paying attention.

Walking with a hot ass pan in my hands “Hot behind you!”

“Heard chef”

“Drop two hangers and work me a shrimp and grit!”

“Heard chef”

You’ll find yourself using this term unconsciously while you’re away from work too.

Wife – “can you please for the love of god take the fucking trash out??”

Me – “heard”

Behind, Corner

In the restaurant business you are fucking trucking at 100mph with 500° sauté pans, fajitas that will cook your skin off rushing across the dining room and sharp knives that will could a t-bone. How do we all manage not to run into each other, catch fire, lope off an elbow and die? We communicate with short loud outbursts. “BEHIND!” let’s your crew know you are walking behind them with something that could possibly send them to the emergency room. Usually in the form of blazing fire or sharp jaded glass. Sometimes it’s a grill cook with a $48 center cut ribeye dangling from the clutches of a limping pair of tongs, trying not to rear end inside expo while he argues with the floor manager who he’s been fucking for the last 6 weeks.

Sometimes it’s the lead server navigating the trainee with 8 stem glasses and a pricey vino through the busy dining room with patrons skipping and dancing in reverse. Using the word “behind” can keep a rotund cook from bumping your ass into a deep fryer.

Corner is sort of like honking before you go around a sharp one lane, blindsided turn. When not used properly you’ll have servers with hot loaded tea urns running into cooks with pans on fire and regretting your new upcoming workers comp policy.

Hands

Restaurants that have food runners all have the same commotion coming from the kitchen. “HANDS” or “RUNNERS!” are exclaimed from inside or outside expos when hot food is ready to leave the window. A well run facility will have servers and food runners check for hot food each time they walk by the kitchen window even during rush. When this doesn’t happen you will hear “HANDS!” in loud, frantic outbursts as outside expo gets pummeled with a 40 top plate service all at once. This is usually when you’ll see an upcoming mental breakdown in the making.

Expo

Inside expo is the most important position in the kitchen in my opinion. Inside expo is the quarterback of the line. They communicate with all the other line cooks. They have the menu playbook memorized. You’ve got up to five others on the line all being choreographed by inside expo. They make sure the plates pass in correct order, fry, pantry, grill and saute cooks build the plates in unison. A good inside expo keeps the line guys on the same cadence. They assure that sautéd broccolini in brown butter hits the side plate with the coulette at the same time. Or that the fried chicken hits the top of the Cobb salad right when it’s time to sell a so the lettuce doesn’t wilt. A great expo will keep your tickets below 15 on a busy night and will back up any station in need.

Rush

Rush is fairly self explanatory. In the restaurant business rush time is usually from 12-2 for lunch and 6-9 for dinner. If you’re a late night bar rush may not happen until after 11 when other places have closed and or last call when everyone is either tabbing out or getting that last drink before the mops break out. It’s basically means you’re knee deep in the shit.

The rush can be a smooth sailing busy shift running on all cylinders with servers upselling, kitchen line running 11 minute ticket times, expo is all smiles and the GM is out in the dining room kissing kids and shaking customers. Customers are full bellied burping out 5 star reviews and talking about naming their next child after one do your signature dishes.

The other rush is the hostess keeps leaving the hostess stand because she’s puking in the bathroom from the apartment party one of the line cooks invited her to while a server is crying in front of the POS because she got triple sat by the new manager in training. Bartender is 4 deep at brunch and just 86ed Bloody Mary mix because he thought it wouldn’t be busy enough for a backup. Kitchen line is running 45 minute ticket times because you’re one man down from the pantry cook not paying his child support. Expo is buried in hot plates turning cold and the GM is holding the puking 17 year old hostess’s hair while she continues to puke by the dish room slim Jim

Slim Jims

No these aren’t those long skinny meat sticks you find in roadside gas stations. Slim Jims are tall, skinny trash cans used by restaurants and bars. Their shape is meant to sit flush with walls and in between work stations so your don’t trip or fall into or over them. Also designed somewhat for one or two employees to be able to heave over the big green monsters without being crushed or adding more cost to your workers comp. The shelf life of these cans can me tumultuous due to most employees dragging these by the lip, hundreds of feet down asphalt corridors until they are heaved into the mother trash (dumpsters). Other employees with use hand trucks or a random shopping cart that a homeless person discarded in your parking lot 2 years ago. Some such as many of my old dishwashers will stack them up tits full behind the dumpsters for the morning crew to discover while looking for empty slim jims.

Dry Storage

Usually a long skinny corridor used for storage just wide enough to where you have to fully embrace a 50lb bag of flour to drag it out to the prep area so you can cut it open. 10lb cans stacked on top of one another to roll off like giant logs off of a semi in Final Destination (not as bad but you may get your toe squashed. Normally air controlled like a sauna. Drug deals can be also made here.

Walk-in

Where the weak go to cry and chefs go to scream. Also I suppose it’s used to keep a fuck load of food and prep cooled.

C folds

Those little tri fold towels that get stuck in every fucking towel dispenser and end up sitting on top of the dispenser itself or laying on a wire rack next to the sink. Fancy restaurants will have the big fat soft ones in a germ ridden wicker basket on the center of the vanity between the two copper sinks.

All Day

Expo or linecook slang for “how many fucking steaks do I have on the grill?” Or “how many fries do I need down in the fryer?”

Expo- “You have all day- 8 racks of ribs, 4 tender baskets, 12 fries, 2 Brussels and a Mac n cheese.”

Dead Plate

Someone done fucked up and made one too many shrimp and grits or the hot plate sat too long in the window. Sometimes it’s an overlooked allergy expo caught before it went out. Dead plates are plates/food you can’t fix or repair. Serving burgers open face is ideal for these moments because it’s cheaper throwing away a top bun because you mistakenly put mayo on the no mayo as opposed to trying to wipe the mayo off the whole burger itself or throwing it out. Sometimes the plate sits too long in the window and it gets overcooked from the heat lamp or it turns into a still life painting from being pushed outside of the heat lamps effective range. Dead plates usually end up on the back prep table to be consumed by hungry staff like pigs in a trough.

On the pass

When plating, often times food has to be passed down the line to the main window. Your grill and expo are generally closest to the window and then sauté and pantry might be further down. Sauté will be the guy with the haricots verts flambé and need the protein plated and passed down to him. That plate while in transit is “on the pass” from ine

Weeds

The social equalizer in the industry. Doesn’t matter how you kick ass in this business everyone has experienced it. Whether it’s being triple sat, 40 tickets ringing in at one time, hot food piling up at expo or dishwasher breaking down in the middle of the shit, it’s the restaurant version of losing your fucking mind. You can be in control on a busy night all night and BAM you lose a credit card on the way back to the table or FUCK you forgot to ring in one person’s order on a 20 top, or GODDAMMIT your grill is on fire from all the built up carbon, or MOTHERFUCKER the kitchen printer goes down.

The whole night was as your oyster. You were kicking ass and making bills. You hear the expo screaming “CHECK YOUR TABLES! PRINTER WENT DOWN!” and you’re praying that 10 top got rang in before the printer shit the bed. You’re praying really hard because you rang that food in 20 minutes ago and told your table “it shouldn’t be much longer” only to find out their order has been in short circuited purgatory for the last 20 minutes and now you or the manager on duty (currently crying in the walk-in) have to find a way to let the table know their food hasn’t even been dropped yet because of a frayed wire to the main printer, wrapped in masking tape by a pantry cook just smoked out. It might start with your feet getting cold, your arm going numb or that one bead of sweat running down the side of your cheek but here comes the weeds. There’s no way to defeat the weeds once they arrive. You ride it out like sitting in a dumpster full of rotten chicken during a tornado and hope you aren’t dead when it’s over. At the end of your shift, you funnel a bottle of Stoli and prepare for the next one.

Floor Plan

The front of the house (FOH) atlas, navigation chart and customer corral. This is the laminated scroll that sits masking taped to the top of every the hostess station/desk/stand. Well I’m sure the digital age has reshaped that now to a tablet screen so some romance has been lost in the old days of being able to erase your name with your palm right in front of the hostess and scream “IM CUT GODDAMIT!” and then walk out to smoke before you clock out for the day. Floor plans can make or break a server’s day. The lifers and keys always got to choose which quadrilateral they got to focus on for the shift. Managers will all sing the same song about “There are no bad sections!” which we all know is the biggest pile of horse shit you could ever feed a server.

Some would walk in for service, check the floor plan, nod their head and go about their business. Others will take a glance, mutter “hells yes” under their breath and flip their section 4 times. These sections on the floor plan may resemble 4 booths or 3 booths and a large round. Some prefer high top cocktail tables that you can wine and dine or turn and burn. Then there are the sections where servers look down, drop their shoulders and know it’s going to be either a ghost town or parties with kids in their section all night. These sections usually consist of four tops that float right in the middle of the dining room that are constantly pushed together for large parties to celebrate birthdays filled with discarded wrapping paper, confetti, glitter (the herpes of craft world) deflated balloons and smashed birthday cake stomped into the carpet by a three year lunatic child that needs it’s ass beat. Party is camping the whole evening in your section while everyone passes around baby pictures of birthday girl as she sits in her regal birthday chair with arms, wrapped in a “Birthday Girl” paper sash and a plastic tiara on her head. Settle the fuck down Susan you’re 48 for fuck sake.

Side-work

Seems fairly simple to define and most jobs have some sort of side-work. Mostly it’s daily tasks that help keep the wheels spinning once the restaurant opens. There’s three basic levels of sidework in the restaurant business. Opening side-work such as brewing coffee and tea while slicing lemons, folding linen until you get carpel tunnel, setting up expo with all the condiments and garnishments used to pretty up the plates.

Running side-work usually fell into what you chose as opening side-work. If you were tasked with brewing the tea it usually meant it was your responsibility to maintain that area during shift to insure a steady flow of sweet tea is available at all times. You may have been tasked with wiping down the bathroom sinks from customer backsplashing, picking used hand towels off it’s floor and be the messenger for the manager if someone blows up the handicap stall ther always needs the handle jiggled. A well oiled shift with good staff present doesn’t need running side-work assigned. Everyone pulls for everyone. Shit gets done most of the time and it’s all smiles. Now if Cathy is pissed at Rebecca for texting Nelson the bartender (Cathy has crushed on him since orientation and is waiting for the right moment for Nelson to ask her out even though they’ve been working together for 5 months) then Cathy won’t even press the brew button on the tea machine all shift. She won’t back up ice, lemons, he’ll she might pour a carafe of coffee down the drain just to spite. That’s Rebecca’s sidework and well, fuck Rebecca’s slutty ass for texting Nelson “wyd?” after 4 jagers.

Now closing side-work is always a subject of drama. If you didn’t pull your weight during rush the veteran server will assign you the bullshit sidework. Y’all know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about. If the average sidework chart has say, 10 tasks. Most likely 3 of those will be cakewalk side-work such as sweep waitstation area and marry the tea urns. Another 3 or 4 will be more indignant like sweeping up the bathrooms, changing out the trash liners or diving through the used napkins to fish out silverware that got tangled in the soiled linen bin. Not very time consuming but rolling around in customer’s wadded backwash was never a fun experience. One time we found a diaphragm while pulling out forks.

The last of the sidework tasks always went to the loudest or laziest employee of the shift/week or year for some of us or the closer simply dislikes you and likes to fuck you over via side-work. Maybe you didn’t run any of their food that shift. Maybe their regulars sat in your section and you refused to give up your table. Maybe they found out you slept with their sister the day before and they thought you were liked them just because you sang a scorcher of a duet during Karaoke that same night. Hypothetically.

I always assigned the closing side-work at the beginning of the shift to get all of the screaming out of the way before dinner service. You knew how long your shift was going to be by your closing side-work. If you were sweeping mats and refilling c folds in the bathrooms you were put early. If you’re closing up expo and tea station, you’re there until the doors or locked. Sometimes filling out the side-work chart will turn you into the enemy of the state. Choose your servers wisely. You may walk out to a flat tire after work.

Every night, all 8 servers on the schedule have already made plans for the evening that doesn’t allocate time for them to close or stay late. Usually they are all going to the same venue for the same concert or party. You’d be amazed at how many times one of my servers made plans to be off of work right as dinner rush started.

Camping

No this isn’t the “camping” that I enjoy doing every week. This isn’t the type of camping that involves campfires, burning s’mores while singing Kumbaya, my lord. This term is for patrons that sit rent free in your section all evening. When you’re over quote on seating times on a Friday night the last thing you want to hear is “my whole section is full of campers!” Now as a retired restaurant proprietor I am fully aware that it is paramount for your patrons to feel at home, wined, dined, full relaxed and happy as pigs in shit. It’s called hospitality I get it. But this ain’t your fucking living room. We have other people on the books. The Swansons were supposed to be eating at that exact table 42 minutes ago and you’re sharing pound cake recipes with Ethel. Your table has been so prebussed that even your discarded toothpick has been cleaned off and replaced. Your fucking linen has been laundered. Your server is lifting up your shoe and sweeping discarded Brussels sprouts from underneath. Take the hint Ethel it’s time to move your party elsewhere. Unless your fine dining, restaurant economics don’t translate well with campers. Nor does it help the server’s pocket. On a busy night a restaurant wants at least 3 or 4 table turns for service. We want as many different asses in the seats as possible. Lunch we want you in and out in under 40 minutes. Dinner ideally 60 minutes depending on your level of service. For a 5-10 pm dinner service that gives you the capacity to fill the dining room up to four or five times. As a proprietor this is what you are gunning for every single night. It’s all about balance however. Some tables will arrive, order their entree immediately, pay and leave within half an hour. Others may linger and order espresso, dessert and chat for a bit. As a restaurant manager/owner you never rush a customer regardless. Hospitality can be a lot of lip biting but to remain professional and have at least a tad bit of integrity you treat your customer golden until they decide to leave.

Now with that said. patrons should exercise a little situational awareness. If you’re rimming your cold ass espresso cup with your index finger, pants unbuttoned, cheesecake stain on your napkin that’s been refolded for you over and over after your sixth trip to the bathroom and you gaze up at the herd of hungry customers sardined in front of the hostess stand and think “I could use another water refill” then you’re an asshole. Don’t give me that “I’m spending money in here I’ve got just as much right to sit here as anyone else!” No. You stopped spending money an hour ago and to be honest that $4.00 espresso isn’t worth the extra 45 minutes you’ve spent burping at the table while four tables that went over quote left to go elsewhere and won’t return because they equate the long waiting time as representation of poor management. Sometimes the campers stay for so long we have to send out the crop dusters. Here’s some advice for you. If you smell a barrage of farts after your dinner it’s time to wrap things up and move on. Either that or you fucked up with a last minute reservation and you’re sitting next to the restrooms.

Double/ Triple Sat

When you as a customer get escorted to a table and you’re that asshat that just has to have a booth, or a that corner table or need to sit 100 yards from any child under the age of 17 and ask the hostess to sit you in elsewhere or even better get up and move to another empty table, there’s a good chance you’ve just fucked up the seating rotation. Yes restaurants have sections for servers. Some just rotate tables and have a free for all while others break out little sections for servers. It may be a swell section with all booths or the party table section that gets pulled together for families or just 5 deuces to turn and burn during cocktail hour but there is a method to the seating madness. One server may have just been sat a 6 top and needs a moment to greet, bev up and specialize the table. All the while Nancy just came in for her wine night with Mildred and Inez and she just has to have that corner booth where the air conditioning won’t blow her new blue mop all around. Nancy doesn’t give a shit about server rotation so she walks and sits herself at her fav spot. So the server greeting the 6 top just got double seated. Well suddenly Inez brought her husband Franklin along with his bridge buddy Tom and now they are pulling a table out of another section to join the fun. Now the server is triple seated with a table outside their section and must give away one of their other tables to the neighboring server as to not fuck them for losing a table. Nancy and the rest of the gang proceed to tip the server poorly for taking too long to bring out their first round of drinks.

Low boy

These are wonderful little coolers that sit under grill stations. Great for your back when you are continually bending down to pull out product to throw on the grill. Your sciatica will love you after 400 covers on a Friday night.

On the fly

This term is used about every minute in the restaurant industry. Just about everything is needed immediately or as fast as you can make it.

Server drops a plate, we need another one “on the fly”

Table is sat 20 minutes past their quote time we need their order “on the fly”

Ding Dong McGhee drops a steak on the floor during pass need another one “on the fly”

We can scream this at each other until our faces fall off the food ain’t gonna come out any quicker. If it’s a def con five moment then someone else’s table gets fucked for 4 or 5 minutes while we relocate their food to that guest.

Mise en place

Chef term for “everything in its place”. Having your station set up to handle the shit whether it’s a 20 head count for the night or 400. I have never used the term. I’m not French nor do I use fluffy, cheffy terms to promote and illustrate my chefness. I have found in my 30 years in the industry the ones that throw around the fancy words or demand you address them as “chef” are usually the first ones that melt under pressure.

86

86ed is the restaurant industry is the universal code for “sold out”, “ran out”, “no more”.

86 the special we are sold out!

86 baked potatoes for 25 minutes!

86 the dishwasher he’s already left for the day.

86 Sean, he’s crying in the walk-in. There are some back stories to this term regarding an old restaurant Chumleys in old Greenwich that was located on 86 Worth st that would post a chalkboard put front with all of the items they were out of that would later become the “86 board”. Whether or not that’s true I have no clue nor do I wish to research it anymore. I’m retired..

Kitchen jukebox

Usually a cellphone playing inside of a aluminum sixth pan. It has to be a sixth pan. Anything else the acoustics suck.

So, if you had to guess from all of my social media pics and posts that my newest hobby/obsession that has taken over my lifestyle it would have to be the my new found love of OVERLANDING. Now I’ve juggled several hobbies over the last 40 years or so ever since i was pre-pube. My first hobbies I can recall my collecting hot wheels, toys of such and skateboarding when we lived in our little tri-level home in Belle Mead to GI Joe, Star Wars figures and comic books when i was uprooted and placed into care in the lush, cow patty pastures of HWY 86. I had about half a dozen siblings living with me the first 10 years of my life but 6 years divided me from my next sibling in age so much of my childhood I spent entertaining myself. To say I was an unexpected addition to an already overpopulated situation in the Gangwer household would be an obvious understatement but if I had to guess ol’ Ron (Dad) wasn’t a fan of condoms. I would spend all day in my playrooom jumping cars off of book ramps, playing with my JJ Armes action figure, a secret agent that had removable hands that became weapons, while Ultra Man reruns played on the TV in the background. I had my Star Trek Enterprise that was just laminated cardboard diarama with printed graphics of the inside of the ship. There was a little spinner in the back of the box that you when you twisted it fast enough it would throw William Shatner’s miniature likeness out the back of the box and BOOM you had teleportation. “Beam me up Scotty” just meant shoving his plastic little body back through the little door of the USS Cardboard Enterprise. In the evening time I’d grab my shitty little skateboard and try to jump speed bumps like my brother and his friends. I’d come home covered in road rash looking like i got hit by a “ truck full of raspberries” as my mom put it. If helmets and pads were available at that time my parents were unaware of their existence.

My love for GI Joe and Star Wars toys were insane and probably cost me some financial points for my college fund savings. I was birthed into this world at the ideal time for Star Wars to be the center of my childhood world and imagination. It was a solid trade out for being a child of the Cold War looking up at the sky every day wondering if that tiny jet stream in the sky was a Russian nuclear warhead coming to melt my friends and family. I always tried to keep the location of the nearest school desk in my peripheral vision to hide under just in case a holocaust should come our way. The first movie I remember seeing in a drive-in theatre off of Augusta road was the original Star Wars. I can recall people dressed up in sandman costumes and walking around with cheap lightsabers (also my first introduction to cos play). My love of science fiction slapped me in the face that night and I’m sure I screamed for my dad to drive me to Kmart the next day so I could peruse the toy section to find Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader figures so they could duel it out. I had every action figure molded from the OG to Return of the Jedi including the blue Snaggletooth that I still to this day can’t find in any of the trilogies. Remember when you could mail in proof of purchases and order the Boba Fett with the missile launcher through the mail? Fuck yeah that was me. I got mine right before they discountinued the removable missile because some mouth breathing kid swallowed one and choked on it. I remember checking the apartment mailbox at Club Key East 15 times a day to see if it had arrived. This was around ‘78-“79. There were no Amazon trucks or emails letting you track your packages. You mailed in these little cut out pieces of cardboard, essentially the 70s version of QR codes to the address on the back of your action figure box. And then you hope like hell the mail person can read your overly excitable, 7 year old handwriting on a candy smudged envelope addressed to a post office box in Tattooine with 10 stamps because you want it to be mailed faster. Eight weeks later it arrived in a little, unassuming, rectangular box. I recall being disappointed in the unremarkable packaging. The greatest action figure in Star Wars history came wrapped up in a cardboard vessel that had the same fanfare and pomposity of an individual tampon. No badass, plastic sheething caressing his actioness or graphic bio on the back. It did come with a little strip of paper explaining how not to shoot his little red missile down your throat. Several people have expressed to me the value of that particular figure and what its worth to this day in mint condition. Fuck that. Boba and I had some awesome adventures and i wore his ass out like i did all my toys. Also i lost that damn red missile first day i got him.

Now GI Joe was my jam. Yeah i had some of those 12” dudes with the velcro like buzz cuts and removable fatigues. They were fun but i was more into the smaller action figures. Every weekend when I’d visit my old man we’d drive to Greenville and I’d bee line into KB toys in the Greenville Mall and walk straight down the first aisle where they kept all the action figures and look for all the newest arrivals of the smaller 3.75 inch GI Joe figures. These were the old school guys way before the king fu grip was introduced. First one I bought was Stalker. I of course wanted Snake Eyes but he was always sold out. I managed to acquire the original 13 in about 2 months. Some weekends my old man would let me buy one figure at a time but if my grades were good I’d get two. Needless to say it took some time to build up my little army of happiness. Then I had to have the motorcycle and side car, then the jeep and then the tank. I had worked my way all the way up the fortress and jet, but my dad like 99% of everyone else’s parents wasn’t going to spring for the grand mother fucking prize- The Aircraft Carrier. This massive golden goose of all play sets was seven and a half feet long and retailed for $109.99 in 1985 which at that time was like buying a kid a PlayStation 5. I was averaging a dollar reward for each A on my report card (I hadn’t had an A since third grade) and at the rate I was going I wouldnt earn the USS Flagg until i was 32. By the age of 13 I had amassed a toy army large enough for the government to search my room for weapons of mass destruction. The GI Joe thermonuclear warhead was never to be created so I had to use bottle rockets instead.

I wasn’t always playing with GI Joe’s and Star Wars figures. My other and equally expensive hobby of comic book collecting was beginning to gain control. My toys started losing their luster as I got into my teen years. I had stopped using my GIs to take over small countries under my bed and instead would set them up as rock bands and have them sing and play in one of my diorama (shoe) boxes used as a stage. Picture if you will Gung-Ho, Scarlett, Snake Eyes and the Baroness singing Fascination by Human League on a shoe box. The action figure hobby era died right about the time MTV was introduced.

On the weekends when I’d go visit my dad we’d drive to the Jockey Lot so I could look at comic books. A lot of my friends in middle school would bring their collections to school and i immediately fell in love with the X-men. They were relatable for me as a young teen who saw himself somewhat as a misfit and outsider. When my parents split and we moved to Piedmont, the first couple of summers were quiet and lonely. We lived right on Hwy 86 and i didnt have many friends (2) who lived nearby. All my years at Wren Middle I was unhappy from being uprooted and split between two parents. I didn’t make too many friends at that time although the ones I did are still valuable friends of mine 40 years later. I loved comic books and how they could take me away from the stress of a divorced family and the depression and volatility that can comes leaving one parent to go hang out with the next every week. I was always a marvel guy. DC was ok but it was just Superman and Batman the characters in the Marvel comics had more believable stories and origins. They felt real to me. I cannot tell you how many times I tried to wish mutanr powers on me so I could feel relevant. X-men were always my go to and just like almost everyone else I loved Wolverine. I probably called my friends “bub” for a solid 4 years. I enjoyed the original X-men as well but once the new X-men were introduced I was obsessed. Spider-Man was next and I also owned every single GI Joe comic up until they fucked up and brought in Sargent Slaughter and then i just got really silly to me. My parents had this small RV in the backyard and every summer I would gather every extension cord I could find and lead it from the mud room to the RV and camp in that little trailer all summer long with all my comics and my cat. It’s fairly obvious that those nights camping solo in my parents backyard had a profound affect on the person I’ve become today (I’ll go into more of that another time).

The most expensive comic I ever paid for out of my pocket was Hulk #181 which every comic buff will know that it was the first appearance of Wolverine. Now before any of you nerds come on here and attack me, I’m well aware that Wolverine actually appeared in Hulk #180 but cmon man it was the very last page. I bought that comic for $12 at a collectors conference at the mall. My dad only shook his head and smiled when I came back with only one comic. I told him this was the only comic book that mattered to me. When I bought it I read it on the way back to my mother’s and slid it back into its plastic sleeve and it’s only been out a few times since. Little did I know at the time it would be the last time my father would drop me off back home. The following Tuesday he’d suffer a massive stroke and never wake up. That man was my hero. I still have that comic to this day. All the others suffered significant damage from a leak in my parents attic but this one was untouched because it moved every where with me when I left my parent’s house. You can find that comic on eBay in the upwards of $30k. I’ll probably never sell it. It’s significance to me is invaluable.

I’m not sure if you could consider my love for music a hobby. I don’t play any instruments in fact I’m terrible with them and im probably a C level singer at best. MTV was my best friend in my early teens. I would watch music videos for hours with my comics in my lap. It introduced me to legends like Rick Springfield, Journey, Talking Heads, Prince and Duran Duran. Man I fucking loved pop music in the 80s it spoke to my soul. I’d stay up all night at my friends’ houses in Mauldin and we’d line up our jam boxes in a circle and break out our cassette carrying cases that resembled a pubescent brief case for teens. We’d jam to Midnight Star, Lionel Richie and Men at Work all the while trying to moon walk and bust our nuts doing the centipede. My cassette collection was insane. Man, life was fucking good then. Music consumed me and all the lyrics about love were becoming relative because my puberty was driving me bonkers for boobs. I love looking back at the transitioning between the song’s fun upbeat rhythms to meaningful lyrics. I used to record myself singing on cassette tapes on my jam box. 80s will forever be my favorite genre of music. I would combine all of my favorite lyrics on paper and pretend to pass them to the girl that I had a crush on in middle school and never told her. We are actually fb friends today and she is completely clueless about me drawing hearts next to her yearbook pic. Don’t ask me who. I’ll never say.

After high school my hobbies took a backseat for a bit while I wrestled with my first experience with independence. Hobbies are a lot more enjoyable when someone else is financing them and my first job living on my own was at Bilo bagging groceries for $3.25 an hour. My hobby at that time was making my car payment and trying to find women to like me. Unfortunately it was mostly just me and my 200SX car payment. I started hanging out with some friends at Furman that were into mountain biking. So not to be left out I went to the Great Escape and spent a week’s paycheck on a shiny new Trek. I was told I needed some bike shoes so I went back the following week and spent another check on shoes, skinny shorts with a pad, a pump that I had to take apart and reverse it to fit my valve and a Pink Floyd riding jersey and a helmet that made me look like Rick Moranis from Spaceballs. I dug it. I loved the rush at dodging tree branches at 15 mph and flipping over the handlebars and landing on my head (I did that frequently). Cycling was expensive then but still somewhat affordable in comparison to now. I really put that bike to good use when I got my DUI in ‘92..

All the while I was enjoying my new found love of mountain biking I was getting a slight hard-on for hiking and camping. At 25 I was not the outdoorsman that everyone perceives me to be currently. In fact I hated hiking for the most part. I would drive out to Table Rock with my much more adventuresome friends and attempt to ascend the mighty Table Rock Trail. My first attempt I probably exclaimed “FUCK” over a hundred times while tripping over rocks and roots in my Nike Velcro high tops that I also wore while waiting tables in at the Blockhouse. I remember my excitement as we crested over the hill and I saw the little shelter that sat overlooking the hillside. I said aloud “that wasnt as bad as I expected” before finding out that was the halfway point of the hike. I chose to turn around and wait by the car, smoking Marlboro lights until my friends decided to come back down. I seem to recall thinking how ridiculous hiking was and telling myself to fuck the hell right off about ever going to Table Rock again.

I didnt get the wanderlust/nature bug until I picked up the book Into The Wild by Jon Krakauer. A friend of mine had introduced me to the book and when I started reading it I couldn’t put it down. I was jealous of Christopher “Supertramp” McCandless’s freedom and travels. At that time I was waiting tables at Arizona Steakhouse. I had never once been in the Rockies or even drove north of the appalachians. I was going through one of my “life is shit” moments that seem to come around every now and then for me. That book woke me up, albeit temporarily for the moment but it’s had an everlasting impact on me. Anytime I share that moment there’s always that one person that points out to me how his ignorance ultimately killed him and while I acknowledge and understand that he lived more in his short life than some of us may ever experience. At least that’s what I got from it.

Well back in my serving days at AZ we used to have these poker machines. Anyone over the age of 40 probably remembers seeing these scattered throughout restaurants and bars all around the state before they were banned. We had three of them lined up against the wall behind the bar cooler and on occasion I would drop a few bucks in them after work to try to make some extra drinking money. The most I would ever put in one for the whole day would be $20 total. Gambling is a slippery slope for me. I’ve never felt the urge to gamble that much and I keep it low because I could see it becoming a problem for me if I got into it. The poker machines were fun because for the most part they paid out ok and usually I’d win my money back so it was entertaining at least. My favorite card game was Shamrock Sevens. It was just like regular poker but if you got three sevens you could spin for the jackpot (I think). The total amount of the jackpot was always in red digital numbers on the front banner atop the poker machine. I had just completed my volume lunch shift and had about 30 minutes before our manager meeting. I was in my first full year at AZ and had become a key employee which meant one free shift meal and an extra $2 to my already fulfilling $2.13 an hour wage. I slid $5 in the poker machine and chose my go to Shamrock Sevens. I managed to keep that 5 spot going in that game for a solid 25 minutes. I was trying to get it up to $20 (the minimum cash out) before the meeting began. My GM came up and lightly smacked me on the back of the head and told me “ya got 2 minutes to cash out Gangwer” and he walked away. I proceeded to bet $2 a hand to close the game out quickly and whattaya know I hit 4 sevens and a wild card. There right 5 sevens. 5 sevens = jackpot. I hadn’t even looked at the numbers on the digital screen because I wasn’t playing to hit the jackpot until I started betting the max hand. I looked up at the digital screen and it read $3201.08. Listen to me for a second.. This was 1996. I was a server living in little house off White Horse with a roommate splitting $300 a month for rent. I was driving an ‘89 white jeep wrangler that was running me $146.00 a month in payments. I was probably taking home $400 a week on a consistent basis. $3201.08 was a lot of fucking money to me. Hell it still is. I screamed like a lunatic and started running around the bar and tables like I was riding an invisible bronco slapping my own ass like a fuck wad that just a won the lottery. My gm couldn’t figure out if he should yell at me or laugh. He did jokingly tell me that employees couldn’t be awarded the jackpot to which I responded with several different scenarios that might cause the restaurant to burn down. I was rewarded my money in cash the next day. Down to the fucking penny.

What did I do with my jackpot? Savings? Laughable. I was living day to day with my earnings as do most of us in the industry. Pay off my jeep? Too responsible and boring. I had a hole burning through through my pocket and I already knew what I was going to spend it on. Which is how my next hobby started.

I had only been camping a few times my whole life. I could count them all one on hand. Once with my family in Walhalla in an empty single wide with no power, once with my friend’s parents in a tent watching the Stone Mountain laser show and once when I was a Boy Scout, freezing my ass off in the sleet while looking for artifacts near the Savannah river and another time in Sumter for a mountain bike ride in 15° winter weather during the Super Bowl Sunday that the Cowboys destroyed the Bills. My upbringing didn’t involve the outdoors or hiking. Most of my childhood was spent driving back and forth between two parents. Any extra curricular activities on the weekends meant not seeing my dad and well I wasn’t having any of that shit. But that fucking book Into the Wild was screaming at me. Fate dropped 3 grand in my pocket and I was going to make the most of it.

I drove up to Sunrift with more cash in my wallet than I had ever held up to then. Money was big deal to me because I always never seemed to have any. I walked through the wooden doors of sunrift and the little bell on the door must’ve rang a little tune that said “this motherfucker is about to make your day” because it seemed like they were waiting on me. They sold me a 2 person tent, a sleeping bag, a roll out and blow up sleeping mat, a latern with an actual wick, a little camp stove, a back pack and some Birkenstocks because well I had always wanted some and I was fucking loaded. I drove back to work and requested the whole month of August off. I had it all planned out. One of my friends was getting married in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania. I wouid pack up my jeep with all my camping shit, drive to Pennsylvania for my friend’s wedding and then go west young man. All I had on me was my newly purchased gear, an old igloo cooler, my book of CDs, a shotgun I’d borrowed from my roommate and an atlas the size of a coffee table. My wanderlust fuel was about to be ignited.

This wasn’t my first trek to Colorado. I had moved to Aurora when I was 19 with my girlfriend at the time for about 4 months. I lived two hours from the Rockies but never once did I hike, explore or even drive towards them. I spent most of my time looking for a job, watching soap operas and drinking. We both got a little homesick and moved back home. This time was much different. I had a month and a long drive to myself. I had no itinerary other than to get my Wrangler to Estes Park, the doorway to Rocky Mountain National Park as fast as my jeep could take me. My jeep was on its last leg. If it rolled to a complete stop it would shut off so I’d put it in neutral and rev the gas each time I’d slow to a crawl. The tan top was one of the old school snap tops. Some of you won’t ever experience the fun of pinching the fuck out of your fingers while spending 10 minutes putting your top back on. The canvas was torn over back window and driver window half doors. I used old shoestrings to stitch the windows. If you wanted to drive with the window down you had to untie the laces first. The top part attached to the windshield, the snaps had rusted so once the jeep hit 50 mph plus the top wouid bow up and you’d get a nice gentle breeze forehead height. It was rejuvenating in the pouring rain. Also the the gas gauge didn’t work. Which meant every time the odometer hit 250 miles I’d stop for gas. If I remembered to.. I didn’t give a shit. Growing up I always loved jeeps. She was mine (and 42% Bank America’s)

30 years or so ago road-trips were a little different. Navigation was a book, gas stations out west weren’t as plentiful as they are now. Hotels were a lot cheaper. You could find a less than desirable road side motel for $25 and still have a breakfast bar to trough on in the morning. No Spotify or XM. I’d play with the dial on my Jeep’s stereo whenever I crossed through a decent sized town and in the plains I’d thumb through my book of CDs and feed them into my Sony 5 disc changer under my Jeep’s back fold down seat. No cellphones to call anyone if you broke down or got lost. I had a phone card I used to call my mom and girlfriend from pay phones to check in from time to time. I did run out of gas once on the trip and literally jogged 4 miles to a gas station. Everything I owned at the time was in that jeep. You breakdown in a soft top jeep it becomes a road side yard sale if you leave it sitting there too long.

Aside from all the quirks involved with jeep maintenance I loved cross country traveling. The Kansas plain’s wind was putting a number in my Jeep’s wardrobe. If you have never driven through the state of Kansas I highly recommend it. Once you hit Kansas City you can take I-70 all the way to Denver. 600 miles of widespread, monotonous. Kansas’ motto should be “Objects in mirror are much, much further away than they appear”. When you cross the CO border don’t get too excited. It’ll be a few hours more before you see the Rockies cresting over the horizon.

I spent three weeks in the RMNP. Backpacking, camping and sightseeing. I fell in love with the majestic Rockies, the mountain air, snow caps and tundra. They were intimidating at first, I’d never been so high up in the air. I knew little about acclimation but thankful I didn’t try to run up a 14 footer the first day. Hiking was still new to me. My girlfriend at the time had bought me a pair of Vasque hiking boots for my trip and I broke them in on small trails around Bear Lake and Lily’s Pond. Hiking amongst elk sightings and big horn sheep and I saw my very first black bear in the wild cresting over a switchback about 100 yards away from me. I’d go into town every two days and touch base with everyone on payphones with my calling card I had purchased. It would’ve been a pain in the ass traveling with 40 lbs of quarters and I was too metro to drive around with a phone bag. Man the freedom was exhilarating. I felt like Grizzly fucking Adams and had started growing out my very first beard. My company didn’t allow facial hair at the time so I took advantage during my leave of absence to grow the manliest 1/2 inch beard known to man. I had always been fascinated with Yellowstone National Park so I drove up there next and spent a week in the park.

The camping bug had bit me and I was stoked. I had everything I needed now to enjoy the life outdoors. I had the opportunity to go backpacking in Big South Fork Kentucky area with some friends and I pounced on it. During my month of Coloradoing I didn’t do much backcountry back packing. Most of my hiking consisted of driving my jeep to a camping spot and hiking at trailheads and coming back to my jeep to sleep. This trip was to be a 3 day excursion through some deep Appalachian wilderness guiding our steps with a series of maps. I packed several cans of food like a rookie idiot. I was too proud and stubborn to ask anyone how to pack a backpack for 3 days so I had my pack stuffed with canned tuna, soup and bananas. My can opener had the girth of a one inch nail clipper so that did allow me a little more volume and weight in my pack. The dynamics of the hiking group consisted of myself, my childhood best friend, his wife, two dogs and another good friend. This hike had all the vibes of being a good time with a few small exceptions- 1. My bff’s wife and I didn’t get along. It was universally known we couldn’t be that close to each other for a long amount of time. 2. We were in the middle of a huge drought and the heat index felt like 105° all weekend. Within first few hours of our hike we knew we were a little fucked. Not a lot of fucked just a little at the time. The maps clearly marked where we would cross creek beds on our excursion. Unfortunately due to the drought all of the creeks were dry. I had 2 Nalgene bottles and a water filter to use to refill those bottles each time we came across a creek. The Appalachian’s can get ripe toasty in the late summer. I ran out of my water by afternoon. Have you ever woken up extremely dehydrated and immediately go to the kitchen for a glass of water? Imagine that same feeling but waiting another 6 hours to take that drink. Was it a near death experience? Not even close. Did I have images in my head of dying from dehydration? Maybe a few.. Top it off with 90° plus temperatures and wet blanket humidity and you have the perfect recipe for “why the fuck do I do this shit?” We found a running creek later that evening. I fought with the overwhelming urge to drink straight from the creek but I didn’t want to be that guy with dysentery in Kentucky. The sweetest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth was the water filtered from that creek bed. Dehydration is no fucking joke.

Well we found our water source and camped for the evening. Everything was a ok and It couldn’t get any worse right? Hold my map.. Forestry service does an amazing job blazing and marking trails in state and national parks but the rest is up to you as far paying attention to how you navigate through them. The one particular trail we were following on was marked blue on our map. There were several other trails surrounding us illustrated on the map, one of them being a lighter blue trail that intersects the darker blue trail. If I were to second guess the logistics of a mapping project my only criticism would be not to use colors on a spectrum that can fade into another color on the map. The trail crossed over several times with a light blue trail and as we got deeper into the wilderness all the blues started to fade into a nice faded Levi’s jeans blue.. So day 2 we got lost for a bit. Walking around in circles in the middle of the wilderness even with the closest of friends can test the strength of friendships. I don’t mean anything long term such as never speaking again but just enough tension to where you sort a wish everyone was dead for about 24 hours until you can get your bearings. On a scale of 1-10, 10 being you wish your friends would disintegrate into Thanoish thin air, we were at a 9.9. By this time my camping bug was extinguishing rather quickly and I was ready to use all of my camping gear as a fire starter. I had enough of being thirsty and seeing the same tree 14 times while walking in circles so I told my friends I was going to hike back up the mountain out of the gorge, find my jeep and sit in that fucker until everyone was done camping. Fuck backpacking, fuck camping, fuck Kentucky, fuck trees and you know what? Fuck Daniel Boone too. I marched straight up the moutain, cutting through switchbacks with a pocket knife in my hand because I just assumed being eaten by bears or getting raped by one of the locals would be my total, camping royal flush experience.

Fortunately for me and my asshole these scenarios never took place. I came across a gravel road at the top and walked until I could find a passerby. Two Kentucky locals in meth mobile stopped after I encouraged them to by standing in the middle of the road. I had a $20 bill in one hand and my pocket knife hiding in my other. I offered them $20 to take me back to my jeep at the original trailhead of our adventure. They asked for payment first and I responded with a polite “fuck you”. I couldn’t tell if they were sneering or smiling, usually teeth can assist in those findings but dentistry is challenging in the Appalachians. I got into the back of their 1973 cousin carriage and get my pocket knife, blade open under my shirt. It took them 6 minutes to get me to my jeep which wouid explain the smiles on their face. Had I walked another half mile I would’ve humped it right to my jeep. I gave them the $20 and considered handing them all of my camping gear to go along with it.

It would be 15 years before I went backpacking again.

But that was ok because my newest hobby was right around the corner- Road Cycling

I bit into the Lance Armstrong/ Tour De France bug with every tooth I had. My first real road bike was a Cannondale R500 I had bought brand new from a little bike shop downtown. I was fitted for a frame that was a tad too big for me (60cm) so I always felt like my crotch was a little too snug on the top bar of my bike but I loved that bike. It was a metal frame I didn’t have the stomach or wallet to buy a carbon frame like my hero Lance uni-baller Armstrong so she was a tad bulky and heavy but she was mine. Cycling can be an expensive hobby. You gotta have the maxi-pad shorts, tight jersey with some sort of edgy mottos like “embrace sucky things”, shoes that need special pedals, pedals that need special shoes, socks with silhouettes of wheel spokes, large bike pump with reversible valves and stems, mini pumps for roadside flats, spare inner tubes, little purses that strap to your bike to carry said items, helmet, sunglasses that make you look like you swear at your wife, bike rack to carry your bike around on your car. Just to start.

The other accessories that aren’t so obvious but just as important are Lance yellow cancer bracelet, shitty little cycling cap that makes you look like you should be dancing around with a little organ tied around your neck, t-shirts with slogans such as “cycling before beer never fear”, Oakley’s sunglasses that make you look like a cyclist who’s not cycling at the moment, a cycling trainer, bar tape for your handlebars, carbon water bottle cage, water bottle that goes in cage, flat tire tools, pedal wrench and razors to shave your legs. Yeah I was one of those leg shave guys. “It’s for road rash” they always told me but I think dudes secretly just want to see what their legs look like shaved. The only problem I saw with shaving (other than wearing jeans) is where do you stop shaving? My body hair does not focus on parts of my anantomy. My hairy and hairless regions don’t stop at each body part. For example and sorry for the tmi but if you’ve read this far you might as well keep going, my leg hair doesn’t stop at my ass, my ass hair doesn’t stop at my ass, my feet have little islands of hair around the toes. When you’re shaving your legs for the first time (cyclists) you aren’t driving home with the razor thinking “ok when I get to my taint I’m going to stop there” or “do I leave this hair line around my waist untouched or do I try a fade?” Do I shave my ass? If I do should I spread ‘em and hit every corner or just hope I’m never in an accident?” “Asshawk it?” “Do I shave my toes?” “Do I go full hairless in front or try to shave a shape into it?” And if I just trim the hedges do I go Pencil thin mustache or Tom Selleck?” Remember these illustrations next time you eyeball a cyclist’s junk hanging out of his spandex.

Upgrades are a thing for cyclists. Sure that $5k bike is nice but did you know you can upgrade those brake pads to silicone inserts the astronauts use for their yeti cup liners for $300?? Or wireless speedometer that will monitor your heart rate and give you needle injections of EPO when you need that extra kick for $700? I remember walking into a bike shop with one of my bike guru friends while he was purchasing a $1000 crank for his bike. “Why is this crank so expensive?” I had asked. “It’s 16 grams lighter than the regular crank on my bike. It shaves off the weight off my bike” – he replied. I couldn’t help but think to myself that a $1 laxative the night before a race wouid be a lot more economical.

Here’s another thing, if you choose cycling as your hobby be prepared to by hated by everyone. Including other cyclists. If you were to build a giant dome and filled it with a conglomeration of petty assholes they would all be wearing spandex. No offense to all of my cycling friends. There are exceptions to the rule but y’all know it’s accurate. Because of this reputation, be prepared to be pummeled by soda cans, spit, bottles, cigarette butts, horns honking and people screaming “asshole” as they pass you. The helmet, I believe, is more useful for projectiles than wrecking. Cyclists will scream “on your left” if you aren’t pedaling fast enough, cut you off in your lane or yell out things like “get off the road rookie”when you aren’t abiding by their road rules. In my 30 years of cycling I’ve been hit by 2 cars, one being a hit and run, tried to ram a car in a fit of rage, pushed two cyclists off their bikes for being cyclists, spit on a group for rubbing my front tire after cutting me off and beat the shit out of two teenagers for flicking a cigarette in my eye. Viva la cycling.

I still enjoyed it. I was never a racer, I didn’t care about that part I just enjoyed getting on my bike and riding until my legs fell off. I enjoyed it so much I talked one of my best friends into cycling cross country.

My cross country trip is a little skewed because we only had three weeks to accomplish the trip so I’ll call it a half country trip. Also because of the time constraints we would skip over certain legs of the trip like 100 miles worth of Wyoming winds and plains. We chose the Trans America Trail central route that takes you from Yorktown, Virginia to Astoria, Oregon, a 4200 mile trek through the heart of America. Since we could only do half we chose to start our route from Alexander, Kansas a small unassuming town with a population of a Applebees staff. We decided to bring on a SAG to help carry all of our shit so we inserted Pappy, my bff’s grandfather to pull along his HILO trailer with his Surburban. It was fairly simple, we’d point on the map where we were heading and Pappy wouid drive to our temporary base camp and fish while we pedaled for 50-100 miles each day. I trained for this adventure by driving out to Pumpkintown and pedaling loops around hwy 11 around Table Rock state park and all the way to Keowee. I’d slide my Sony disc man with the 15 second skip delay into my back jersey pocket with around 4 cds in ziplock bags and ride for hours. Didn’t matter if it was raining or 99° outside, I had to get my 250 weekly miles in. To this day I can hear certain songs and they’ll take me back to that 26 mile loop in Pumpkintown, sweating my ass off, little bag of almonds in my jersey and red Gatorade in my bottle holder and that big shit eating grin on my face.

I’ll summarize that three week trip into some hot ass wind in the face in Kansas, cresting over the Rockies in Breckenridge, slowly approaching the Yellowstone with giant yellow warning signs for grizzlies, getting blasted on Moose Drool beer at the Happy Hour bar near Dillon, dancing to bluegrass in Missoula, riding along for miles along the majestic rivers in Idaho, spending the night surrounded by coyotes howling at a full moon while out of gas at a rafting outfitter, almost dying of heat exhaustion in eastern Oregon desert, and dipping my tire in my first trip to the Pacific coast. It was a solid time and a highlight of my life. I’d trade in Lance’s one good nut try it again sometime.

The following year I sold my cannondale for a trek 5200. That’s right, the postal team edition just like my boyfriend Lance rode to win his 7 EPO championships. I bought it on eBay along with another purchase of my first recumbent bike. For those of you that aren’t familiar with what a recumbent bike is it’s basically a bike that you sit in a reclining position like one of those exercise bikes at the gym. I had seen quite a few of them on my trans American trail adventure and my curiosity got the best of me. There was only one recumbent bike shop in the upstate and it was in Spartanburg. I drove up one afternoon to test ride one. I had read that learning to ride one of these was a completely different experience and took some time to get used to. The guys at the shop were more than happy to assist and took one of their Rebikes down for my test drive. They were located right next to a cemetery that was also used as a cycling try out track. “You steer with your hips not with your hands”- the salesman advised with his slender, shaved legs and a ridiculous tan line for April. “You rest your hands on the handlebars and don’t tense up or the bike will shake.” “Yeah, yeah I got it”- I replied. I had been riding bikes since my first ball drop. I knew how to ride a bike. It can’t be that hard considering I saw multiple senior citizens pedaling them around the west coast. I walked the rebike across the road to the cemetery and sat down in the long pleather seat. I felt like I was in the Kmart version of Easy Rider with my arms outstretched over handlebars and my legs splayed out balancing the bike. It was a slow day at the cemetery I could only see one car and an individual that seemed to be tending to a gravesite. The cemetery entrance was on steep decline so I thought I would I would slowly roll her downhill to get my balance proper before attempting to race the Recumbent 500. I nudged the bike forward and immediately felt my center of balance leave my body like a exorcised demon. The incline was probably only a 3% grade but it felt like 30%. As the bike began to pick up momentum I began to clutch the handlebars. Then everything the sales guy said back at the shop started making sense “Don’t grip the handlebar too tight”. That was solid advise but unfortunately my instincts from riding bikes since my first ball dropped was when the bike shakes, apply brakes. I did this and the bike began to shake more. By this time I was approaching the first turn in the cemetery. A hard right turn. So using my cycling instincts and muscle memory I turned the violently shaking handlebars sharp right. As the bike jackknifed itself all of the safety tips the shop employee went over with me started to make sense. It hadn’t quite clicked just yet but it was getting there. I did a nice swan dive over the handlebars and rolled right next to the individual tending to their little dead relative garden. Had it been an open grave I could’ve rolled right in and save my family a lot of expenses on my burial. I jumped up immediately and screamed “I’m ok!” startling the poor lady on her gardening knees. I hastily picked up the bike (most of it) and walked it back to the bike shop. I wandered into the store covered in road rash, sweat and blood. The bike’s chain had snapped off and the right hand brake had a nice little bend to it. I parked the recumbent bike next to the counter and told them it wasn’t the right fit for me and left without further comment, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind.

I did eventually purchase a recumbent bike. It was a fun ride for a little while. If you should ever want to purchase one let me cue you in on a few tips. 1. Pedaling uphill is a bitch. To gain momentum on a regular bike you’re able to stand on the pedals to achieve torque. One a recumbent you have to push with your back into the seat. It’s doable but those steep inclines are tough and if you lose your footing you have to go downhill a ways to regain your momentum again. 2. And the most critical, you are eye level to unleashed dogs. All it takes is one large canine spewing saliva in your face on a steady incline to make you rethink your choice of ride. It’s also unnerving to have car doors fly past your head. Also you need a side mirror to see behind you. If you try to turn your head around you’ll end up rolling over a grave like I did.

Cycling still remains a hobby of mine. I generally stay off the main roads although riding up the watershed in Saluda has to be one of my favorite rides still to this day.

The running bug hit me after my mental breakdown in my mid 30’s. I had a near death experience on my bike with a large Ford pickup and decided to put my bike in garage for a bit. Running was a side hobby of mine for years but I had never ran any races. I would run a mile or so around my neighborhood in Overlook and on my long runs I’d chug a slow three miles at Cleveland park. I started “training” for 5ks in my 30’s. I loved that high you get pre-race at the starting line with all that motivational music and shit. Surrounded by hundreds of Just Do it logos head to toe. Lithe and nimble athletes with 2% body fat lining up at the front line. It was fun to run the hardest run of your life, crossing the finish line and seeing the same 6 Kenyans, resting with a cup of coffee in their hands, feet being massaged smiling and waving at the runners who crossed the tape they had burst through 30 minutes before hand. You start obsessing on things like your PR, base mileage, foot strikes, cadence and glycogen. My 5ks turned into 10ks, my 10ks turned into 20ks. For awhile I could keep my running pace a solid 7:30 per mile on long runs and sub 7:00 for short runs. Running is a solid hobby. Your biggest expenses are running shoes and a chiropractor. I had began training for marathons and even did my first triathlon but opening up Southern Culture would put a stop all that madness immediately. If you should choose to open a restaurant you might as well discard your hobbies for the time being. The wear and tear on your body from long hours in the kitchen does not pair well with long distance running. I decided to take my running off-road to lighten the impact on my knees. On a positive twist my off-road running took me back to my long forgotten love of the mountains. I loved trail running. So much that my life revolved around it for several years. I would go into Southern, prep until 3, drive up to Paris Mountain, run a loop, shower and go back to work. I was running 6 days a week. On my days off I’d run up Caesar’s head or Table Rock. My PR for Table Rock climb was less than 55 minutes. My running diet was terrible however I never nourished my body enough to balance out the long distance running. At one point I was a beard trim away from sub 149 lbs. My ideal weight is usually around 175 lbs. I was clocking quite a few miles. Between the cycling, long distance running and 60 plus hours in kitchen crocs and the massive consumption of vodka my body was taking a toll on itself.

I will say I still have the passion for trail running and cycling, I’ve just taken down several notches. My body was sending me some SOS signals and I decided to listen to them.

I was missing something in my hobbies. My hiking and running made my moments in the mountains feel fleeting and short. Getting up at 5am to drive three hours away to hike or run for four plus hours and then drive back home was exhausting. Doing that on your one day off a week makes it even more depleting. I missed camping but not so much the sleeping on the ground. 30 years in the service industry breaks your body down almost like playing a professional sport. Sciatica, lower back pain, Achilles inflammations, neck problems from looking down at a prep station all day and standing on ceramic tiles don’t make for a good night’s sleep even in a regular bed. So I bought a Tacoma and a camper shell. I grabbed a futon mattress I kept in the den of our house and threw it in the back. I downloaded an overlanding app on my phone to try my luck at dispersed camping. I would scroll through the app and study all of those latitude and longitude thingies while looking at pictures people wouid post of sites and coordinates. I was taken aback by a photo of a truck sitting on the ledge of a gorge in the mountains near Linville, NC and I immediately pinged that spot. My next day off I drove up this long gravel road and found that exact spot. Just where they said it would be. I parked for the night, pulled down my tailgate, sipped on a vodka or 4 and watched the sunset over the horizon. I’d throw a bug net over my back of my truck and I slept to the sounds of whippoorwills and crickets singing. I got up the following morning and made coffee while the sun rose over Shortoff mountain. Have you ever witnessed something so naturally beautiful that it gave you chills and tears? This did it. This knocked it out of the fucking park and then some. I had this sunrise to myself. It was all mine. The experience, the clarity, the elation was intoxicating. There is no fucking drug or drink that compares.. ok maybe mushrooms.

Sundays were my days to drive up the mountains and camp for the night. My work week would end right after the brunch rush and I routinely took Mondays off. I would get the itch right around 2pm. I would put all three restaurants truck orders in, pack up and head north to camp. Next day I’d go for a hike/run and head home decompressed and relaxed. There is just something about that sunrise and sunset.

My first real road trip while truck camping was a week long trip up to Maine. I was about 99% checked out of my old company when I took this trip and burned out to a crisp from covid mandates and the stress. My first night on the road I stopped for the evening at an abandoned gas station in Virginia. I sat on the back of my tailgate and stared at the stars with a solo cup of vodka in my hand. I remember listening to a Tyler Childers album (the one with no words) and feeling free as fuck. I drove through the smokies, Adirondacks, New England for the first time in my life and parked in a small corner lot in Bar Harbor for the night. I slept out of the back of my truck that entire week, hiked all of Acadia National Park, hiked up Kathadin (the end or beginning of the AT depending on direction and paid my respects to Stephen King’s house. I had my very first lobster roll while watching the sunset over the harbor. I felt like a Tacoma gypsy. Stealthily camping for free in lots and pull offs. A blissful experience. On the way back down I camped outside of small patriotic New England towns with banners celebrating the memories of WWII vets. Man I dug this. All of this. I wanted to do this more. All of the more not just once a year. My life the very next week would change forever.

This little story isn’t about my career change so I don’t want to go off track. I parted ways with my company the very next day I got back from Maine. Things happen for a reason. Grasp those signals when they come your way and take them for a ride.

So yeah, I became unemployed for a month or two and decided to use my free time to take my truck out west for a bit. Just like my drive to Maine, I’d pull off at abandoned gas stations off the I-40 in Arkansas, northern Texas until I got to Durango. All of my recent trips to Colorado I never touched the southern region so Durango was my first real stop. The first night I stayed in the front yard of a friend’s cabin in 28° weather and I didn’t give a shit. I loved the temporary “tailgate life”. I hike Mt. Animas for the first time, walked around downtown Durango and ate as much local food as I fit in my mouth. I camped at an old train yard that night and worked my way up the million dollar hwy through Silverton, Telluride and spent the night in Ouray canopied in aspens. The next day I dipped into Utah, had lunch in Moab, hiked the Arches and pulled off a little dispersed spot off of I-70, pulled my tailgate down and once again watched a beautiful sunset over the Utah horizon. Next morning I drove through Vail, Leadville and dodged some widow makers hiking up a fourteener. Spent a cold night in Buena Vista and hiked up the mighty Manitou. It was one hell of a trip. The truck camping bug had bit me right on the noggin.

As per the norm with every other experiment in my life I wanted more. Truck camping is awesome but what about van life? Bus life?? I got caught up in this for no more than 6 months thankfully. If you want shit your money away rapidly then by all means sign up for this craze. I got all excited. I bought a 1996 GMC Vandura short bus (relevant) with only 77k miles on it. I was going to fix this bad mama jamma up and take my family on an epic cross country trip. Two things you should know about me if we’ve never met, 1. I’m an extremely impatient person. I don’t like to wait for anything. Put me in a line and watch me twitch. 2. I’m obsessive. Like manic, you should probably take something for this obsessive. If it pops into my head I’m gonna do it. There’s absolutely nothing you can do that’s going to change my mind. My wife is a fucking Saint for acknowledging this and still sharing a bedroom with me for all these years.

I bought this bus in November which is the worst month to buy a new hobby for an obsessive individual who’s business peaks in November and goes non stop until the new year. The second day I had it I gutted it out immediately and then it sat in my driveway for 2 months while I made 2982728282 charcuterie boxes. I then used that hard earned money trying to turn a short bus into a 45 sq ft rolling condo. Social media has it’s perks and it’s shitty sides. The perks were I could peruse instagram and Pinterest for all of these van and bus build ideas. There were thousands of them. I wanted to get a clear idea in my head how to build the ultimate camping bus/rv. The difficult part was having to read through the all of the “here’s how we installed the wiring through the inverter but first let me tell you about why I left my boyfriend of 4 years after he kink shamed me for wanting to pee on his leg.” I just want to see bus layouts Susan, please move out of the way in your bikini while I try to understand the framing over your overhead cabinetry. I did get a kick out of all women in their sundresses and big hats holding power drills up in filtered photos with hashtags #DIY. I’m not knocking anyone I’m incapable of wiring even a ceiling fan. Social media algorithms are dangerous. If you post your cards right your whole feed can become what you’re obsessing over. Take that anyway you’d like.

First step was I had to get the center flooring behind the driver seat replaced it had rusted a fist sized hole into it so that was around $1200. Vinyl flooring and insulation was $800 ish. Inverter, wiring and two batteries were $2500. Construction wasn’t terrible for the inside. I had a buddy who graciously volunteered his time for a few days help with the framing of the bed and cabinets but wood cost post pandemic had doubled so I’d say I spent around 1k on materials for just the build out. I bought stock cabinets from Lowe’s to save some money and a butcher block for kitchen counters. Next up was a water pump, stainless sink, window dressings, paneling for ceiling and overhead cabinets that I hired a meth head from Pickens to hang. I ended up anchoring them myself after observing his craftsmanship. I built two seats from gaming chairs for my family to recline while I drove, installed a CarPlay stereo and added some graphics on the outside panels. Any rust spots in the exterior I sanded down, primed and spray painted. Mechanically I had the radiator and brakes replaced. She looked solid and drove solid. She better because I sank a heavy month’s worth of salary to make her purr. I did all of this in the month late April early May because she was leaving for California first week in June. No pressure whatsoever. I had this little ex-shuttle from Lockheed looking just like one of those IG influencers driving around in a sun hat. The last piece of the puzzle was an awning to be installed two days before our trip. I was going to take the bus up to my buddy’s garage in Hendersonville and drill the awning to the passenger side of the bus, take her back down the mountain and load her up for adventure. We had already made a fucking IG page “the bus gang” . I had originally thought of “the Gang bus” but Brazzers had already trademarked it. Well the awning was never installed because the bus stalled going up the mountain right on the SC/NC border. She started to get warm going up the steep incline to NC and the warmer she got the slower she got. I pulled to the side just in time to watch the radiator cap blow off. A tow truck was called and we towed her back down the hill. I managed to get her back to base but the tow truck had cracked the engine mounts from towing so now the whole engine block shook like the entire massager aisle at Sharper Image. This was Monday evening. We were leaving Wednesday. The bus life was a huge let down for me. I spent most of my free time for 2 months building that bus into a pottery barn apartment and man she looked sharp. The goddamn curtains matched the bedding for fucks sake. I stained the wooded ceilings, I had a fancy pull out 12v fridge, leds everywhere, more cabinet space than my own house, water tank and I was even going to have Wi-Fi. This bitch looked just like every IG bus I had followed. And it was going to do is sit in my driveway. With hours to spare I had to buy a giant roof top tent to replace my 45 sq ft condo. It fucked up the whole trip but the Gangwer’s preservered as we always do.

When we got back from our little trip (it was amazing) I took the bus to be repaired. Gave it another run through and put her on the market. She was sold the next day. At the end of the day I really disliked the bus and my obsession with it. It’s like meeting the woman of your dreams and finding out she eats her steak well- done. I got exactly what I wanted and it wasn’t. If that makes sense. The van/bus life is too soft for me. Driving around in an Airbnb wasn’t my bag baby but man that bus sure did look sharp. Will I ever join the van life? Hell yeah but it’ll be a quigley on 35s with a cot inside and that’s it.

Well I had this gigantic Smittybilt XL generation 2 RTT on my truck roof now and I intended to get my money’s worth. She had served us well out west through Sedona and Colorado. Pros of a roof top tent are – Unfolded the tent could sleep three with plenty of leg room. You’re off the ground so creepy crawlers and small animals won’t come barging in. The tents are solid and heavy. They can withstand substantial downpours and semi high winds. The cons are they do take a minute to set up and break down. If you set up camp and forget something you have to close up shop, get what you forgot and set up camp all over again. Those tents aren’t rated for commuting when they are opened. Also when I had the tent installed the good folk at the local 4WD place said my Thule rack wouid serve itself well under the duress of the tent’s weight. That in fact wouid be a lie. That zipped up penthouse flattened my roof rack within weeks of installation. Also kiss your gas mileage goodbye if you choose to drive around permanently with a spare bedroom bolted to your car’s roof.

I used the cash from my bus transaction and bought me a little overlanding trailer to house the tent and any other overindulgences of camping purchases I’d made over the last couple of years. It’s a solid trailer with pullouts, racks, generator storage, axle less suspension, big fancy tires and other cool shit to make my hobby look rad. Yeah I’ll admit it’s cool to look cool just make sure you know what the fuck you’re doing while you do it. I put my spare camping bedroom on that trailer and an awning big enough to shade a mall parking lot and I was set.

Overlanding is expensive as fuck if you go all in and we’ll.. hi nice to meet you I’m all balls in with everything. If you ever want to see your savings account sweat and whimper just go online and google overlanding accessories. Yeti coolers, buckets, load boxes, blankets, cups, growlers, sandwich bags, Yeti is Mongolian for expensive ass cooler. I color coordinated mine like the gigantic douche bag that I am. I bought the bucket with all its accessories and have no idea what to use it for so I just use it to shit in it. Nothing says boujee like a morning deuce in a yeti bucket. Overlanding in the desert? Oh you need this 270° awning from gladiator thunder for $1200. Want a kickass water container? Here’s one that looks like a gas can for $90. A cool little rechargeable faucet pump for $99. Want a RTT with hard top shell and struts? $3900. Wait! You’ll need a rack to put said tent on your vehicle. One that won’t break like mine did. $900 or if you go the overland truck bed rack it’s $1500. This is just for the rack. Not brackets or accessories those are extra. Here’s a cool shiny overlanding shovel from Epic Shit Shovel for $300. Want to stick it to your rack for all the world to see? Bracket is $80 from Off Road Fat Fuck Fabrication. Camper shell for your truck? $4000 unless you want a tent/camper combo those start at $12k and they are awesome! Wanna eat while your driving over boulders in Utah? How about a pullout kitchen for your trunk with sink, stove and titanium pig sticker for $999? I found myself almost hitting checkout on a $60 paper towel holder from Outback Croc Fuckers. Let us not forget you’ll need an off-road vehicle so you can take videos of you driving over rapids and climbing up El Capitain in your Gladiator with 37s. DONT FORGET THE SNORKEL. Now that being said I’m one of the most frugal people you’ll ever meet. 30 years in the service industry can teach you how to turn shit into ice cream as my old boss wouid say. I buy my big projects used. I’m on eBay, marketplace, Craigslist probably 20 times a day. If you are quick you can score. I rarely buy anything full price and you’ll always find me going through all the returns at REI three times a week at least. 4WD for me is more gravel roads and mud. I love my truck too much to roll her down a boulder.

At 51 current years of age I’ve sorta combined all my hobbies into one adventure. I use my truck with all its overdone off-road mad max like components to drive me to the mountains so I can hike, trail run, cycle, camp and do a little off-roading exploration. And I fucking love it. Thinking of adding a kayak to all of it soon (looking on marketplace) . Need a little water fun in my life. Just to float I don’t need that white water shit. I harp on my expenditures over expeditions for my newest hobby for fun mostly. Do I need all of that shit? No, most of it are just extra luxuries that I tend to go over board on when I get all caught up in my hobbies. I do not own a $300 shovel nor do I have an $80 bracket to hang one.. yet. In all honesty it’s just extra shit you’ll have to remember to pack for you next trip. For me it’s not all the fancy gear and accessories it’s the experiences. For all the REI purchases and Quadratech goodies their value doesn’t compare to the paradise of sitting on my tailgate on a shitty old futon mattress watching the sunset.

Kyrie elision.

Ok. Listen, to be fair.. I’ve never eaten at the factory of Cheesecakes. I had a beer there once when my family and I were suppose to dine in it’s grandiose, cathedralesque, mall annex one evening but alas, the wait for an 8 top was 3 hours which seemed par for the course that it would allocate enough time for patrons to read their Ezra book of menus. It’s like the creators of Cheesecake Factory traveled to the Taj Majal and thought to themselves “this is the vibe we would like to mimic but instead of a grand tomb let it be filled with pot stickers and cheesecakes.”

A menu that was more girth and vocabulary than Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged with delicacies that have been dragged through the decades of trendy relevance. Whether you have the hankering for the ever popular mozzarella sticks or the undying, culinary masterpiece spinach and artichoke dip that has been the star of the appetizer section since Burt Reynolds was smuggling Coors across the Mississippi.

Their menu has a small bites section AND an appetizer section. Small bites are the amuse- bouche of restaurant menus. Amuse- bouche being the French name for mouth amuser or simply an appetizer before your appetizer. It’s like creating a small dessert to eat before your regular dessert and calling it sweet petites. The small bites and snacks on the cheesecake menu however are just more app options. The authors of the CF menu, realizing the release of 30 appetizers seemed a little too daunting for one chapter, decided to break it up into two sections for the consumer to peruse. Egg rolls? We’ll spring ‘em. Mushrooms? We’ll stuff ‘em. We will fry your favorite fucking vegetable! Zucchini? Yep! Potatoes? Duh! Cauliflower? Fuck yeah but we don’t do that buffalo cauliflower like the amateurs do we toss that shit in Korean BBQ! That’s right! Bolt the goddamn doors shut to keep ‘em out because CF got the mother fucking Korean bites! It’s like they took Applebees, Bennigans, Chilis, Outback and O’ Charley’s and combined them to create the Voltron of trendy restaurant concepts.

Let’s not forget they have rotating bags of soup du jour brought in from their cheesecake commissary that I envision something out of a bad Willy Wonka remake with water falls of instant powdered bechamel, fountains of buffalo sauce and pastures of risotto. In their kitchens I can picture this magnificent 60ft long, True assembly top cooler with the storage capacity of 560 6th pans filled with factory necessities for scampiing, truffling, Parmesaning, tacoing, cashewing, marsaling you fucking name it, it’s on the menu.

The real heroes are the FOH staff that have to memorize this entire menu. It would be less daunting to memorize the entire Gone With the Wind screenplay in three different languages under the illumination of a 11 watt bulb.

I started to count the menu items and stopped. Once I got up to “skinnylicious” category I was overcome with daily prep lists and truck ordering nightmares. Their order guide has to be wheeled around in a wheel barrow. I’m almost certain they use the Dewey decimal system for their recipe card filing. “Oh you’re looking the cranberry, tarrogon herb butter for the poached halibut burrito? It’s filed under 1022.2 for churned cream creations.” I shouldn’t jump the gun on my assumptions on their massive inventory. They’ve managed to repurpose a single chicken breast into 149 of their menu choices.

Their bar menu filled with cocktails, mocktails. pale ales, skinny drinks, fat shakes, lemonades, housemade Gatorade (ok I made that up) has you covered for every trendy cocktail concoction ever released. I have no doubt they have more Long Island Tea recipes than Snapple has flavors. Their cocktail garnishes range from trolical parasols, olives stuffed with molded cheeses, foot long skewers of citrus orbs and enough straws to coke up all of Club 54 on a Saturday night.

Now throw in all the cheesecakes. They have more cheesecake options than a Baskin- Robbins has ice cream. With tempting flavors such as tiramisu, pumpkin spice, snickers to morning glory hole, surprise cream dreamsicle they have all you need to hit that max caloric intake. It must take a walk-in freezer the size of Madison Square Garden to regulate and contain all of the sub zero goodness

Now for the sake of transparency I will admit that my dislike for the Factory is purely based on being a jilted hater. As previously stated I’ve never eaten in one and if invited to a function located inside of one I would probably (kicking and screaming) go. Factory opened up in 2016 although all of the local papers had been announcing it’s arrival since 2015. This was the same year we had birthed Dive n Boar, a hip little farm to table bbq joint with craft cocktails. It was such a fun concept but except for a group of cult followers it never did well. Now I will give the Greenville press credit for our little write up when we announced our concept. It was about as much as I could ask for as a small local restaurant group in the making. Every week I’d see the Cheesecake Factory opening soon countdown in the local news medias and all the excitement from the Greenville “foodie” scene while DnB was struggling to keep the lights on. 2016 was a tough year for several reasons and experiencing what would be my first personal closure of a business I helped create was a hard blow to swallow. Another lesson I learned was never open up a concept that would directly compete with another you own. Our egos thought we could make it work and we were wrong. Southern’s business overall dropped about 15% and never recouped. The harsh side of opening up a kickass bar environment right next to another one is people will choose sides. No one wins.

Open up social media and I see people lined up out the door at Cheesecake Factory. 4 hour wait times, people making balloon animals while you wait in line, log jam traffic around the mall perimeter. It was like Jesus came to town to recreate his Last Supper in their private banquet room. Greenville was just getting it’s wings in the whole foodie town chatterings and this was their chance to really spread it’s plume and in my eyes they fell flat on a cherry cheesecake. My posts were filled with skinny margarita boomerang toasts and buffalo cauliflower exclamations. Greenville had mounted a taste bud assault on Cheesecake Factory and goddamn, jump back and kiss myself hallelujah the townfolk were excited. Broadway in a microwave had come to town and Cheese was cashing in the upstate’s 401ks. I remember trying to envision the other foodie cities like Chicago, Austin and Charleston cutting tape with the mayor on grand openings of their Cheesecake Factory’s . What an experience that must’ve been. Meanwhile we decided to close both restaurants for lunch due to lack of business or as we stated via press “focus more on dinner sales”. Don’t get me wrong or miss interpret my attitude, I don’t blame the mighty CF for our demise in anyway. I have the capitalistic clarity that some businesses can and will defeat and crush others it’s the American way. A little ass hurt goes along way with me. Timing is everything in this business. It definitely made me resentful towards the local press’ coverage on something as “unlocal” as a big box restaurant while the only time I’d see them mention a restaurant more than once was to announce a closure. It also gave me a long lasting impression of what makes up a sizable nihilistic approach to the Greenville foodie scene. No matter what you try to create artistically and unique to reward someone’s palate, you will ultimately lose to a plate of pre-battered chicken tenders and Lamb-Weston frozen fries. Yes I know this is a broad swath of unfairness and judgement from me and it was earned the worst way. I enjoy expressing myself with sarcasm and hyperbole so yes, my dislike for the CF is a little over the top. Yes, I created it in my own mind. Yes, I know not all of Greenville flushed their taste buds down the toilet but boy howdy a lot of you did..

I’m sure CF has some good intentions behind their 4882 cheesecake flavors and 4lb menu that has more scripture than Stephen King novel. I’m sure some exceptional meals and service have been brandished in some of the upstate’s social media and yay for them and those.. I get asked a lot about my trolling and when I tell everyone it’s a long story that has nothing to do with my experience eating in a Cheesecake Factory I get some weird stares. Also stop sending me Cheesecake Factory gift cards as jokes. I have enough coasters as it is.

The full moon resembled a flashlight on high beam from a punctured hole through a dark sheet on the corner of the ceiling of the sky. I knew immediately when the psilocybin kicked in that I was behind the scenes of another dimension. The shadows behind the iconic lone rock were painted perfectly in the dried up lake to help to give the full illusion that the moon was illuminescent. The air had stopped and nothing moved around except for the two ravens that had observed my entrance (Steve and Tabitha). I had no doubt they were there to welcome me backstage, the behind the scenes staging of tomorrow’s dawn. My companion had turned gray and sat stoically still in his chair, the painted shadows from his hoodie had hidden his eyes from my sight to give him a statuesque appearance with a bright red checker pattern from his wool coat because well red is the most outstanding color this cold evening. Both of his knees were glowing like hot pink globes. The surgically repaired one much more vibrant than it’s counterpart telling me that the dimmer one was not far behind from failing him. “You can see the ceiling behind the stars.”- I told him. The stars were hanging like cheap dorm string lights linked together in tangled strands under a gray patio umbrella, blinking in small chaotic bursts. You could sense something curiously staring down at you behind the canopied stars. A large simbiotic being holding the umbrella just right to keep the lights in their mise en place. The Big and Little Dipper pulsated like illuminated red and yellow rapid heartbeats into their webbings to the other stars, electric currents synapsing their high ceiling frequencies around the universal patio umbrella.

One of the ravens made a flutish sound and then cackled. Their understanding of my predicament was a brief moment of bonding. I flipped back and began to notice that not only did the wind not exist here but neither had the seasonable cold weather. The dimensional temperature seemed ideal. I felt neither hot or cold beneath my 2 layers of desert evening lounging outfit. I immediately flipped back and pointed to the RV across the plains “I dont trust that camper”- I said to my companion. “Stay away from it. It doesn’t belong here”- I said casually without explanation. He followed me around our campsite, as if he was mentally recording my thoughts and findings. “Here is our peremiter” – pointing to the bare earth. I can see the yellow bouncing coils, like a old antique mattress, curving around our campsite, towards the dried up lake. “As long as we stay inside here we are good.” I offered no logic it didn’t seem necessary. I must’ve flipped again because under my feet were earth colored legos, patched together to form a synthetic floor that stretched for acres under the flashlight beam. Our campsite looked like the drop setting of a Kubrick directed moon landing. My rooftop tent trailer strongly resembling the Apollo 11 Command Module with it’s own freshly painted moon shadow. The window from the untrustworthy RV across dried up lake was lit up like an old palm reader’s travel cart. “Don’t go near that that fucking thing” I said out loud. As I walked back towards the command module the yellow translucent coils surrounding our camp began to pulsate into a dream weaver rhythm that resembled the one I had bought for my daughter at a roadside Navajo market. In the corner of my eye I could occasionally see something standing beside me with it’s arms crossed. “Did the Navajos really used to stand like this?” – I thought to myself. “Or are all those fucking cartoons I used to watch making me stereotype?” As if on cue Steve the raven cackled at me (or maybe it was Tabitha).

“This isn’t suppose to be here” I said to myself, pointing in the direction of the reservoir. “This campsite, this lake, even the water doesn’t want to be here… and fuck that RV (the bad one) over there” – I casually mentioned as I continued my walk around the perimeter.

My Scout trailer had transformed into a traveling gypsy carriage, with its awning stretched from one side to the other casting a dark shadow from the full moon (flashlight beam). The filament of the trailer’s latern flickered causing it to look like bubbles from a jar of illuminated liquid, holding some old, preserved organ, a lung perhaps from a deformed monkey. The music pouring out of the little camper Bluetooth would go from Hozier’s – Work Song to something along the same beat but muffled and fused into a bad Bollywood romance movie.

I had drank my mushroom tea on an empty stomach and started to feel nauseous. I grabbed a bag of sliced Turkey and had begun shoving it in my mouth, large handfuls of Boars Head’s finest hickory smoked chub and chased it with water from my glowing Nalgene. The Navajos would frown upon me chucking on their land and seeing as I was surrounded by them on the outer banks of my Lego floored perimeter, I thought it wise not to upset them.

I began to walk around the perimeter once again. My companion had chosen not to join me this this time. He was dimensions away from me at this time and was probably tiring of my psilocybin play by play. I once again looked up at the desert’s skyline and saw that the umbrella did not exist facing southeast. There was no ceiling or end. I could see past the blinking lights and it was breathtaking. Behind the stars I could see more stars. Behind those I could see more and more. They were all moving like multicolored glitter in a slow boiling motion. Each star giving off its own vibrant emotion. I stared at the cosmos unblinking until I could feel my eyes water. If there is a heaven I had just looked upon it. There was an unsettling yet comforting feeling of the cosmos pulling me into it. It made light speed in the Millennium Falcon look like an Atari 2600 graphic. In my mind an inner voice suddenly shrieked “STOP” and I looked away. “You aren’t meant to see that yet” -my mind reprimanded me and I obeyed immediately without seeking an explanation.

I decided to climb into my Apollo tent trailer and turn in for the night. As I wrapped myself up in my sleeping bag cocoon, my sleeping quarters resembled a backstage closet used for props. The full moon was so bright it shown through my thick tent canvas and I watched shadows dance on the ceiling. I could hear movement outside the tent. It sounded like someone or something walking around, dragging a bum foot. My friend had already turned in and by the sounds of his snoring it seemed improbable that he was scuffling around the tent. “It’s just the imps” -I said to myself. “They are moving the props around for the next morning”. I should’ve found this frame of thinking as odd considering I’d never been introduced to an imp nor had I ever seen or even heard of them. It moved slowly around the trailer, it’s one gimp leg dragging behind it. You could hear the occasional grunt as it struggled to move whatever prop that needed to be relocated for the next act. My Smittybilt rooftop tent was an inter dimensional prop closet and I was trying to fall asleep during intermission purgatory. I fought the urge to warn my friend not to shoot the imp if he heard it. He didn’t know imps like I knew them. It was just trying to it’s thankless job.

The wind outside of my tent blew hard when I layed on my left side and wouid stop when I turned right. “Stay right if you want the wind to stop”- my inner voice said and I did and with that the howling wind stopped. There’s no sleep with psilocybin. My mind was watching multiple short films and would occasionally find a show it liked. Occasionally I would sit up to manage my wits and listen to the imps outside. At one point my tent expanded into a long hallway with dark wooden 70s paneling, scattered with low wattage bulbs with exposed broken fillaments. In the middle of hallway there appeared a robotic mechanism with discombobulated moving parts made up of cogs, wheels, cams, struts, pistons and other mechanical pieces barely held togeher by nothing more than tumultuous motion. It’s colors resembled that of a modern day Iron Man armor. It danced sporadically around the narrow hallway like an unbalanced spinning top, lightly bouncing off the walls as it touched. This contraption was literally chaos itself. It harmlessly strutted around me like it was waiting for me to confront it. “I need balance” it told me although I’m not sure exactly how it was conveyed to me. Whether it was through my mind or I could read it’s language through it’s chaotic motion it was asking me to solve its puzzle as while it gyred next to me. I was staring at universal chaos and it was requesting a restart. There were no buttons, knobs or pulleys to help with the solution. “What balances the universe?” -it spun to me in it’s mechanical language. The word came from nowhere and without thought almost like it was scripted. I looked at the mass of moving parts and whispered the word “love.” As I spoke the word all the cogs, wheels, cams, pistons, struts of the being stopped moving. Like the sound of giant garage door rolling shut, the bewildered machine quickly formed into a solid v shaped shield. It’s little humming motor stopped and let out a small decompressing hiss. I woke up to the sounds of Steve and Tabitha cackling at the sunrise.

It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact time that my service industry burnout came to a head. 2019 wasn’t the best year for our restaurant group. Financially Southern Culture Hospitality Group was underperforming and we were feeling the pressure. Southern Culture the flagship of our restaurant group was coming up on it’s 8th year of creation. Brunches were still a juggernaut but our weekday sales were dropping. We had several discussions about revamping Southern without losing its identity. I had wanted the stage ripped out and build an oyster bar in its place. Live music was a flop at Southern. We’d have some great bands and some bands that would make your prop your chin on your elbows to keep your head from hitting the table when you’d fall asleep. Often times customers would complain about how loud the bands were and leave. Brunch being as vibrant and energetic as it was, the made the music fit. The sheer volume of people usually drowned them out. Another option was to close in the patio and make it a small venue for weddings and try to capture that dynamic. It seems we discussed that option for a solid 4 years but could never pull the trigger.

Lto was on year 3 and already on it’s third reinvention and god knows what menu revamp we were on. LTO had unspokingly becoming the little engine that couldn’t. Between the rapid decline of Dive N Boar I and II and the constant reconstruction of LTO to find that niche that would get cherrydale’s ass to eat a burger somewhere other than 5 Guys, that fucking location had become a burden. The bar side was healthy and energetic but the dining room was the underachieving little brother that never hit its stride except for the occasional weekend. I initially had wanted to do a sports heavy themed bar, late night, bucket beers, couple dozen TVs and keep it simple. My partners were always concerned about image and “attracting the wrong crowd” which what I considered to be the wrong crowd and what their definition was left up for considerable debate. We had originally met in the middle on a clean cut family dining experience involving fun burgers and whimsical shakes. This was not what I had in mind but to receive financial backing my partners and I needed to see eye to eye on the concept so this was sort of a happy medium. I could get my burger bar while they wouldn’t look like grungy biker bar owners (not my words). LTO phase one turned out to be a phenomenal fail. We got our asses handed to us week one of opening. We opened understaffed and underprepared. In the first week we lost 8 of our 12 kitchen employees and within a month my KM resigned. Long ticket times and and an undermanned store I feel left a long lasting first impression with the general public. The dining room side would fill up with families for an hour and then it would be a dead zone. We had hoped for better alcohol sales to boost the price point per head but all we managed to get was sweet tea and water drinkers. The bar flourished with happy hour and late night but the feel and vibe was like trying to watch a football game in a fucking Pottery Barn. We needed that check average to hit $22 and with influx of children eating kid burgers and adults not participating in alcohol beverages we were hitting right at $16/17. That meant watching the whole dining room full up for about $1200 in sales. Great to see the dining room robust with people but the bottom line didn’t give a shit. We decided to repaint once again and separate the dining room from bar. The bar looked great but the dining room still couldn’t get it’s footing. Our last change before covid was to add some high dollar pool tables, football and darts. This was probably my fav look of all of them but once again it was not working. The only thing it managed to do was make the dining room LOOK busy.

The Habitap was about to pop its first birthday balloon and the grid iron capital of Greenville (Woodruff rd) was being mighty stubborn about filling up our seats. Habitap was a hard concept for me. When I created it I just could not get the warm fuzzies. I struggled with the location, concept, menu etc you name it. Habitap was not the first concept created for that location. We had been discussing that side of town for 4 years. The Dive N Boar concept was specifically created for that building but the malaise of Mojos (Southern’s old icky neighbor) pushed us to put Dive there instead. Which we would learn rather quickly that was a terrible mistake. The other concepts thrown around was a modern style diner Local Toast and a tavern (unnamed). I was looking to create something that was all beer/wine taps and small finger food. Mostly bar bites and sandwiches. My partner wanted more so we added a double decker pizza oven and I made the concept pizza friendly without coming across as a pizza joint. I will take full blame and responsibility on that concept’s first try and it’s unwillingness to succeed. I made the call on counter service to keep up with the modern times and well Woodruff rd wasn’t having it. I was banking on the success of a few other local restaurants that were booming and it didn’t work. One thing to consider when you open up multiple restaurants is demographics control your dynamics. I’m not talking about knowing the percentage of boomers or gen x ers within a 3 mile radius of your company. Cultures, attitudes and palates can change quite a bit just 8 miles down the road. It’s a fucking crap shoot to get it right and if you don’t then you better move to fix it quick. The consumer can be very unforgiving at times. We also wanted to capture some of the brunch magic Southern had on the woodruff road side of town so I did a biscuit heavy brunch with a do it yourself Bloody Mary bar. Our brunch magic was mediocre at best and our lunches were pathetic. Our weekends were decent however and when we were busy the atmosphere was electric. Still, of the three Habitap was my third favorite. It never felt like my creation.

We had recently let go of our VP operations to cut back on our overhead cap and had brought in a brand new C.O.O. who had the unfortunate timing of being hired just as the first covid germ probably hit the west coast. My partners’ and I were just now at a point of light bickering and second guessing each other’s decisions. Our relationship over the years was ok but to be honest we came from completely different backgrounds. I always came across to them as a ruffian with few words to say and the mouth of a sailor. Professionally we seemed to get along for the most part but we had our moments like any other partnership. If the bottom line is fine we fine. Well the bottom line was indeed not fine.. The main bulk of my vocation at the time seemed to center around long repetitive meetings about finding that secret “sauce” to make all the restaurants perform better. That “Gangwer magic” my partner would exclaim to get me motivated to punch holes through slow weekends and engineer a insurmountable comeback. We’d discuss topics of new menus, handbooks, uniforms and management styles. My main partner enjoyed having one on ones with me to discuss my behavior on social media, my language in meetings and overall trying to encourage me to be a strong god fearing Christian. Let me be the first to say that last sentence is in no way to belittle him or make fun of him. I know in my heart he was doing what he thought was best. He was trying to mentor me, to help me become a Christian. He was concerned about my drinking and personal life. He did it because he cared. I on the other hand wasn’t looking for a mentor or father figure. It made for some hard conversations but at least we were open and transparent in our discussions. I do not fault him one bit in trying although some might say otherwise. Partnerships can be a lot like marriages. Trust is important. Communication is important. Finances and profits replace the emotions of love and security. There will be parts of this that may seem like I disliked my old partners which is not true and also not the point of this story. There will be some emotions released that may shine a negative light on our partnership because well, I’m an emotional person and sometimes it comes out in my writing. The last thing I’ll add is my partner was a unselfish and generous person who meant well as far as our relationship went. At the end of the day we just couldn’t see eye to eye professionally and personally.

I was sitting at the bar in LTO when McMasters made the announcement that all restaurants in South Carolina would close their dining rooms to the public. We knew it was coming but in the back of my head I was hoping he’d change his mind last minute. You know like in his deep southern drawl “we ain’t closin’ a gawd dayum thing” while banging his limp little hands on the podium like a dick beating gavel but no, like many other businesses across the country we got the royal covid fuck yourself. My opinions on the whole lockdown will be reserved for another day.

Some of my LTO staff were sitting at the bar during the announcement and all I could do was watch their faces. It was Saint Patrick’s day and we had maybe 6 people in the restaurant. Word was already out and people were already staying home. Some employees cried while others ordered shots. I walked around and hugged everyone. They were scared, hell I was too! Not just about the future of my businesses but for the well being of my family and my staff. I went next door to Southern and did the same thing with everyone there. Right after I drove up to Habitap and for the third time hugged everyone in sight. “What happens next?” They all asked me. “We will keep our doors open and we are going to kick curbside’s ass!” – I told everyone. Boy would I fucking be wrong. But I knew that before I even said it. That night I went home and cried myself to sleep with a bottle of vodka.

Curbside

For some reason I can’t recall the meetings we had right before curbside it was a blur. We tried curbside for two weeks. I walked to every car I could keeping safe distance and thanked every single person for their support. LTO was the heavy hitter with curbside of course due to it’s menu. It was a positive punch in the arm to see the cars lined down the building from friends and customers to show their support. We’d run with a skeleton staff, developed online order apps and served everyone their food like a McDonald’s with no drive thru window. I reduced and rewrote all three concept’s menus overnight, pushed to get them to our graphics artist and have the menus posted before service. Southern’s was the toughest. We were doing take out meat and twos and family meals and every time we’d get low on something I’d have to change the menu again. This restaurant was not built to survive on takeout food. The whole basis for southern was ambiance, music, energy and of course the food. To be served to you not in a fucking cardboard box and consumed with plastic forks and knives. Habitap’s curbside was essentially non existent. Our staff were mostly salaried managers. Southern was my GM, myself and my sous. I’d come in at 7am. Rewrite three menus, email them to everyone, set up prep and line at Southern, cook, serve, wash dishes and close. For 14 straight days. Running next door to LTO to help and driving to Habitap between shifts at Southern. Overall curbside was a joke. It’s like movie theaters shutting down the theater part and trying to serve popcorn and icees to survive. It’s not even a bandaid over a bullet wound it’s more like using masking tape to reattach a severed head. Southern went from 400 covers for Sunday brunch to 15 take out boxes. 50% of those from friends just trying to support a hopeless cause. We were drowning and drowning fast. It’s hard to put in words what it’s like to not have control over the business you created. To have politicians cast your business aside for “the good of man”. There’s no amount of PPP that can mend your restaurant business once it’s forced to close down. Restaurants operate and strive on solid cadence, return customers and exposure. The media was portraying restaurants and bars as breeding grounds for covid. As covid continued to grow and infect, the service industry was taking the brunt of the cause of spread of infection. I’d watch on the news as networks would show diagrams of restaurant HVACs and how coughing and sneezing mucus particles could work their way through the duct work and infect other tables if they were to dine inside. Literally drawing lines from one table to the next as to where germs and bacteria will drop right on top of your chicken tenders. I even remember one write up stating you would more likely to catch covid in a restaurant than any other place. This included planes.. . All the while across the road 200 yards from me I could see over 300 cars in the Home Depot parking lot from everyone preparing to do some TLC on their homes during the shutdown. I had a very difficult time processing this as my businesses were flailing. I was tempted on several occasions to take some tables up to Home Depot and Lowes and serve my food there since covid and wasn’t an issue in home improvement stores. Every single day when I’d walk out to serve a customer a $15 box of meat and twos I’d take a look across the street and watch my neighbor’s business surge while mine dropped by 90%. My anger and frustration at that time was indescribable and very unhealthy.

My Km at Southern on the last day of March came in to work with a slight cough that continued to get worse through the day. After hearing a coughing fit from him on the line I asked him to leave and get a covid test and I shut the kitchen down. If he had covid chances are I would too and if I had it then everyone working could be exposed due to me traveling to each restaurant. He called the next day to let me know both he and his girlfriend had it. I on the other hand didn’t catch it nor did anyone else at the time but it was decided to close all the restaurants temporarily just to be safe. I’ve been apart of some restaurant closings over my 3 decades of service industry but this was unique and quite different due to the circumstances. I’ve never temporarily closed one down with no timeline as to when to open it back up.

Most of your product is disposable. The last thing you want to do is throw away $4k worth of product. Can goods are safe as are most dry goods but what do you do with all your proteins, produce, sauces, dressings etc? We didn’t use walk-in freezers in my restaurants. Hell the only reason southern had a freezer was to keep tater tots in it. After we closed I shoved 4k worth of proteins in the reach-in freezers in all three restaurants (Habitap actually had a walk-in freezer) and filled up grocery bags with produce and other foods that wouldn’t fit to give out to all the staff. I had some wonderful folk Venmo me to support my closing businesses so I would stuff money in envelopes and stick them in the grocery bags for the employees. My staff were my family and I didn’t know any other way of taking care of them at the time. I locked down all the restaurants. Locked up the coolers and unplugged everything. I had zero clue as to what we were going to do next.

So.. I went home. For the first time since I bought my house in December of 2009 I went home without any idea as to when I should go back to work. I sat down on my side of the sofa, opened up a bottle of vodka and drank the whole fucking thing.

The following day I couldn’t tell if I had covid or a massive hangover. It turned out to be only a hangover but I spent the whole day after shutdown on my sofa lying there just staring at the ceiling and feeling the biggest sorry I’ve ever felt for myself. I didn’t check my emails, texts, social media I just laid there. I remember cursing at myself for destroying my body during a time when I needed to be at my healthiest. At this time, like the rest of the world, I was still scared of covid. More so because I was worried for my family. All three of us semi-huddled in our home leary of the mailman giving us covid germs or Amazon packages coming in to infest our home with the Wuhan boogie woogie flu. I had to admit, this being my first pandemic I had no clue what to do with myself much less any of my restaurants.

For the first week or so I maintained communication with my company via text and email. I would physically check-in to all the restaurants to make sure the walk-ins and freezers didn’t trip during the night. I would inspect all the doors to make sure everything was secure. I began to rewrite all the menus and the undesirable data entry for food costs and then head home. During that time the work I made for myself usually ended around noon and I’d go home to my family. The weather, despite the scare of the pandemic was enjoyable so I would set up a sprinkler for my daughter and sit outside and watch her play. My wife and I would sit in our camping chairs, chat, read and relax. Later we would grill out and play card games and video games. I spent some of my newly inherited free time fixing issues in my house that I had been unable to tend to over the last decade. Painting cabinets, wall repair, pulling weeds, loose tiles etc. The house had been falling apart for years from neglect. What was and shouldve been my sanctuary was more like a construction zone at all times. I’m ashamed at how far I let my house go. I also used the downtime to paint recreationally and actually sold some paintings for cash to help pay some of our bills. I hadn’t touched a paintbrush since I opened Southern a decade ago. At night my family and I would build a fire in the backyard and sit outside my truck camper and watch the sunset. In the mornings I’d make breakfast, ride my bike, do some data entry at LTO and work on the menus again. By this time all three restaurants were completely closed and most of my communication with my partners were sporadic emails. I had zero interest in physical meetings, my partner was in poor health and I still did not trust the media reports so my family stayed in our little bubble for that whole month of April. And in that month we slowly began to become a family of three again. Oh and a dog and cat.

Family, unfortunately is something that easily gets taken for granted. I scored high on all the daddy checklists – birthday parties, doctor check ups, softball and soccer games, vacations. I have pics of me in all of these events but I wasn’t ever really there. Not mentally. I was answering calls/texts from work. I was responding to emails or someone’s review. I was checking social media to see if anyone was engaging with our event or hoping we knock it out of the park tonight so we can cover payroll. I honestly couldn’t tell you anything about my daughter’s birthday parties except for when she blew out the candles. Any events or holidays that involved family bonding usually meant going to work at dawn and leaving at dusk. I had worked every Mother’s Day since I was 21 and even during the pandemic spent my whole Mother’s Day detailing Southern’s kitchen and the only Father’s Day I had taken off was for vacation in which I was bombarded with phone calls from prime rib getting 86’d by noon. Thanksgiving was celebrated by cooking for friends who had no family, Christmas Day I would be so exhausted from holiday parties and high volume that I would spend the whole day lying on the sofa. This isn’t to register a sob story. This was the norm and I rarely even blinked over it. It’s part of the sacrifice of working in the service industry. It’s just the fucking norm. I was programmed to accept it as such. Most holidays you don’t have free time to celebrate in this line of work. You aren’t given that luxury. It is the fucking way.

If you ask my wife she’ll be the first to tell you I’m a creature of habit and scheduling. I have my normal daily routine just like everyone else the only difference is if I strayed from it my anxiety would go through the roof. If I wake up 15 minutes late I feel my whole day is fucked or at least for the first few hours until I am able to adjust. From my first cup of coffee, workout, breakfast, shower and then my prep routine for work would always have to be completed in a certain order. My truck orders, scheduling were all done exactly the same time. I won’t say I was the most organized (my employees would laugh at me and tell you I’m full of shit) but my routine made it look that way. I was an overworked robot, programmed like a fucking microwave. Hit a button and watch me cook and perform as fast as I can. In the industry there’s only one pace and if you fall behind you’re essentially fucked until the shift is over. Sometimes that fucking can carry over into the next shift or the following day. In the back of the house, as cliche as it sounds you do consume half eaten meals over trash cans. You take 20 second puff breaks, extinguish the cherry and stick the used cigarette back in its pack for the next chance to smoke. Or run in the back to respond to 20 texts that you couldn’t answer during dinner rush. You’d do this shit for 14 hours straight. Then you leave, go sit in your favorite barstool and drink at the same pace because you had to do it all again in 8 hours. I lived this life for 3 decades. It was my daily routine. It was slowly killing me but I was too busy to notice or too brainwashed to care.

But.. thanks to a germ from half a world away, my 30 year routine of shit, shower, shave and serve had been interrupted. And boy did it fuck me up.

There was no defining moment that I can recall that pushed me away from my vocation. It was indeed a perfect storm. I have been asked if I would still be with my old company had Covid not come around and shook my whole world and I’m not 100% sure I still would be. My relationship with my partner had become volatile over the past few months but for the most part we still got along. I loved my company and what we created. I was working at a pace that became more and more difficult to keep up with but I still managed. I loved our staff they were my family. But, I was getting frustrated with butting heads over my creativity and direction the restaurants were going. There had been several conversations with my partner over my social media being too volatile. Yes I know I can be abrasive at times through mostly sarcasm and wit and I know I’m outspoken but truth be told I created that online persona to engage and create content for my businesses. My social media was engaging and maybe a little too much for a conservative Christian over 65. But it fucking worked and still does to this day. (This subject will be brought up again soon). I would have monthly meetings and one on ones with my partner discussing misinterpreted Facebook posts. Examples – I had jokingly made a remark that maybe crack wasn’t so wack after all and later that week had a meeting with my partner discussing my drug use.. Our photographer had taken a pic of me holding a knife in one hand and a chicken in the other. I had posted it and it had become an engaging post. Nothing negative at all but the following week I was asked to take it down. Apparently one of my partner’s friends had found it offensive and cruel. Let’s ignore the fact that I was frying 160lbs of chicken a week.. I refused to take it down but there were other defining posts that I removed just for the sake of having a quiet afternoon to myself. I can recall a 30 minute one on one during the lockdown about my social media and being compared to one of the owners of Home Depot. “He’s a billionaire and he doesn’t post anything on social media.” “He’s a first class business man that keeps his private life to himself.” That man being Bernie Marcus, a mega donor to the Trump presidential campaign and is also quoted as saying that people are “too fat, too lazy and too stupid to work.” As far as his political beliefs or standards I could care less but yo.. find a better example of a human being. He doesn’t post too much on social media probably because he was over 80 when it was created.. Also I was told.. now brace yourself “I cuss too much”. These small sporadic accusations were minimal for the most part but over a few years they tend to build up. Yes my relationship with them absolutely had bearing on my departure. That said I’m sure they could give an earful of my shortcomings and difficulties of working with me from their perspective as well. I do not try to portray myself as a victim or as the black sheep. Partnerships just like marriages can go to shit. And that’s just what ours did. Covid was just the accelerator.

Back to work

My communication with my partners for the whole month of April was minimal. It was comprised of mostly emails and after convo at the end of the day I would respond with “if I am needed for anything let me know otherwise I’ll be in the restaurants or at home” I ended every correspondence like this because to be honest I was lost. I would walk around the restaurants with my hands in my pockets looking around trying to find that secret sauce/formula to put these places back on track when we reopened. If we even could. Ever since I was a GM for Arizona I always had the security of knowing if the shit hit the fan I’m the mother fucker to call to fix it. I was cocky. Beyond cocky. I’d always had the ability to overcome whatever that was thrown at me in this industry. If my kitchen line crashed I could get them back on track. Food cost way out of line? I fixed it. Staffing? I’d find someone (except for dishwashers) menu underperforming? I got you. My previous job before we opened Southern was regional manager for my old company of 16 years. If I showed up to your restaurant with a suitcase chances are someone was getting fired. I loved it. Being that guy that could fix anything restaurant related. I thought I was unstoppable. I couldn’t beat covid though. Hell I couldn’t even get it in a headlock. I felt like someone punched me in the gut and walked away leaving my ass to gasp for air. I felt defeated while my company looked at me to fix it all. I had no answers and avoided any physical meetings my company were trying to schedule during that time. When I finally showed my face back at “headquarters” at the end of April my relationship with my partners would already be heading to the point of no return.

They were frustrated and for the most part I can’t blame them. No I didn’t pop into the offices for a month to see how everyone was doing but I did work inside the restaurants everyday. Either to maintain inventory and check stock, work on menus and I even tried my hand at baking to keep my mind in work. Then once again I’d go home early to my family, cook out, play games and watch my daughter grow as much as 10 years in one month. Everyday I went into those restaurants while we were closed I yearned to go back home and see my family. I had sacrificed 9 years of my existence building a empire to feed my family, to give us a sense of honest, hard working security. Three restaurants was just the beginning for me. I wanted 20 plus. I wanted my company to be a household name. I wanted to kick the shit out of the restaurant industry and be king of the fucking hill. No one works that hard all the while thinking “I sure hope a global pandemic doesn’t come through town, shut us down and fuck me in the nose”. I never went to culinary school but I’m pretty sure they don’t teach you how to run a restaurant during a pandemic. I was frustrated and angry. I was beyond angry. I’ll save my opinions on the mandates and shutdowns for a rainy day but it didn’t take an economics expert to see that we were all being set up to fail. Not in a conspiratorial sense. We can set aside all that shit just to point out the facts. Restaurants have very slim margins. Usually your profit line is around 3-6%. One shitty weekend can fuck your whole month. Imagine what a whole month of daily fuck yous can do. To allow restaurants to only do curbside food is ludicrous. The government’s next best solution was ok you can open but only 25% of your dining room can be occupied. Also the bureaucrats are going to hand down several new rules for all restaurants to follow. To add insult to injury operational costs were about to go through the roof. Commodities were rising, some prices doubling even tripling. Once upon a time you could get a case of nylon gloves for $25. They went up to $110 a case. One of the new rules and regulations were everyone had to wear these. Cooking and serving. Touch something with them? Gotta change them out. Each restaurant was purchasing 5 plus cases a week. A WEEK. That’s $2k a month just for gloves. That’s a busy day of curbside sales to put into perspective. Also boxes of masks for every hostess stand and employees. Fry oil doubled, chicken and beef skyrocketed. Even fucking bleach tripled if you could even find any at the time. One of my favorites was enforcing mask mandates to customers which was like playing pin the tail on a feral hog. Customers would literally try to fight a 16 year old hostess for asking them to wear a mask. I had to walk one ornery asshole outside to let him know that a mask was the least of his worries if he didn’t remove his finger from a hostess’s face. Of course we all had to wear them. We’d all wear our masks in 110 degree kitchens sweating all over each other and then get off of work, take our masks off and sit together drinking at the bar. Couldn’t serve alcohol at the time we had to do something with it.. Our restaurants were rapidly sinking in deep horseshit. My empire had become a dangling carrot on a stick, shoved up a politician’s ass driving away in a Porsche and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

My first step back into my office was early May. I was met by one of my partners who wanted to talk to me before I went to work. She wanted to notify me that they wanted to eliminate my wife’s position in the company. My wife was in charge of all social media outlets and event planning. It wasn’t my ideal plan to have my wife work for the company from the beginning due to the fact that if there ever a financial situation and cuts had to be made I would be the one firing my own wife. My partner on the other hand was adamant to have her. “We need someone with a ventured interest in our company to do our social media” which I agreed 100% just not someone that I live with.. They had decided to go with a branding firm to do our social media (something that I was always against due to previous experience with other branding companies) and since we couldn’t have events anymore there was no need for an event coordinator in our company. This decision and change in our social media was definitely a petty reaction reaction to my absence in meetings amongst a few other things but even though I recognized it as such I let it go because I felt that I had brought that part on myself. Going home to let your wife know she’s terminated from your company is not a good way to start off your week. it’s a part of business. I get it. Shit happens but the timing could’ve been better. Next up was a 48 page shiny and new employee handbook written straight from another successful company in Chicago. My company was really proud of this handbook and I let them soak in it seeing as I didn’t have anything to do with it’s creation. I didn’t even open it up to read it until they had everyone go over it in Habitap’s orientation. I’ll get to that shortly.

The first restaurant we decided to open back up was Habitap. It made complete sense. Habitap had the largest dining room and outdoor space and with counter service dining some things had to be addressed. Counter service wasn’t working and now with people having to stand 6 plus feet away from each other the line to the counter could get frustratingly long. We decided to go full service but had to tweak the concept. I went with a four food truck concept to segment our menu into four separate food truck concepts. Habitap needed a good pick me up and this concept seemed original and unique. Brunch I would change away from biscuit theme to full service to give it a second shot at taking on Southern when the opportunity showed itself. I would go into Habitap at 6am and work on prep, menu specs and recipes. I found myself trying to hurry because all the while I missed being home. A new habit was forming of spending more time with my family at home. Also the thought of going back to working 14 hour shifts started to wear on me immediately the first week I was back. I rearranged the kitchen, finalized my menu and started our tastings. Once again I was back to where I started the month before. I’d go into work, set up the kitchen, cook a page off the menu for everyone to see, smell, touch, taste and then clean up, wash dishes and lock up. I did this for about 2 straight weeks. I’d go home exhausted, open up a bottle of vodka and drift off. Get up and do it all again. The only difference was my exhaustion was waiting for me the next day. It didn’t matter how well I slept or how much rest I got the night before I would wake up dog-tired. There was zero passion in my work. I started to dread going in. I notched it up to being away from physical labor for a month and I would get back into the groove soon. I had to. Too many people were fucking counting on me and we had to get the proverbial ball rolling. Rewriting the Habitap menu took a lot out of me for some reason. It wasn’t a hard menu and easy to pickup on the line. My creativity was at a career low. I would stare at recipe books and restaurant menus for hours and draw a blank. Yes you cxn have writer’s block when writing menus and it’s frustrating. I found myself creating shortcuts on recipes because I didn’t want to deal with the headaches of the morning prep guys fucking up product. I just wanted to finish my work and go home..

The whole plan going forward post covid was to open up Habitap first, followed by LTO and then Southern Culture. I had finalized the menu for Habitap and we had already brought in a number of our staff off of furlough to retrain and reopen in the next week. It was time for re-orientation and the unveiling of the new and improved employee handbook. Page by page the handbook was introduced and I sort of listened with my feet propped up in a barstool until they got to the part about social media representation. In the meeting with 25 plus employees it was determined a good idea to bring up a social media confrontation that involved my wife or as they stated it “wife of one of the business partners” which seemed a little ridiculous considering the other business partner’s wife was the one leading the orientation. In this conversation (I was told nothing about it) it was brought up that one of my wife’s political stances had almost caused a viral post. This was quite the hyberbole statement considering it involved one person who was no longer a friend of my wife and while it was something worth mentioning to me and only me they chose to air it out to all of the staff instead. I of course took this very personal. I had some words with my partner behind closed doors and I’ll just say some things were said that can’t be taken back. To add more salt to the wound I finally looked over and read the handbook. Things were added to directly silence my social media. Such as – no one can post anything affiliated with any of the restaurants without the CEO’s permission, my partner’s wife being the “CEO”. No podcasts without consent of the CEO, no branding and no pics of the food etc. it seemed I had struck a nerve with my posts and this was their way of trying to shut me down. And it worked. I didn’t sign that ridiculous phonebook of plagiarism but I didn’t post shit. I didn’t say shit. We opened up Habitap and watched the dozen people run through our doors

LTO opened without a hitch. We didn’t do much to change LTO other than trying smash burgers to speed up lunch tickets. We had the same orientation speal and I stayed close by just in case the subject of my wife was brought up again but it was not this time. As far as my relationship goes with my staff the LTO staff and I were closer than the others. No particular reason other than I spent a great deal of time there and the turnover there was low so I got to see the same faces everyday. That and they were just a great staff to work with. The animosity of the previous meeting had quieted a bit and I was excited to get LTO back on track. I want to say we reopened LTO July 1st but it’s a little blurry and all of LTOs social media has been erased from existence so I can’t backtrack. And well I wasn’t suppose to post anything so I can’t go back and see either.. LTO opened to the applaud of about 10 people and the first week or two was a ghost town. I started reaching out to my friends that lto was reopened and they of course had no idea since the only media about it was through our newly acquired Radical branding company. Business algorithms can be hit or miss which is why I had always encouraged my staff to post about the restaurants but I was recently told that I don’t get social media by someone who didn’t even know how to post a profile pic on IG. I felt slightly rejuvenated after LTO opened and swallowed my pride for the “better” of the restaurants and tried to put aside my frustration. I was back to working my regularly scheduled routine and only had one more place to reopen.

I was itching to get Southern back open. It had been closed 4 months and I was worried it was slipping out of people’s minds. The thing with restaurants is your customers can forget about you real quick. People can/will find new places to eat, maybe somewhere closer to home, or you got a new job and there’s this place that you drove by that you want to check out. Or you started a new diet and this place has one salad you can eat. There’s a dozen different scenarios but the main one being if you close your doors for too long someone can and will steal your customers right under your nose. It’s part of the industry life and I was scared for southern to fall under that umbrella. We as a company we’re being methodical. Maybe a tad too much but I was never known for my patience. Before we took all of Southern’s employees off of furlough I walked through the restaurant and did a quality check on all the equipment. Southern had been open for almost 7 years and most of the equipment we bought to open the restaurant had been purchased used all over the upstate to keep us within our financial budget. As I started to plug in, turn on and relight everything the equipment wasn’t having it. Ice machine? Done. Water heater? Nope. Three of the five coolers on the line were dead and one fryer decided it was done too. Roughly $25000 worth of equipment needed to be replaced. This equipment had been going nonstop since we opened in 2012 and once it stopped to take a break it couldn’t start back up again. The irony was not lost on me. The equipment and I were in the same fucking boat. We were one in the same.

We had tweaked Southern’s theme to go back to its roots with more of a Nashville vibe. We would try to recapture the bluegrass vibe that was initiated back in 2012. Southern had slightly lost its identity as a fun bluegrass, fun food with great music vibe and had been replaced with themes of wine tastings, white table cloths and elevated proteins. Not quite that tweezer food shit but one inch too close to “elegant” which if anyone knows me I don’t do fucking elegant. I changed Southern’s menu to fun Nashville style cousine with traces of New Orleans and man it was hard for me. Not the idea but the actual application. I couldn’t focus on my recipes or plate presentation. Even something as simple as she crab soup that I had made numerous times got thrown in the garbage on several occasions because to me it looked like gravy. My focus was shit and it felt like I’d lost my palate. Of all the restaurants I needed Southern to flourish. She was my first born. If she could get back on track then so could I.. During this time we had to make some difficult decisions. We brought our managers all back but at a discounted price until we went back to 100% occupancy. We let go of two KMs and took away some responsibilities to use the others more as linecooks due to shortages. I took over the orders of all three restaurants, scheduling and essentially supervising of all the kitchens all the while still doing my regular responsibilities which ranged from operations, data input, washing dishes and filling in voids of short staffing in all three. I was back to my normal 6 day work week and on my day off it was usually time for another meeting. Each day I found myself even more exhausted than the day before. I would go home after work, eat and drink myself to sleep. There were no more cookouts, game playing or nights outside by the fire. The sprinkler my daughter was dancing on two months ago was grown over with grass that needed to be cut. In front of the house that was slowly falling apart again. I missed my home again already. I missed my family. I found I was distancing myself from my partners more and more. There was still some bad blood post covid and we sort of danced around each other for the next couple of months.

My burnout started to peak in August. Southern was open, brunch was solid but we were still treading on thin ice. It just wasn’t the same. Everyone was back but it didn’t feel the same. Not for me. I didn’t tell anyone but my passion was quickly pissing away. Weekly specials would exhaust me, meetings were redundant and tiresome and photo shoots with our branding company frustrated me. At one point in my 5th take of tossing tater tots in a stainless bowl while slowly seasoning them for a content video I finally told the photographer that I would bash him over the skull if he didn’t get his camera off my kitchen line. That would be the last video of me ever taken at Southern Culture.

I can’t pinpoint an exact day but I started suffering from some major anxiety and panic attacks. I would stand at my prep table staring over a bag of fucking stone ground grits (that went up 22% most likely) and start sweating. My hands would begin to shake (they never had before) I would literally feel my feet go cold. For a solid 2 minutes I would try to compose myself. I’d stare down at that bag of Adluh mills grits and have no clue as to what I was doing. Like I forgot how to make grits. I’d do this sporadically with other recipes. I would zone out and forget things. I did this with orders too. I would make simple recipes and fuck them up. Luckily I prepped alone most days and no one would see my body and mind malfunctioning. I could feel me rapidly losing my self confidence. I started to doubt my dishes even when others would say they were fine. My partner had randomly dumped a private euphoria dinner with co chef in my lap for September and I wasn’t fucking ready.

Growing up I was a huge Atlanta Braves fan. From watching them on TBS in the 80’s to World Series contenders in all the 90s I would watch them every chance I had. One game that always stuck out to me was gsme 4 of the 1996 World Series when Jim Leyritz hit a three run homer of of Mark Wohlers in the bottom of the 8th that turned the series around in the Yankees favor and they went on to win the World Series. That one home run got into Wohlers head and he was never the same pitcher again. I had often wondered what type of trauma could do that to a person on any other level. Here I was experiencing it in my own environment. My self confidence was gone. My ability to lead was quickly dissolving with it. Covid was Leyritz knocking that fucking ball over my head. I didn’t know my career was about to end but I could feel it sliding out of my fingertips.

I cannot tell you much about the month of September of 2020. It may have been the alcohol, the anxiety or just my mundane thoughts at the time but I only had a few weeks left with my company. Words were scarce between my partner and I. We did make an attempt at patching things up. We had a long talk and aired out some frustrations and it went well but after about a week we were avoiding each other again. As I had stated earlier some things had been said and done that just wouldn’t go away. It didn’t help things that my mind was slowly cuckoo from the build up of anger from mandates, profit loss and just the knowledge of knowing regardless of the outcome the restaurant industry will never be the same. Throw in this ridiculous anxiety that had taken over and I was slowly fading in my vocation.

Enter Euphoria 2020. I don’t want to say that something as Greenville ish as Euphoria took my ass out but it probably set me up for the knockout. The dinner I was sharing with another talented chef was 6 courses. With the amuse bouche, apps, soups, dinner, desserts and all that other shit. We had around 2 weeks to prepare and for those 2 weeks I hardly slept. My anxiety was out of control. I couldn’t focus on a game plan and could not get out of my head that I would fuck this whole dinner up from here to Tuesday. My menu was safe and easy which pissed me off even more because I could’ve done better. I can’t tell you much of what I cooked again that month is a blur to me. I know it involved wild boar meatloaf with maybe a homemade deviled ham cracker for the bouche but that’s about it. The very next day was an Euphoria brunch at Habitap. I cannot recall one single item from that menu either. Both of those events had me exhausted. Maybe I was burned out creatively from it? Maybe I was exhausted physically from doing both at the same time I can’t give you an accurate answer. All I can tell you is I didn’t want to cook anymore. More like I was too frightened to cook. The thought of walking on that line and leading my kitchen gave me chills. Not the good kind. I could feel my hands shaking in my pockets. I was embarrassed. I had a show to do and all I wanted to do was hide in the back. I wanted to cry. I was imagining all our timing getting fucked, food coming out cold or underwhelming. Kitchen staff falling apart. I used to live for this shit and now I could barely hold a pair of tongs in my hand. That night and the following morning went without a hitch. I had planned a week long trip to Maine after euphoria. I was going to leave right after brunch service at Habitap. My partners were all pleased with how euphoria went and spoke to me at length at how happy they were with things. In the back of our minds we both knew in just over a week we wouldn’t be partners anymore.

Maine was/is beautiful. I spent a week living literally out of the back of my truck. I had my very first real lobster roll, I hiked some of the most pristine mountains in the Whites, biked around Acadia and Bar harbor and totally fan boyed at Stephen King’s house in Bangor. I had no anxieties, I was relaxed and decompressing. This was my first real road trip in my camper. The downside of restaurant ownership is vacation time is few and far between. I didn’t want the regular beach week, sipping on margaritas in the sand. My body craved travel and adventure. I’d done some overnight camping in North Carolina but not the whole week. I felt different. Free from all the stress that accumulated over the last several years. Physically I was in good shape but mentally I had been falling apart for the last several months. That one week change my perspective. I went fucking Walden overnight. It was almost like a vacationing lobotomy for me. I could almost feel the anxiety dripping out of me. I did check sales of the restaurants all week and checked in with the GMs unbeknownst to me for the last time. I would sit on my tailgate, wrap myself up in a blanket and watch the sunset over the harbor. And I would smile. Big fucking goofy grin smiles. I would think about my family, all those hours we spent together during the shutdowns and I would miss them even more. In my mind I had accepted to going back to the norm after all the reopeninz and I was finding this path unacceptable and unbearable now. I had the taste of a non-tumultuous family life for the first time in a decade and I needed more of this. Not next year or once a year. I was rapidly approaching my 50s and realized my life had mostly been measured in steak temps and puddin’. My body, my mind needed healing. It didn’t need a vacation it needed a lifecation. No amount of time off was going to fix this ailment. I had dedicated all of my adult life to trying to build an empire. To be that number one restauranteur in this whole goddam world only to see it controlled and shit on by one little germ. My meaning in life had turned into something minuscule. Was it fate? Coincidence? Or just a blind leap of faith I don’t know but sitting on that tailgate I knew my days as a restaurant owner were numbered. I could go back home and dive right into the thick of chaos again but just like Waylon once said “we ain’t living long like this” I had a feeling my life was about to change forever. Here’s the thing that took me a few years out of the restaurants to come to terms with myself. This industry had turned me into a terrible version of myself. I had become an insufferable, alcoholic egomaniac. I wore my bar ownership like a badge. I loved the recognition that came with it. Getting those best chef accolades got my blood going. Everyone knowing my name and face downtown if I could fit my head through the door. I was so cocky at times I would wonder how ignorant a customer must be to not like one of my dishes. I would call out other restaurants for stealing my ideas. I had lost my humility years ago and when it came back it was like a smack in the face from my mother. Man I hated the person I had become. He needed to go away.

I came home on a Monday. I was unemployed by Tuesday.

The conversation I had between closed doors with my partner will remain behind those doors. It wasn’t heated, no harsh words were exchanged and we even had our first handshake post covid. We were both done with each other as far as partners go. I had manage to build up quite the reason for exiting. I remember taking off each key off my key ring slowly, one by one, all nine of them with a resounding thud and immediately feeling like I just shrugged a 90lb backpack off of my shoulders. We made small talk about staying in touch and such but we never did. I walked out of the office and never looked back.

Post thoughts. I’ll keep this brief because I’m going to write down some feelings and points about post industry PTSD that is fucking real. Do I miss it? My ego does and it reminds me on a daily basis that I should go back and do it again. Anytime I see a vacant building ideal for a restaurant my hands begin to sweat but at least they don’t shake anymore. I do miss feeding people. I know I still do but it’s not remotely the same since I’m only preparing it and not cooking. I really miss my employees and the comradery. I probably miss that the most. The free booze when I was drinking was a great benefit too. Even if it almost did kill me on a number of occasions. Will I ever open up another place? Only time can tell but I must say the longer I’m out of it the harder it is to imagine myself doing it again. My lifestyle has changed, some of my old habits have been left behind and if straying away from this business is the cause for all of that then it just makes sense to stay the fuck away. My mental health sure as hell appreciates it and most importantly my family does to.

Until the next story 🤟🏼