Teach every child to raise his voice, And then my brothers, then

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’ve been in the restaurant business for a million years.  

Not to exaggerate, but it’s seriously been, off and on for 43 years.  

There is very little that I can say at this point is a first experience for me.  

I’ve washed dishes, cooked, waited tables, hosted, bartended, managed, all of the things.  And at the time I did these things, I was pretty fucking good at them.  

I’ve also experienced all the things with customers.  Being yelled at.  Given a gym membership as a tip.  Been aske out.  Been told I’m the best.  Been told I’m the worst.  I’ve seen customers physically assault managers and servers.  I saw a host slap a guest and get arrested, although full disclosure the customer deserved it.  

Tonight, as a restaurant employee, I did something I’ve never done before.  

I spoke at a city council meeting.  

I didn’t intend to speak.  But seriously, anyone who knows me, knows I like to talk.  

Also, I’m a pretty good public speaker if I do say so myself.  

For context though, lets back up.  

In most of the United States, there is a federal minimum wage.  $7.25 if you don’t know this.  It hasn’t changed since, 2009.  

That’s $290 a week.  $15,080 a year.  

In case you don’t know this, there isn’t a single town in America that would allow someone to survive on that amount.  

In many parts of the country, states and municipalities have taken it upon themselves to raise the minimum wage to a more sustainable wage.  

Maine, and Portland are both places where this has occurred.  

As a part of the minimum wage, many states, in fact most states, offer a tip credit for employees that receive tips as part of their wage. 

In the restaurant business, that means servers and bartenders.  And sometimes support staff.  

From the business perspective, that means that we can pay a server/bartender less than the real minimum wage, as long as their tips make up the difference.  

Thus, a server making 2.13 in Kentucky, has to make at least 5.12 an hour in tips or the restaurant makes up the difference.  

In Portland, our minimum wage is $15 an hour, and the tip credit wage is $7.50. 

During a 6-hour shift, the server/bartender MUST make at least $45 in tips or the restaurant makes up the difference.  As you can imagine, this is hardly ever a problem.   

Most servers in Portland, are making upwards of 30, 40, 50 dollars an hour in addition to their $7.25 an hour.  This is the reason, so many people end up waiting tables when they are young.  This is why so many people end up waiting tables when they are middle aged.  And this is why so many people end up waiting tables in their fifties.  

The schedules are flexible.  You can work when you want.  Usually, as little or as much as you want.  Want to go to Europe for a week, just put in a request off.  Want a new pair of shoes or a purse, just pick up a shift from a co-worker.    

The money is AMAZING for a lot of people.  

Yes, there are exceptions.  But almost without fail, it’s better than other minimum wage jobs.  

In NYC there are servers making $200,000 year waiting tables.

For a run of the mill restaurant in NYC, your salary was still in the mid 70’s.  And much of that money is in cash. 

It’s the reason actors gravitate to this field.   When I moved back to NYC, I worked waiting tables.  If I needed off to do a show, I just put in the request, them when I’d be back and all was good.  

I bring all of this up, because the city of Portland, announced a week or so ago, that they were going to vote on putting the tip credit wage up to a vote on a referendum.  If it passed servers would move from $7.25 to $15.00.    

Owners would make up that additional payment.  $7.25 an hour.  

In case you didn’t know it, very few people get rich owning and running a restaurant.  The profit margin when all is said and done at the end of the day is usually less than 5%.  In case you don’t want to do the math, that’s about 50k profit, after all the bills are paid on every million you sell. 

Some do better.  Most do worse.  60% of all restaurants fail in the first year.  80% fail in the first five years.   

A sane person would ask you if it is worth it.  

You’ve read my stories.  You know it’s not for the feint of heart.  

To lose the tip credit would cost my restaurant an approximate $3,000 more a week.  Times 52, equals $156,000.  

To cover that, we’d raise prices, A LOT, or institute a service charge policy that goes to the house, not the staff, OR go to counter service which seems to be the way of the future. 

Translated, the customer would suffer, the staff would suffer, and many might lose jobs.  

It’s a no-win situation. 

The Portland City Council met tonight.  

They did this in the middle of the busy season, making it hard for a lot of people to attend.  

They did this without a lot of public awareness.   

I did something I’ve never done before at 4:00 tonight.  I walked from work to the Portland City Hall.  

I met Adam at the steps of city hall, and we walked in hand in hand.  

We were told the chamber was full, and were sent to an overflow room.  

Surely this was a good sign. 

What we didn’t know, was we were going to be at the end of the evening.  

We had to sit through liquor license approvals.  Zoning approvals.  Short Term Rental regulation changes.  

All with a chance for public input.  One green-shirted man spoke at least three times before our cause came up, and he was still there when we left.  

The agenda kept going on and on.  

After two hours, a recess was called.  

We all took a break, where I may or may not have stolen a can of Polar soda water, from the city hall kitchen.  I only knew it was there, after I saw the Mayor go in and get one.  

After about 15 minutes, the council meeting started again.

It was still a good 45 minutes still till they got to our reason for being there.  

Finally.  

The mayor read the proposal. 

The floor was opened to discussion.  

In the chamber, there is the main floor and the gallery.  

The mayor alternated between up and down for the next hour, with each speaker getting three minutes. 

The people just kept coming. 

Servers who’d taken the night off from work.  

Owners speaking of their concern of cost and profit margins.  

Servers who were worried about their jobs.  

Bartenders who know that they’ll make far more with the current system, than any updated system. 

Some of these servers/bartenders were young.  Some were older than me.  

Some came with written remarks.  

Some spoke off the cuff, with passion.  

All of their messages were the same.  

We make 30, 40, 50 an hour.  You are fixing a problem that doesn’t exist.  You are addressing a problem, that was brought to the voters just two years ago, and was very seriously defeated at 61%.  You’ve brought forth this idea, without engaging with service workers.  

And the people kept coming. 

Finally, my boss got up to speak.  

And was followed by more and more people.  

Around this time, it occurred to me that something I felt was important, had not been said.  

I got out my calculator and did some quick math.  

The time for speaking was ending.  

I stood up and approached the podium.

Hi, my name is Jeff Fightmaster, and I’m the Director of Operations for David’s Restaurant.  

I can’t tell you exactly what I said, but it amounted to…

As a city council you have heard people over and over tonight, say that they make 30, 40, 50 dollars an hour.  If you take out your little calculator and so some basic math, you’ll see that at 30, 40, 50 bucks an hour, at 40 hours a week, at 52 weeks a year, that means that our hospitality workers are making 50, 60, 70+ thousand dollars a year.  

These salaries are more than our state police officers make as a starting salary.  It’s more than ed techs make.  It’s more than teachers make.  

There is indeed a problem that needs to be solved.  But this is not one of them.  

You’ve heard people tell you all night that they don’t want this.  You’ve heard how it will affect owners, and yet here we are still fixing a problem that doesn’t need to be fixed.  

As a city council, you are here to help the people, but you are not helping the people that want it. 

There is so much in this city that needs your attention.  Let’s look at housing costs.  Let’s look at the homeless situation.  Let’s look at the parking situation in the Old Port and downtown.  These things need your help. 

But please stop trying to fix a problem, that doesn’t exist.  

And then I thanked them and sat down.  

My heart was pounding.  And I couldn’t believe I’d done it. 

Then the meeting continued.

And then we got to see democracy in action.  

We got to see a city council member act according to her own agenda, and accused the speakers of being a well-oiled lobby machine who’d coordinated efforts to make sure our voice was heard. 

I guess along with maître-d I’m now a lobbyist.  

Ultimately, instead of sending the vote to the people, it was suggested it go back to committee to get a full public discussion before it moved forward.  

This was the way to appease everyone.  

The councilor who brought forth the proposal wasn’t told no.  It doesn’t really move forward.  

And truth be told, based on what the other city council members said, they weren’t going to vote for it anyway.  

Tonight, I got to take part in the democratic process, and I feel better for having done so.  

Supposedly, a video will be available of the meeting, if I can I’ll post my speech.  

At the end of the day you’re another day older

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s August 18, 2024. 

We officially have two more weeks till Labor Day.  

Seven more weeks till Indigenous People’s Day.  (I applaud the name change, but it doesn’t roll off the tongue like the previous name did).  

This is the 13th summer we’ve spent in Maine.  

And it IS by FAR the best summer I’ve had in Maine yet.   

I’ve been able to enjoy the sunlight.  I’ve been able to see my friends.  I’ve been able to have dinner with Adam almost every night of the week.  We go to bed together, as I don’t get home four hours after he goes to sleep.  

I still work a normal week, but when you cut 12 hours of driving out of your life, it’s pretty awesome. 

A couple of weeks ago, I had gathered with friends, to watch the video of the show I designed, and one of them said to me, it’s nice to have me back in their life.  Not that we’d had a falling out, it’s just for 18 weeks a year, I’d be missing in action, working, working, working.  

I’ve also gone about 16 weeks without getting yelled at at work.  And for the most part its simply that our guests are more appreciative.  Less demanding.  Happier.  Local folks and tourists alike, who don’t demand we bow at their feet.  

It’s been a long time since I got in my car and dreaded going to work.    

I like my co-workers.  I like my staff.  I like my boss.  

It’s truly been awesome to leave work when the sun is still shining.  

And I have to say, I don’t feel exhausted.  

Yes, the summer is busy, but it’s a different busy.  

A better busy.  

A good busy. 

PS.  I just realized that today marks 10 months since my knee surgery.  That also changed my life.  It’s nice to not be in constant pain.  I’m still recovering and every 10 or so days, I say, Hey, it’s gotten even better. Stairs don’t hurt.  The swelling is mostly gone.  I am reminded that everyone said, just do the surgery.  If you need your knee replaced, just do the surgery.  It will feel better as soon as you wake up.  

I’d like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony!

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s July 31, 2024.

In a couple of hours, it will be August 1, 2024.

This date has a bit of significance for me.

1,460 days ago, I drank my last Diet Coke.

4 years ago, on August 1, 2020.

I’m shocked that I was able to give it up.

Adam is shocked that I was able to give it up.

A LOT of my friends still don’t believe it.

The reason I gave it up was two-fold.

I watched a friend on Facebook share his struggles of giving up Diet Coke.

And.

Another friend said she’d given up smoking, I could give up Diet Coke.

I didn’t announce the decision to anyone. I barely told Adam.

In fact, there was Diet Coke in the fridge and a spare in the garage when I stopped.

I thought it would be hard. But it really wasn’t.

A thing to know about me, is that I have amazing will power. If I decided I’m going to do something, I’m usually pretty good about sticking to it. At least for a certain length of time.

I told Adam I was quitting and I did.

He was great, in that we taste tested every single Polar soda water flavor to be found.

I settled on Pomegranate.

I still like the bubbles, but without the fake sweetner.

And.

McDonald’s still has the best fountain soda, even if it’s just water.

Fun fact about McDonald’s.

They don’t have a button for soda water.

I can go to the same location 4 times in one day, and they’ll charge me differently every single time. Sometimes it’s free. Sometimes it’s a cup of water. Sometimes it’s a soda. Sometimes it’s an iced tea. And once every so often they’ll tell me they aren’t allowed to sell soda water.

At the end of the day, I don’t miss Diet Coke.

I was lied to however.

I don’t feel any different. I didn’t lose weight. My numbers didn’t change.

AND.

Diet Coke costs a lot less than soda water.

But I don’t think I’ll go back.

At least not today.

PS. The friend who quit smoking, was not as successful at quitting as I was.

From a lack of community property. And a feeling she’s getting too old. A personCan develop a bad, bad cold

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s Monday night.  

Well, Tuesday morning at this point.  

72 hours since I was in the ER.  

I feel so much better. 

That being said, I’ve been exhausted all weekend. 

During grad school, I pulled so many all-nighters.  Light plots due.  Design projects due.  Presentations due.  I’d drink my Diet Coke.  I’d turn on the show tunes.  I’d plug in. 

Sometime the next morning I’d present my project.  Walk to the electrics department to drop off my plot.  Try to stay awake in class.  

Around 1:00 or 2:00, I’d make the 20 minute drive home.  Fall asleep for a bit, and be great the next day.  

20 years later, not so much. 

Oh.  My.  Fucking.  God.  

I got to bed late Saturday morning.  

Woke up around 4 hours later.  

Exhausted.  

Sunday wasn’t much better. 

We had brunch planned with friends.  

I was back home by 12:00. 

I slept hard from 12:00 to 3:00 on the couch.  In the full sun.  

I was still exhausted. 

I slept 9 hours last night.  And I was still exhausted this morning. 

I had wanted to be at work by 10:00.  

I climbed out of bed at 11:00.  

However, once I was there, had my first cup of coffee, I was starting to feel normal.  

What every normal is these days.  

To update everyone. 

When I left the hospital I had an appointment with my neurologist in January.  

Greatest healthcare system in the world, right?  

I called today, and have an appointment with my PCP on Wednesday at 8:00 a.m.

This is a big deal, because very rarely do I do anything at 8:00 a.m.

I woke up from my nap yesterday and discovered that my friend Michelle had bought me a blood pressure cuff.  

I’ve checked it several times over the last two days.  

My blood pressure is still high.  

No signs of migraines since Friday.  

And I kind of feel normal. 

I’ll keep everyone posted about my appointment on Friday.  

Meanwhile, my life insurance was cancelled because I’m depressed.  

But that’s a story of it’s own.  

PS.  I now have hiccups.  

Something bad is happening. Something very bad is happening

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Getting old is not for the weak of heart.  

I learned this first-hand last night.  

Yesterday started like any other Friday.  

Got to work.  Had coffee.  Did all the things that I do on Friday.  

Ran over to the other restaurant to oversee an inverview.  

Picked up an appliance we’d had repaird.  

Got back to our main location around 4:15.  

Got all the things done to start service.  

Next thing I knew it was 5:00.  We were off. 

Just like every Friday night.  I was at the door.  Greeting people.  Instructing the staff where to take them.  

And then.  

Around 5:20 a couple walks in and says, Hello, we have a reservation for 2 at 5:30.  

Is say great.  What’s the name.  

They give me their name. 

And I glance down at the I-pad.  

And I could see the letters.  I could see the I-pad.  I could see the desk that it was on.  But the letters were moving.  I blinked a couple of times.  And was able to see their name and got them seated.  

Once they left, I started looking around.  

My vision was fucked. 

Everything was blurry.  I could barely see the letters on the I-pad.  I pulled out my phone and it was even worse.  

The next guests come in and I get them seated barely.  

I’m still looking around, hoping this would pass.  It did not. 

Then I notice that there are kaleidoscopic lights in my periphery.  Both sides.  My full vision is still blurry.  

I wait and wait for it to pass.  

In my head I’m saying your fine.  Don’t panic.  You’ll be okay.  

But it wasn’t getting better.  

I kept blinking.  Kept trying to focus to no avail.  

I finally say to myself, take this seriously.  

Lots of people die because they think it’s nothing and it will pass.  

I finally ask my assistant manager to meet me by the bathroom and I say, I need you to take me to the emergency room.  She said, what?  I said, I’m not kidding.  I need you to take me to the emergency room.  My vision is blurry and something is going on.  

90 seconds later we were in my car, she was driving, and we were going to the ER.  

We get there and she lets me out to go park.  

I go through the most intense security I’ve gone through, even in an airport, to get into the ER.  

I go in, tell the woman at the desk why I’m there.  I get a bracelet and told to wait.  

What seems like forever passes before my co-worker comes in.  

Seems that when she got to the metal detectors, she had to own up to having several self-defense items that she had to take back to the car.  We laughed about that.  

We are now waiting.  

The waiting room is filled.  A variety of issues.  

She tells me I need to reach out to Adam.   I text him.  Hey call me when you see this.  

After a bit I get called to triage.  

They check me in.  Ask me a bunch of question.  I tell them what is happening.  The doctor and nurse tell me that it sounds like a migraine.  But.  Because of my age, they want to run other tests.  I reply, are you calling me old?  It sounds like you are calling me old?  Hmmm.  I was joking.  They laughed.  

I go back to my seat.  After a little bit, I’m taken back to get vitals.  They take my blood pressure.  They do some other things.  I’m told once again, because of my age they are being precautious.  They take blood and for the first time in my life my veins aren’t producing.  It takes forever.  

I go back to my seat.   I sit down and my friend and I chat about work, about what’s going on.  

They finally call me back. 

I get to the door, and she is still sitting, and the nurse says oh is that your wife.  I laugh and say no, but I turn and tell her to come with me.  When she joins us, I say, they thought you were my wife, she says, well I am his work wife, which is very much true.  

They get me to a room.  I sit.  There is no chair for her.  She is cold, so she wraps herself in the curtain.  

We wait.  

They come take my vitals again.  

At this point, I’m told my blood pressure is high.  They don’t say how high.   

We wait.  

I reach out to Adam.  

It’s been over an hour now. 

She finally says, she is going to go call the restaurant.  

She leaves.  

She is gone a while.  

He finally calls.  

Seems she texted a co-worker of his and told him to call me.  He tells me he will be there soon.  

It’s around 7:20 or so. 

Not too long after they come to take me for a CT Scan.  

I get wheeled back.  

Get there.  Put on the table.  I’m told of all the dangers of the dye.  I’m told it will make me think I need to pee.  

They inject me.  It’s weird feeling it pump through my body.  

It’s all over.  

I’m being taken back to my room.  

I get there about 4 minutes before Adam arrives.  

He gets there.  My co-worker leaves.  

We sit and watch the Olympic opening ceremony.  

Lady Gaga.  Marie Antoinette.  The fire canons.  

We are watching when my nurse arrives with a wheel chair with a serious look on her face.  

Without a greeting she says, you need to come with me.  

I reply am I in trouble. 

She says, they found bleeding at the back of your skull.  You are being moved to critical care.  

I get in the chair, and am taken down a series of corridors, where I am met with an intense group of doctors and nurses.  

I’m swarmed as they get me hooked up to machines, take my vitals again, and am asked questions over and over.  

Turns out my blood pressure was 220 over something when I came in.  This couple with the bleeding means things are now serious.  There is no joking, even though I try.  

I have had to pee.  For the last hour.  There is no modesty.  They hand me a portable urinal and I pee, in front of the nurses.  It fills the jug.  Everyone is impressed.  

Finally, I’m hooked up.  A very handsome doctor appears at my side. 

I’m staying here for observation.  They have put me on medicine to bring my blood pressure down.  They are concerned about the bleeding and are scheduling an MRI to determine more clearly what is going on.  Meanwhile, I’m in good hands and they’ll take care of me.  

Needless to say these words do little to calm me.  It’s approaching 8:00 and I now think I’m having a stroke.  

We were there for about two hours.  I’m told I can’t eat, though I am promised a turkey sandwich later.  I can’t drink, although I am given some ice chips.  

My blood pressure is being taken every few minutes.  Adam reads the numbers to me.  Lower, but not great.  

We are sitting watching a clock that has a fucked up seconds hand.  It stalls then moves forward 5 seconds.  I watch this for over an hour.  

We hear a man snoring in the next area.  Loudly.  It’s disturbing.  

Until about 30 minutes later they start trying to wake him up explaining to him that he had had an overdose.  

We sit and wait.  

Finally they come get me for the MRI.  

It is a long trip to the lab.  

At one point we turn down what I referred to as the creepy hallway.  It was longer than a football field.  Painted green with flowers that did not help the creepiness.  My nurse said, she expected Willy Wonka music.  I said I felt like I was in American Horror Story Asylum.  No doors.  No windows.  Just a phone about halfway through that could only be used to dial security.  It was creepy as fuck.  

Finally, after many more twists and turns we were there.  

This will be my fourth MRI.  The first on my head.  I get there.  I’m still on the IV.  They are still reading my blood pressure and heart rate.  It takes forever to get hooked up as I have to stay hooked up during the procedure.  

I get wheeled into the room.  I ready to slide into the machine when without warning the operator snaps a mask on to me, and I panic.  Its bad enough being in the machine.  Now I have a mask on that I can’t life my head and can barely breathe.  I squeeze the panic ball.  She apologizes, and says, it’s just 20 minutes you can do it.  

I close my eyes.  And relax.  

I think about Adam and I on the beach in California.  I think about our first Valentine’s Day.  I think about cuddling on the couch.  I think about a bar crawl we did years ago.  I think about holding his hand.  I think about how much I love him and how much I need this to not be serious. 

And then 20 minutes is over. 

My nurse who has been monitoring me the whole time, says that at one point my heart rate dropped to 38.  I told her I was meditating and trying to relax.  

I’m wheeled back to my room. 

Now we wait.  It was around 9:00 at this time.  

At one point, there is a lot of scurrying around.  And suddenly we can hear shouting.  

It’s an episode of ER as the person talking calls out vitals and details.  Young man.  Age 28.  Involved in a motorcycle accident.  Not wearing a helmet.  Found about 15 feet from the high way.  She went on.  Etoh was consumed during dinner.  She rattles off his other details as the fever pitch grows as people start to work on him.  

This was when they came to get me to take me to ICU.  

With the fear of the bleeding, and the high blood pressure there is lots of concern.  

I’m taken to the 6th floor where it’s described as the penthouse.  And it is.  Private rooms.  Overlooking downtown Portland.  

Once again, there is a scurry of activity.  I’m processed.  Hooked up to a bevy of machines.  

There is again.  No modesty.  The nurse and CAN are hooking me up.  Hands all over as I try and keep my gown over my private parts.  

It takes about 10 minutes.  I’m settled in.  

I have to say, my nurse is amazing.  Actually, EVERYONE I had contact with at the hospital was amazing.  Nice.  Understanding.  

Adam scoots his chair over next to me, so he can hold my hand.  He’s been holding my hand since he arrived.  He strokes my hand and forearm, more worried than I am.  

We sit there in silence. 

A ICU doctor comes in.  He shares what he knows.  I ask if I can eat or drink.  He says not yet, but he’ll let me know when I can.  He doesn’t reveal more than I already know.  

I’m in bed.  My blood pressure being taken every few minutes.  Adam continues to read off the results, reminding me that I always say I have perfect blood pressure.  

The nurse comes in checks with me.  

The night drags on.  

Finally, they decided I can eat and drink.  I have had no water in about 6 hours.  I haven’t eaten all day.  

Adam goes to the cafeteria and gets me stuffed chicken and corn.  It is not great.  

I also have a turkey sandwich.  Early in Critical Care the nurse mentioned that they were known for warm blankets and turkey sandwiches.  I ask for both, but I’m told can’t have turkey yet.  When I moved upstairs she packed me one to go.  It was delicious.  

The night drags on.  

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning the neurologist shows up.  

And he does a battery of test.  Pull this finger.  Push this hand.  Move your foot here.  Move your heel there.  Touch your nose.  How many fingers am I holding up.  It goes on for about 30 minutes.  

After the exam, he tells me what is going on.  

There is actually not bleeding. It is calcification.  Whatever that means.  

They are back to it being a migraine.  I have all the obvious symptoms.  Without the headache.  This coupled with the insanely high blood pressure has warranted all the precautions. 

The nurse is there.  

She laughs and says, does this mean he can go home.  

I’m told they have to check with the on duty doctor.  

It’s’ around 4:00 a.m. 

It takes forever to be discharged.  My nurse explains that in her ten years of working in the ICU at this hospital they have never discharged someone from the ICU.  There are usually two options.  You either move to a regular room.  Or you die. 

Hours and hours pass.  The room is a million degrees.  I’m still hooked up to all the machines and is required.  I have to pee, but I don’t want to be a bother.  My blankets and gown are all wrapped up around me.  

After I’m told I’m not going to die, Adam goes home to feed the cats.  He is gone for a couple of hours.  

Finally, when the sun is firmly up, they come in to tell me they have approval to let me go home from the ICU.  

I am disconnected.  I now have bruises on my arms for the blood pressure machine.  

I’m sweaty.  I want a shower.  I’m still hungry.  And I need a gallon of water.  

I get dressed.  

And we wait for a wheel chair to arrive so I can be taken downstairs.  

The nurse lets us know it’s the first time she’s taken someone downstairs to leave.  

We get to the car.  

Adam starts the car, a song from Falsettos is playing on the radio.  He says, well this is appropriate.  

He drives us home.  

It’s full-on sun as we drive home. 

We get home, shower and climb into bed.  

Adam holds me tight as we wait for sleep.  

I thought it would take a bit.  

But I was out cold.  

When I woke up, I had been at my high school reunion, playing duck duck goose.  

It felt great to wake up in my own bed late this afternoon.  

It felt good to be alive. 

It was a scary night. 

Here’s the thing.  I’ve read and seen many articles about people, especially men, who die because they ignore the warning signs.  Too proud to acknowledge weakness.  Afraid to embarrass themselves.  I’ll never do that.  

I’m glad this story has a happy ending.  


PS.  I have not proofed the writing.  Please forgive any typos.  

Color and light. There’s only color and light

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I woke up today to lots of fun on the internets.

Seems that the Olympics started yesterday.

And there was an opening ceremony. That did not resemble the pomp and circumstance of previous Olympics.

People are outraged.

Outraged I tell you.

My opinion.

Which no one asked for.

This might be the most successful opening ceremony in the history of opening ceremonies.

Why you ask?

Because more than 24 hours later its still in the news. It’s still being talked about. People are aguing about it. There are hate posts. There are love posts. People are going to boycott. People are going to never watch sports again.

And I think it’s wonderful.

It’s ART.

And it did what it’s supposed to do.

It made you feel.

I’ve never taken an art class.

But I’ve taken a million theater classes. And we spend hours asking: what is theater. What is its purpose? Why do we do it? Should it be pretty and fun? Should it make you question your beliefs? Should you leave the theater singing it’s showtunes? Should you be mad? Will it make you call your therapist on Monday morning to schedule a session.

And the answer is yes.

Absolutely yes.

Theater aka ART, should make you think.

And this opening ceremony is doing just that.

Is it devil worshiping?

Is it celebrating the origins of the Olympics?

Is it pagan?

Is it celebrating art and diversity in the world in which we live?

Is it kid friendly?

Does it support the athletes?

I could go on and on. The answers are yes. And no. And maybe. And of course not. And absolutely.

And only you get to decide what answer applies to what question.

You.

You who brings your lifetime of baggage to the question.

And the fun part is, YOU DON’T GET TO TELL ME WHAT THE ANSWERS ARE TO MY QUESTIONS.

The outrage today has been wonderful.

How dare they make fun of Da Vinci’s Last Supper.

We aren’t sure that DaVinci was a Christian. We know factually he was gay. He was commissioned for the painting, so it’s not like he painted it for the fun of it. And it has been parodied over and over and over again in modern culture including The Simpon’s. My 1987 production of Godspell parodied the image of The Last Supper.

How dare they show Marie Antoinette?

How dare they have drag queens?

How dare they do this and how dare they do that.

Fun fact. Most of the outrage is American.

And it’s funny to think a country that has been around for centuries longer than America somehow has to abide by our supposed morals and values.

Meanwhile, we are still talking about it.

People are still clutching their pearls.

And I think it’s wonderful.

Make us think. Make us face our fears. Make us talk about art in the world. It’s good for you.

I challenge some of you to do a YouTube search for French Theater. Their aesthetic is very different than ours. Always has been.

I can’t wait to see what we do in Salt Lake City in a few years. I’m guessing 500 people sitting in pews singing hymns, with a backdrop of the Mormon Tabernacle. The athletes will be issued fancy underwear and won’t be allowed to drink coffee, tea or booze.

PS. I’ll also say, that several people have posted that the whole argument could have been avoided if they’d explained the art before it aired. And I say, fuck that. Did you really need Oklahoma to explain that the songs would propel the plot? Did you really need Hair to tell you about it’s anti-war sentiment before hand? Did you need Tony Kushner to explain Angels in America prior to you seeing it.

No. The explanation comes from within.

You knew the answer the whole time.

A weekend in the country, would be charming, and the air would be fresh.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s the third weekend in July.  

That means it’s the weekend of the Yarmouth Clam Festival.  

That means it’s just six weeks till Labor Day Weekend.  

It means that we are half way through the summer season in Maine.  

And it also means it’s Camper’s Weekend.  

AHHHHHHH.  

That was a chorus of angels singing.  

What is Camper’s Weekend you ask?  

Well.  

Let me tell you.  

There are around 150 summer camps in Maine.

Many of these camps are sleep-away camps.  

Many of these camps welcome kids for several weeks at a time.  

And most of these camps DON’T allow visitors on the regular.  

So.  

One weekend, in the middle of the summer, these camps open their gates and allow parents to visit.  

And that one weekend is the third weekend in July.  

July 19 and 20, 2024. 

And why is any of this important?  

Well.  

Summer camp in Maine is NOT for working class folk. 

For the most part.  

There are subsidies and scholarships if you are a middle class and poor.  

For most of these kids their parents are wealthy.  

Very.

Wealthy.

And I do mean VERY wealthy.

People, from all over the country, ship their kids to Maine for the summer.  

And on the third week of July, these wealthy parents descend on Maine, to visit their offspring.  

And these wealthy, wealthy, stupidly rich people can be very amazing. 

Very sweet.  Handing out money to anyone they come in contact with.   

But far too many of them come to Maine, and they eat in our restaurants, and they are HORRIBLE.  

But how are they horrible you ask?  

Well.

Let me tell you.

First of all, every restaurant in town is booked months out.  

Completely booked.  

But that doesn’t deter these folks.  

They call repeatedly. 

They threaten.

Do you know who I am?

They have their assistant’s call.  

Do we know who they are? 

And these folks, finally get reservations.  

At their first, second, third, fourth choices.  

Yes, they make lots and lots of reservations.  

Leaving it up to fate, luck, and what others are doing as to what reservation they will keep.  

If they keep them.  

Today we had 23 cancellations.  

Most of which were in the last 24 hours.  

About ten of them were after service started tonight.  

We were significantly less busy, even though on paper we should have been crazy.  

But that’s the good part. 

The bad part is how a lot of these folks act when they walk through the doors.  

On Friday night, not one table sat where I had them scheduled to sit.  They walked in.  Looked around and then told me where they were sitting.  

I’m not sitting at a high top.

I’m not sitting at the counter.  

I’d like that corner table in the window that seats six, even though we are just four.  

I’m not sitting on the patio.  

I know I booked a regular table, but there is a lovely table on the patio and we’ll sit there.  

None of these things could happen.  

 A party of four would show up with six, and say, we’ll squeeze, until they realized that wasn’t an option.  

A party of 10 took 75 minutes to be complete last night.   The first guests sat at 5:15,  the last guests arrive at 6:40.  

They let their children run wild.  And I do mean wild.  I watched an 8-year-old, it was his birthday, run into different servers for 90 minutes. 

They are also all gluten free, organic, vegan, dairy-free, probiotic, paleo, pescatarians, who are allergic to black pepper, allium, mollusks.  However, they are gluten free, not celiac, so if you use the fryer that’s okay.  

And ALL, and I mean ALL of their phone numbers originate in New York City and its suburbs.  

Something an employee pointed out last night, is that for the most part, they don’t really enjoy food.  They are quick to order a burger, a pizza, or salad.  Most are not venturing in to seafood, especially raw seafood.  Steaks are preferred medium well.  

And more than anything, they don’t like to be told no.  In fact, they don’t take no for an answer.  

Like never.  

It goes back to do you know who I am?  Do you know who I work for?  Do you know how much I am worth? 

I can buy and sell you!!! 

Friday night, was the worst shift I have had at my new restaurants.  

The host working next to me, kept saying, you’ve got to be kidding me?

Do you have a kids menu? 

No.  

Do you have child friendly food?  

I don’t know what that means.  

Do you have chicken fingers?

No.  

Pasta?

No.

Spaghetti?

No (Spaghetti is pasta). 

How about grilled chicken? 

No.  

How about pizza?

Yes, we have pizza.

Is it gluten free?

Yes.  

That might work.  

This is a conversation I had at the host stand.  Long before they were seated or spoke to their server.  

If you live in Maine, you know it’s coming.  You can’t take the weekend off like we used to do in NYC for Fleet Week.  Or Easter Weekend or any of the other horrible days.  

We all suck it up, take a deep breath and take it like a man.  

I do have to say, that this weekend, this year, was every weekend last year, and the two summers prior. 

So, I really shouldn’t be complaining.  

But I think it’s important to share the fun.  

And, every restaurant in town does well this weekend.  

And by this time tomorrow, every family will be headed back to NYC and we won’t see them again till the third week of July, 2025.  

And I will be sitting in my underwear, drinking Buffalo Trace, which Adam found in the grocery store today, grateful the weekend is over, but also grateful, that it was another banner Camper’s Weekend.  

One man may seem incompetent, another not make sense, while others look like quite waste of company expense. They need a brother’s leadership, so, please don’t do them in. Remember mediocrity is not a mortal sin.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Management is hard.  

That’s what my friend Laura says to me, over and over and over.  

She was my first AGM when I became a manager!

She tells me often that management is hard.  

She is not wrong.  

I had the same conversation today with my front of house manager.  

I always thought the hard part would be knowing the job.  

How to do financials. 

How to manage labor.  

How to make sure the needs of the restaurant were met, like ordering trash bags, and paying the rent. 

Turns out that’s the easy part. 

The hard part is managing people.

The personalities.  

All different.  

Not unlike teaching.  

Who needs a hug? 

Who needs a scolding? 

Who needs to be sent home to breathe.  

Who needs a cheeseburger. 

Thinking back to ALLLLL of the manager’s I’ve had in my life, and it’s been a lot, there is a lot I’ve learned along the way.  

My first manager was a friend of my parents.

She fired me for being insubordinate.  

To her daughter.  

My next manager, chain smoked like a chimney.  Was about five feet tall.  Weighed about 80 pounds.  And was a firecracker.

She put up with no shit.  I followed her from the Georgetown Wendy’s to the North Park Wendy’s.  I stopped working for her when my car died and I could no longer get to Lexington.  

I always joke that when I got hired to be a restaurant GM, I sat down and said who do I want to be like. 

The name that came to mind was Mike Cook from Daryl’s restaurant in Lexington.  

Cookie.  

He was horrible

First question when you got to work was what kind of mood is Cookie in?  If he was in a bad mood, everyone was in a bad mood.  If he was in a good mood.  Everyone was in a good mood.  

He was one of the worst manager’s I ever had, because you never, ever knew who you were getting.   

And that I’ve spent the last 13 summers asking myself what would Cookie do, and then did the opposite. 

For all of my faults as a manager, the one thing that I don’t do is take out my personal mood out on my staff.  If I’m depressed?  If I’m mad about something?  I don’t yell at them.   I put a smile on my face and keep it to myself. 

Last summer, was the first time, I developed crack in my facade.

I had employees who could see the pain.  They helped as much as they could, but to no avail.  

In the past though I’ve had lots of good, and lots of bad manager.  

I’ve had managers who played with my schedule.  

I asked for 10 days off at the Hard Rock.  

The 10th day fell on the beginning of the next schedule.  

I went away on my trip, and didn’t show up for day 10 because why would I be scheduled.  

I was told I was being fired for a no call – no show.  

It took about 10 minutes in the GM’s office dropping the word harassment, and discrimination 17 times, for that decision to be reversed.  

The manager who played with my schedule was transferred about 6 weeks later because of me.  

While I’m on the subject of the Hard Rock, two of the best GM’s I ever worked with were there.  Great attitude.  Fair treatment.  Listened.  Cared.  Treated the staff like gold.  

Back to the subject.  

Managing is hard.  

Managing restaurants is especially hard.  

And it’s truly not for the feint of heart.  

I’ve learned a lot over the past 14 summers.  

Do I still fuck up?

Of course.

Back in 2014 I made a rule for myself.  

If I snap at an employee… 

I buy them a beer at the end of the shift.  

Not literally.

Because that would be illegal.

What I do, is take 20 dollars out of my pocket and give it the employee, to buy themselves a beer after work.  

And I ALWAYS apologize. 

ALWAYS

I usually only have a couple of occurrences a year.  

I won’t tag her in the post, but one of my favorite employees of my GM days, was a girl who hosted for me.  

We butted heads a lot. 

She gave her notice at the end of the third summer, in a letter to my boss.  

She gave him all the reasons that she hated me and that was the reason she was quitting.  

Fast forward six months, and she is working in a restaurant, in another state, and she texts me to say that she was sorry.  

She was wrong about me. 

After working in a restaurant, with actual bad management, she realized that I was quite fair in my expectations.  Was pretty clear in what I wanted.  

And wasn’t so bad after all. 

Since then, she has finished her degree, has two kids and I love watching her grow from 8 states away.    

She is not the only person to share the same sentiments with me.   

To end the story, she was the last customer I spoke to on October 29, 2017 the night before we all lost our jobs.  She was in town visiting and had come to the restaurant to see me.  She sat at seat 51 at the Front Bar and we chatted.  

She left.

I went home.  

The next day when I got to work, the locks were being changed and yellow envelopes were being handed out.

I was told, it’s just business.  

It’s not personal.  

But that’s another story.    

Yes, “I’ve arrived” each check announces. Each one gold until it bounces!

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It was reported by NBC news yesterday, that Target will stop taking personal checks in the coming weeks. 

To be honest, I was surprised they were still taking personal checks.  

I write one check every couple of months for companies, that won’t take a credit card, and don’t use Venmo.   For example, the person who plows our driveway, doesn’t take a card.  The person who installed our a/c, didn’t either.  They don’t want to pay the fees.  

But the number of checks I write gets smaller every year.  

The writing of checks brought back a memory from 1982.  

A memory that I’ve thought about over the years.  

Once upon a time, ATM cards didn’t exist.   

As a 16 year old, I didn’t yet have a credit card.  And sometimes, you need cash.  For a date.  Or a ballgame.  Or a trip to the movies.  

I had a job, but my checks were deposited in the bank.  

And the banks weren’t open after work, or on the weekends.  

On summer evenings, when I needed cash, I could go to a convenient store (think 7-11 or Speedway) and they’d cash a check for you.  

Personally, the place I went most often to cash a check was E-Z Way on North Broadway in Georgetown, KY. 

They never said no.  

In fact, the girl that worked there, often commented on how responsible I was.  

Writing checks.  Recording said checks in my register.  Not having them bounce.    

I was fairly responsible. 

Although, I will say, it was possible to write a check on Wednesday, that you wouldn’t have the funds to cover until Friday.  Because the clearing of checks was much, much slower back then.  

That being said, I didn’t bounce checks.  

I’d go in and pull out my check book, and diligently, fill out all the necessary information.  

Then.  

I was given the 20 dollars I was looking for.  It was almost always 20 dollars.  

On one, particular night, the girl, who thought I was responsible, remarked that I signed my name like a girl.  

What she meant was that you could make out all the letters.  I took my time signing my name.

It gave me pride to do so. 

But on this particular night, I was taken aback.  

I handed her my check.  Received my 20 dollars.  

When I got home that night, I began to practice signing my name.  

Faster and faster.  

Less and less legible. 

Till it was finally a J, followed by an F and a scribble.   

That was followed by my crossing the t, that was imaginary at best.  

In the 42 years since, my signature has gotten worse and worse.  

When I have to sign documents, you can see signs of the signature I practiced year and years ago.  But checks, credit card receipts, it’s a scribble.  

All because, 16 year-old gay Jeff, was worried that someone might learn the truth.  

Oh the horror or it all. 

It makes me sad now.  

I’m not scared to be seen, I make no apologies, this is me

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!

A friend posted my favorite clip from the TV show True Blood today.

You can view it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7l-VVxCLo8

Whenever I see things like this, it reminds me of the decades of my life spent in the service industry.

This one brought back a very specific memory.

In the mid 90’s, I worked at an Italian restaurant, and I use the word Italian loosely, called The Italian Oven. My ex-boyfriend, Jim got me the job there, after I may or may not have walked out of a job at O’Charley’s, after a substitute manager, filling in for a pregnant manager I loved, yelled at me.

I find myself at The Italian Oven. It has black and white checkered plastic table cloths. The table cloths are covered with white craft paper. When you approach the table, you introduce yourself by name and write your name upside down in crayon on the table cloth. It never ceased to WOW the audience.

Fun fact. It takes about 22 seconds to learn to do this when your name only has 3 different letters.

It was a wood fired restaurant, that served mostly pizzas, calzones, and pastas. The food was remarkably not bad, and it’s where I learned to love tiramisu. We had a beer and liquor license and were very busy most nights. I made a comfortable living there, and had a good time most nights.

It’s funny, that I only remember a couple of people from there, so it didn’t make a huge impact on me, and I remember no one’s name but Jim’s.

What I do remember, is that one Saturday afternoon, toward the end of the lunch rush, a table of five arrives, and are seated in the far back right corner of the restaurant.

The server approaches the table.

I don’t remember his name. I can see his face. I can hear his voice. And he was fun to work with.

The one thing that I do remember is that he was gay. Undeniably gay.

The kind of gay, that when he opened his mouth, a purse fell out.

(We said these things back in the 80’s and 90’s).

He was also kind, and lovely, and the best server in the restaurant.

If I remember correctly, he was the person who trained me.

He approaches the table, introduces himself, writes his name on the table, and is responded to with the following:

You gay?

What?

Are you gay?

What?

We don’t want no gay person waiting on us, get us a new server!!!

I’m in the kitchen with a couple of other servers, and the very straight, very redneck, very religious manager who was on duty. We’ll pretend his name is Robert, which I think it was.

He says, Hey Robert, table 43 has told me they need a new server, because and I quote, they don’t want no gay server waiting on them.

They may have used the “f” word. I don’t remember.

Robert wants to know if he heard them correctly.

He is assured that he heard them loud and clear.

Robert says, I’ll be right back.

He might as well have said, hold my beer.

He goes to the table and says, excuse me, I hear that you have a problem with your server?

They reply, yeah we don’t want no gay person waiting on us.

Robert says, well I don’t know what to tell you all my servers are gay.

They question him.

He says, yes, we only hire gay servers here.

They then ask, if he can wait on them.

He replies, well yes, I can wait on you. I do wait tables from time to time, but I’m gay too, so I don’t know what to tell you.

They hem and haw and eventually realize what is happening.

He says, if you don’t mind a queer manager waiting on you, I’ll be glad to get you some food.

Instead, they gather their belongings and leave.

And I’ve never been happier to work for a redneck, conservative, Christian manager.