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Kiss today goodbye. And point me toward tomorrow. We did what we had to do

/ fightmasterwrites / 1 Comment

I’d like to speak to a helper.

Mr. Rodger’s taught me that there always people looking to help.

It’s November 8, 2024.

At least it was when I started writing this post. It might be tomorrow when I finish. It might be Christmas Eve.

You’ll know when you read this.

November 8, 2024 is three days after the presidential election. It won’t come as a surprise to any of you that I was not happy with the outcome. I wasn’t surprised with the outcome. But I was not happy.

To say that I was devastated, is an understatement. I truly had hope that the national nightmare that is the electee would be over on Tuesday. I mean, seriously, the American people had to realize that he was a horrible human being.

Alas, I was proven wrong.

I’m writing, because at least 80% of my friends are artists. That estimate might actually be low. They might not all call themselves artists but they are. My friends consist of scenery designers, costume designers, sound designers, lighting designers, actors, screenwriters, novelists, playwrights, academic writers, painters, singers, guitarists, pianists, drummers, knitters, dancers, film makers, wood workers, teachers, chefs, bakers, cake decorators, directors, bartenders, barbers, hair dressers, makeup artists, photographers, costume construction, craftsmen, florists, landscapers, and poets, to name a few.

Even more of my friends are in roles that support the arts, as artistic directors, professors, teachers, fund raising, ushers, librarians, event planners, box office employees, and my favorite which is actually more artist than they are given credit for stage managers.

I have about 6 people I know who aren’t artists. Yet.

And whenever, things get difficult, whether it’s personal, professional, academic etc, they all insist that the best way through the situation is to turn to art. I’ve seen post after post on Facebook, reminding people who are artists to keep making and sharing art, because it is a coping tool and reminds us all that we are not alone.

I started calling myself a writer about a year ago. There are probably a few people out there that would argue that point, but I don’t listen to them.

I’m a writer.

I’m turning to my art to help me understand the emotions that I’m feeling.

Adam and I went to NYC on Monday. We returned home yesterday afternoon. I went to work today for the first time since Sunday. When I sat down at my desk, turned on my computer, I noticed that my text message notifications showed over 100 texts.

I knew it was a lot, but to be honest I hadn’t really looked at texts since Tuesday afternoon.

I checked out Tuesday night around 11:00 as the results of the election started to come in. I needed to process. I needed to mourn. I needed to pull my thoughts together. Except for show posts, I’ve only posted a couple of things on social media. I didn’t respond to texts, and I didn’t engage on Facebook.

Adam and I had gone to NYC to see Ragtime at City Center. It is my favorite show, and if it’s not Adam’s it’s a close second. It was the last show we would see on our trip.

Wednesday, Adam and I went about our day, relatively quietly. We held hands, but we didn’t spend a lot of time talking. It wasn’t until after we saw Our Town at 2:00 that we started to come out of the funk. It was a nice reminder that life is short, and that the best you can do is appreciate it while you can.

After the show, we had dinner, then walked to a restaurant near City Center, found a spot in the bar, and had a cocktail and dessert. We were able to relax and start to feel better. We were both looking forward to Ragtime.

At 7:15, we walked across the street to the theater, found our seats and got comfortable.

At 7:35 the house lights dimmed, leaving only a piano center stage lit by a single spotlight.

The first notes of music played, and energy coursed through the theater. There was immediate applause.

To back up a little:

Ragtime is a musical with music by Stephen Flaherty, lyrics by Lynne Ahrens, and a book by Terrence McNally. (Fun Fact: Lynn Ahrens wrote the lyrics to a number of your favorite Schoolhouse Rock Songs). The show is more than a musical. It is operettic in scale and its message is life changing.

I have told this story before, but the first time I saw Ragtime was a Sunday afternoon in 1998. I was at TKTS trying to find a show to see. Nothing interested me. A man approached me with a ticket to Ragtime for 100 bucks. I said no. I kept looking. He approached me two more times and the last time I said, sure I’ll take it for 50 bucks. It was 2:50. The show started at 3:00. He said no, and I said, take the 50 now, or get nothing for it in ten minutes. He said okay, I handed him the money and sprinted (this was back when I still ran) and got to the theater to discover the ticket was third row center in the orchestra. I was dressed in cargo shorts and a t-shirt, and I still remember the girl I sat next to me, judging me for my attire.

The house lights dimmed, the orchestra started, and when Audra McDonald sang a song about why she buried her baby in a garden I started crying.

ONLY DARKNESS AND PAIN, THE ANGER AND PAIN,

THE BLOOD AND THE PAIN! I BURIED MY HEART IN THE GROUND!

IN THE GROUND.

WHEN I BURIED YOU IN THE GROUND.

I didn’t stop till the company bowed two hours later. I was hooked.

For those of you who don’t know, Ragtime is based on the book by E. L. Doctorow. It tells the story of an upperclass white family who live in New Rochelle, NY. A black couple, Coalhouse Walker, Jr, and Sarah, who have just had a baby, although they are not married, and an immigrant family consisting of Tateh and his daughter who’ve just come through Ellis Island from Latvia.

It probably goes without saying that its message might have a lot to say about the current state of America.

Halfway through the opening number you hear these lyrics:

Ladies with parasols,

Fellows with tennis balls.

There were no negroes

And there were no immigrants.

Five minutes into the show, the three families become intertwined and the story plays out from there. There is racism front and center with the use of the “n” word sounding like nails on a chalkboard.

COALHOUSE Let me pass.

CONKLIN Gladly. That will be twenty-five dollars. This is a private toll road.

COALHOUSE Since when?

CONKLIN Since some high-falutin’ ni**er and his whore and his whore’s baby thought they could drive that goddamn car of theirs any place they pleased, that’s since when.

Running away, ni**er?

COALHOUSE

I am going to find a policeman. If anyone touches my car before I return, he will answer to Coalhouse.

CONKLIN

Tell him Fire Chief Will Conklin sends his regards!

Two scenes later the immigrant father is offered money…for the sale of his daughter.

Meanwhile, the well to do father, is off traversing the world, while his wife, who he thinks knows her place is at home tending to the family.

As the father leaves for his trip Mother sings:

You have places to discover,

Oceans to conquer,

You need to know

I’ll be there at the window

While you go on your way.

I accept that.

I won’t bore you with the rest of the plot. I will say, if you get the chance to see it, do so. The music is truly sensational.

It’s Wednesday night, the house lights have lowered, the music starts, with just a piano playing the melody of the opening song. The audience shouted their approval.

There was applause a dozen times in the opening number. Applause for actors, but more importantly applause for message.

It didn’t stop there. There were two standing ovations in act one that brought the show to a halt.

First for Wheels of a Dream:

Yes, the wheels are turning for us, girl.

And the times are starting to roll.

Any man can get where he wants to

If he’s got some fire in his soul.

We’ll see justice, Sarah,

And plenty of men

Who will stand up

And give us our due.

Oh, Sarah, it’s more that promises.

Sarah, it must be true.

A country that let’s a man like me

Own a car, raise a child, build a life with you…

Then the end of Act One when a woman with an ungodly voice sang:

Give the people

A day of peace.

A day of pride.

A day of justice

We have been denied.

Let the new day dawn,

Oh, Lord, I pray…

We’ll never get to heaven

Till we reach that day.

There were another two standing ovations during act two.

You were my sky,

My moon and my stars and my ocean.

We can never go back to before.

We can never go back to before!

We aren’t going back!!!

And included a prolonged ovation for the 11 o’clock number of Make Them Hear You.

Your sword can be a sermon

or the power of the pen

Teach every child to raise his voice

and then my brothers, then

Will justice be demanded

By ten million righteous men.

Make them hear you.

When they hear you

I’ll be near you, again.

The song is written to hold the last note a long time. On Wednesday, he held it, and held it, and held it, and held it. When he finally let it go, the audience rose in unison, and stopped the show. The conductor turned to the audience and waited for permission to move on.

You might get a sense from the lyrics I shared that the show was a perfect antidote to the Tuesday election. And everyone in the theater knew it.

City Center in NYC seats 2,257 people. The show has been sold out for weeks. Every seat was taken. You have not experienced live theater until you are a part of an audience that stands in unison, in the middle of a show. When the collective is moved in such a way that they know they are experiencing something special.

That was the feeling Wednesday night.

2,257 people needed love. They needed support. They more than anything needed to know that they were not alone in their mourning.

My favorite part of the evening, was in act 2 when Mother’s younger brother (fun fact, the white people don’t have names, they are referred to as Mother, Father, Grandfather, Younger Brother) yells at Father.

YOUNGER BROTHER: I did not hear such a eulogy at Sarah’s funeral. I did not hear you say then that death and the destruction of property were inexcusable. You are a complacent man with no thought of history. You have traveled everywhere and learned nothing. I despise you.

The audience erupted into cheers. Applause halting the show.

I cried multiple times throughout the show. Because of the music. The performances. The message.

I cried because my emotions were on my sleeve.

I cried because I thought better of my fellow Americans.

I cried not because we lost the election, but because more than 50% of Americans thought a convicted rapist, felon, insurrectionist, adulter was a better choice.

I cried for my female friends who are now subject to laws and regulations that could kill them.

I cried for my trans friends who if they aren’t killed by their neighbors are going to be subject to even worse laws.

I cried for my LGBT friends who live in the wrong parts of the country or are terrified that marriage equality will be over turned with the new administration.

I cried for my friends who suffer from pre-existing conditions who will suffer the consequences when the ACA is repealed.

I cried for my friends raising children who’s access to public education is going to be affected. Who have to find a way to explain to their 9year-old that the man who will be president is NOT a nice man.

I cried for the embarrassment it is to be an American in the world standing when most of the civilized world can see the man who would be president for what and who he is.

I cried because one party offered to help you buy your first home and the other party promised to remove fluoride from water and Americans chose the fluoride party.

I cried because Americans are so afraid of people who aren’t white that they’ll do anything to keep them out of their neighborhood.

I cried because young white men overwhelmingly supported the man who would be president, saying he says what they are thinking, which scares the fuck out of me.

I cried because more than 50% of the country thinks I’m exaggerating as I write these things, even though the man who would be president, ran on a platform supporting these platforms, but we are supposed to know that he doesn’t mean what he says.

I cried that the man who would be president speaks on a 5th grade level, and yet much of America says he speaks for them, and it’s not wrong about the 5th grade level.

I cried because they ran on a platform of America is for Americans and Americans only.

I cried because they want to destroy the American educational system and replace it with a program of vouchers that only helps rich, mostly white, kids.

I cried because I worry that my love of Adam will be used to cause harm to the two of us.

I cried, because it hurts.

Beyond that road,

Beyond this lifetime,

That car full of hope

Will always gleam

With the promise of happiness

And the freedom we’ll live to know

We’ll travel with heads held high

Just as far as our hearts can go

And we will ride,

Each child will ride

On the wheels of a dream!

The audience rose again in unison. The actors bowed. The applause went on and on.

The house lights came up.

And the orchestra played us out.

Adam and I sat in our seats, for the five or six minutes the orchestra played. In silence. Our hands grasped together.

Finally, we stood for the last time, and exited the theater.

As we walked into the unseasonably warm evening and turned right to head home I realized I felt better.

Sitting with 2,257 other people, who were all crying. All for variations of the same reason.

When we sat at the beginning of the show, to get to our seats, the woman next to us had to stand. She was very old, and was none too happy to let us by. But about half way thru act two I looked over, and she was wiping tears from her eyes. She was as moved as we were.

On Wednesday night, art made me feel better. Art made me realize that we have work to do. Art made me realize that I can do my part. Art made me know that the first thing I need to do is to take care of myself.

I’ve been gentle with myself since then. I have avoided text messages. I have mostly avoided social media. And I have reached out to multiple friends to see how they are doing.

They all respond the same, and yet as I said, they are all artists and they are all starting to grasp that reality. My friend Michelle reminded me she had rehearsal for her band on Monday night. Another friend is starting rehearsal for a play with teenagers. Another friend just opened a show that has an equaling compelling message. Another friend just threw out their proposed theater season, and is exploring shows that will offer both a message and comfort to their patrons.

The artists I know are protesting. Slowly at first, but their message is loud and clear.

We have work to do. Get out of our way and watch us create change in the world.

Whether you like it or not.

At the shrine of friendship, never say die. Let the wine of friendship never run dry

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I wrote the body of this post in May of 2021. It was only posted on Facebook. I’ve been trying to find it for a year now, and it finally popped up in my memories.

About three months before my writing career really kicked off, I’d just opened a new restaurant, something I’m on the fence about ever doing again.

We opened about 10 days before the mask mandate was lifted, along with the need for spacing tables for safety.

In fact, someone called the police on us because they felt that we were seating people too close. Life in the time of Covid.

The opening was a success.

We went from 0 to 100 in about 14 days. Business couldn’t have been better. We were short staffed. I only had one manager, me. And it was a zoo. But we were making money, and that was what counted.

Now for the post from 2021.

My new restaurant just finished week three.

It’s a very big success and we are doing quite well. Through continuous conversations with guests, it often comes up that I moved from NYC, and in a previous life I was a theatrical lighting designer.

A pretty good one at that.

I’m often asked how I got from designing lights to restaurant manager.

Well.

Fun fact.

In grad school, while obtaining my MFA at the University of California, San Diego, one of the best theatre schools in the country, I ran a very successful bar out of my office.

I hosted happy hour every Friday for two years, from 4:00 to close.

Which was sometimes 5:00. But more often 1:00 or 2:00 am. And at least a couple of times, the sun was coming up when we all wrapped up the evening.

I’d often open up for days that were stressful, when we needed a little boost to get through the long days and nights. My mentor Chris Parry, would sneak down on Tuesdays and ask for a gin and tonic.

My regulars included classmates, and unofficially our staff and professors who always pretended they weren’t there. Including the chair of the program.

We also had alumni, guest artists, friends, and strangers.

The crowd could be two people if everyone was in rehearsal.

Sometimes it didn’t even include me if I was teching a show.

Sometimes there might be 30 plus people.

We also had glass bar ware and nothing but top shelf booze.

Bombay Sapphire was our gin of choice. Just ask Sarah EC Maines?

We were also known to deliver at least once during tech. Usually during a 10 out of 12. (A 10 out 12 is when you rehearse a show, with the entire team, including actors for 10 hours in a 12 hour block of time).

We’d take orders and bring all the designers and stage managers their favorites.

It’s also because of these deliveries I now drink bourbon. I got sick during tech for my thesis show, and my classmates kept my Diet Coke cup spiked with bourbon as I couldn’t talk and felt like shit. It got me through 8 days of tech and the show looked great.

I also managed to keep the inventory stocked and the fridge full by charging just two dollars per drink. We had an honor system and house accounts for those of us who ran short at the end of the month.

I was a just as proud of doing this as I was the design work I produced while a student.

When I graduated, my cocktail hour was as much a part of my legacy as my design work.

On the day of graduation, I had a cooler stashed off stage. There were about 25 people who graduated in the department graduation. As we were presented our fake diplomas, we were offered the chance to say a few words.

As long as we kept it short.

I started my speech by saying that I’d spent countless hours, and thousands of dollars to be here today, so I’m going to go a little over my time limit. I spoke for about 15 minutes with bullet points on a piece of paper. This was before I-phones so there is no recording, but I was told it was a good speech.

At the beginning of the speech, my friends Tom and Anjee, pulled the cooler out, and together, we distributed Coronas to all the graduates and professors.

At the end of my speech, I popped the top off my own Corona and toasted the team. I was nearly in tears when I finished.

I miss doing design work.

But I like my life in Maine more.

I’ve said a million times that my studies in California made me the person I am today.

My patience.

My ability to see the big picture.

My ability to deal with different types of people.

My ability to know just how much to dim the lights for dinner. And explaining to owners that they indeed needed to spend money on lights that produced amber light AND NOT fluorescent white light.

My ability to not to stab someone in the eye with a fork.

My ability to train new staff.

All of this is an extension of UCSD.

While I haven’t designed lights in a hot minute, my three years were life changing.

So, a big shout out to Mark Maltby for not shutting me down!

And know that I’m forever grateful for my time in California.

And that’s how I went from being a lighting designer to being a general manager.

I posted this, three years ago, and got a few comments. I want to include it in my archives, so that when I write my book it can be included.

And.

I am doing a show in a week. The first since 2014. Small. But I’ll write about that separately.

The fact that I’m special is easy to see, so why doesn’t anybody see it but me?

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I was up super early this morning. Well early for me.

Out of bed at 8:15.

I had a meeting about a small show that I’m working on, then met a friend for coffee, then off to grab a soda, head to work, then home for dinner.

The point is that I was in my car more than usual today.

And.

Three times today, I had people step in front of my car as I drove down a street.

Three times with little to no regard for who had the right of way, or that they were blocking traffic.

The first time, a woman got out of her car, with friends, stepped into the middle of the street, and then began to fix her hair. She is literally bent over, dealing with her hair, eventually tying it back, in the middle of the street blocking traffic.

Another couple walked their 2 year-old across the street, diagonally, 100 feet from the nearest crosswalk. The 2-year-old walked exactly as fast as you’d expect a 2 year-old to walk. Traffic stopped in both directions waiting for them to cross.

Then on my way home, a foursome parked, got out of their car, with all the doors open, on a narrow street, and with no regard, blocked the street while they gathered up their groceries.

It made me realize that I’m glad I’m not a me, me, me person, however, I sometimes wish I had the balls that other people have.

You know the people who walk in to an empty restaurant at 2 minutes till close and have a 3-course meal.

The people who run into a grocery store at 2 minutes till close, and do their week’s shopping.

The passenger who takes up all the space in a luggage bin.

The person in line at Best Buy, who cuts the line because their return is more important than mine.

I’ve always been aware of the space that I take up.

I absolutely, would not go into an empty restaurant and have dinner at the end of the night.

I’m super self-conscience of being the last table at the end of the night. And I tip extra when it happens.

I tend to not be pushy. I tend to not take up any more space than I have to.

So where does this come from.

The lack of consideration for others?

Is it nature or nurture.

Is it how you are brought up?

Is it your socio-economic status?

Is it based on gender?

Is it a gay/straight things?

Is it family size?

Is it the geographic?

Is it based on age?

What makes some people less concerned about the space they take up.

The inconvenience they impart on others.

And more importantly, do they just not care how much it makes someone in the service industry hate them?

I don’t expect to gain any insight with this post.

Just an observation today.

Thoughts?

I’M HAPPY, JUST BEING WITH YOU.  SO WHAT SHOULD IT MATTER TO ME, WHAT YOU DO IN BED WITH GUYS. I

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I started at Bennigan’s and quickly proved myself to be good at the job. The staff seemed to like me and I got along with most everyone.

As I got to know more people, I became aware that all but two of the male front house employees, were gay.

Two very butch, very masculine bartenders, who didn’t seem to mind that they were surrounded by gay men.

I mixed right in, but at this point in my life, I’d only ever told one person that I was gay. A woman I worked with at Wendy’s named Tammy. We sat on the curb at three in the morning, talking about life, and I confessed my deepest, darkest secret.

So here I am in the middle of a bunch of gay men, still pretending to be straight.

And for the most part everyone bought it.

Or so I thought.

Turns out that all the gay men thought I was gay.

All of the women thought I was straight.

Rumor had it there were bets floating around.

I played the straight game as best I could. Keeping my head low, and trying to not be obvious.

Fast forward to the first week of December. One of the servers is having her first annual Jewish/Christmas party.

What is that you ask?

It’s a party thrown by your co-worker, Stacy, who is Jewish, and her roommate who is not.

Fun fact, when I met Stacy she was the first Jewish person I’d ever met. Georgetown, KY was not known for its plethora of synagogues, and kosher delis.

I am invited to said party, as is most of the rest of the staff.

I get there and am hanging out with everyone, and flirting with Stacy more than I should.

To be honest, I’d flirted with her for a couple of weeks. It truly was not being malicious. I was just protecting my secret.

If you grew up in a small town in Kentucky, where you were called a f*g on the bus every day of the school year, you’d know why the secret was so dark and scary.

If you went to a conservative Baptist college you’d understand why the secret was so dark and scary.

Although, it turns out there was a LOT of gay people at my college, but most of us wouldn’t reveal this secret, till much, much later.

It was also the late 80’s, and people were starting to die, from what we had just discovered was an illness called AIDS. It was not a great time to be coming of age.

Back to the story.

As the night went on, I ended up making out with her. And if I remember correctly, may have even given her a hickey.

In her kitchen, next to the stove. I can still see the room in my head.

The night progressed, and I became a little tipsier, and a little less cautious.

And the next thing I knew, I was on my way to Duane’s apartment, where we made out in a hot tub, in the cold.

The next day I did the walk of shame showing up for my lunch shift, in the same clothes I’d worn to the party.

The cat was definitely out of the bag.

Everyone knew.

Bets were won and lost.

And Stacy didn’t speak to me for a very long 6 months.

If not longer.

Eventually she stopped hating me and we became the best of friends, and for the last year I spent in Atlanta, she was my bestie.

We are still in touch. I visited her in October on my road trip.

I’m sure she’ll tune in today for the next episode in this saga.

She may not know this, but her acceptance of me, paved the way for my acceptance of myself.

I’ll be forever grateful.

So that’s five miso soup, four seaweed salad, three soy burger dinner, two tofu dog platter, and one pasta with meatless balls

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

When last you tuned in, I was just leaving J.C. Penney after meeting the Hallmark card guy, when he came to stock greeting cards.

Fun fact, I stayed friends with both the card guy and his boyfriend for a while afterwards. They ended making hand crafted furniture with no modern fasteners in their one-bedroom apartment. I visited them several times and they lived in the living room and assembled furniture in the bedroom. They had a full workshop including a table saw, band saw, and a lathe. They’d work from 9 to 5 building furniture to abide by the building’s quiet time restrictions.

Meanwhile…

I was hired to work at Bennigan’s by a woman who I remember being called Kim. It might be Sally for all I remember. She interviewed me at a high top in front of the bar.

I started 10 days later.

She was gone by the time I had my first day. (This happened a lot to me as I moved from job to job. I’d be hired by someone, who was gone by the time I started if not shortly after).

The manager was replaced by a woman named Karen.

The management team was awesome. A guy named Dana who was very, very good looking and who played baseball in college. He was eventually replaced by a man named John, who although not as cute, was very, very sweet.

My whole experience at Bennigan’s was awesome until the dastardly Keith appeared one day….but we’ll get to him.

I started on a Monday at 1:00. We did all the requisite tours and forms. Then myself, along with my other co-hires and a man named Jimmy all sat down for classroom training.

Jimmy was very gay. Very funny. Laughed uproariously. Only worked days. And was awesome.

He died a few years after I left Atlanta from an aneurism. I remember being stunned by the news.

He was the official classroom trainer. And he spent the next five days teaching us all things serving.

I value those five days I spent in classroom training, more than any other training I’ve gotten in my life.

Those five days allowed me to be very good at making a living until my mid-40’s.

Every day, during those classroom hours we were taught to wait tables.

I wish that I’d saved my employee manual, because it would come in handy, even today.

They assumed we all had experience, but they trained us as if we didn’t.

We were taught:

How to hold a tray.

How to bus a table.

How to take an order.

The different kinds of liquors and what they were served with.

How to garnish a drink.

How to carry three plates.

How to carry four glasses.

How to empty an ashtray.

My favorite. What does 86’d mean?

It means to be out of something.

I remember thinking that it must be because it’s 1987 and to not have something would have been so last year. True story.

We had hand written tickets and there was a detailed abbreviation system.

You had to remember the difference between broccoli bites and broccoli soup, when writing the tickets

You had to know the difference between broccoli bites and burger bites.

One was brocc.

One was bites.

The bar was tricky as I knew nothing.

An arrow up for straight up.

An “X” for on the rocks.

What the hell was a martini?

I used those abbreviations taking orders until May 24, 2012, when I took my last order.

After 4 hours of classroom training, we were given an apron and assigned to a grown-up waiter.

I was trained by a man named David for at least two of my shifts. He was a great server, who was excellent at his job.

He was also sarcastic, with a biting sense of humor and he took a liking to me from the get go.

He taught me to combine my steps.

He taught me that you are only in the weeds if you think you are.

He taught me to never let them see you sweat.

He taught me to never show weakness.

And he taught me how to have a good time, by showing me how to walk through the dining room like a super model.

At the end of the that week of training, I graduated and became a full-fledged server.

I was good at it from the start. And I do say so myself. I don’t think I’ve ever been better at anything in my life.

It wasn’t long before I tasked with waiting on the corporate team.

I was a trainer.

I was on the employee council.

I was an office assistant.

And I was always in the same section, in the smoking section and it was far busier than the other side of the restaurant.

This job truly served me well.

I’ll also brag that it was the last time I ever finished training as a server. From that point on, I would train two or three days, pass the test, and be on the floor.

It was the beginning of November when I started.

I’d be straight for 6 more weeks.