Things We Forget
Little inspirational post-it notes. Some are quite good. Like 863: "Want Something You've Never Had? Do Something You've Never Done."
Link: Things We Forget
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The Last Supper
Finally, and what a night. Apparently I'm not held to working Monday.
Tonight we're busy, the book filled to overflowing, the owner has been relentless in his taking of reservations.
We're overbooked. A full flip, and then some.
It's been a long day, the early morning for garage sales, trivial chores throughout the day.
The last day, I suspect.
At work, J (former waiter, friend of owner's) has picked up a case of sausage for my final meal. We have this and rice, the sausage is delicious, it's a treat.
And the owner corks a bottle of champagne, cheap bubbly, and his skepticism aside toasts and wishes me well on my quest.
This is leaving as it should be, good terms from the restaurant where no one leaves on good terms. My second time, and somehow I feel I've earned a medal. The champagne's a nice gesture, but given my lack of sleep and the busy, busy night ahead I can't relax.
The set-up done, nothing to do but to wait.
M gives me a present, a fine bottle of Scotch, I'm touched, he didn't have to. He shouldn't have. But I like the gesture. Z promises to take me for lunch, Indian buffet, he's Muslim but wants me to drink. I don't need to drink, need to drink less. But the lunch is a courtesy.
People are decent.
The night progresses as anticipated, the slow degeneration, people waiting at the door for 45 minutes on reservations, tables that were given out times lingering far beyond their allotted - and informed - slots. Crazy busy, and this is the shift to fire me out the door. The nephew is with the customers, complete pains but they tip well. I'm for the principal, if you're told you have to leave, admitted on the condition your have only so long to dine, then leave. And let others take your seat. But not all of our customers agree.
It's a long, long night. Midnight, late, especially for us. And when finally we lock the doors, I've returned the keys, given the farewell hugs to all and sundry the Nephew, G and I are off to the bar.
A few drinks, more hugs, laughs, recollections, I'll see them again before I go to pick up my cheque.
This is the last supper.
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Week 1 - Garage Sales 2012
Now a misleading title if ever there was one, because it's also my last day at work - I hope - and this posting should reflect both.
Days pass. Few customers know of my leaving - few would care, only Z tells them in his efforts to bond with them. The Nephew and G, they've accepted my departure, G not happy as he suspects he's losing his day off, I've offered to help out the 2 weeks I'm around (research to be done, other things), he doesn't want to accept.
Whew.
The Owner has been manageable, in a better mood, as it were, now that I'm leaving - or he knows that I'm leaving, quiet about trivial things, he as well wants it to be on a good note. They're bringing in the Talking Waiter as my replacement.
I threaten the nephew with the keys to lock up, they'll be his next, he declines, never in a hundred years could he deal with that responsibility, M enters the conversation "I wouldn't take them either....", he has his own reasons, the nephew reassures him: "not to worry..." , meaning, of course, that he's not long for the course. A shame, I rather like him. M doesn't get it. It's almost too savage, this rivalry of theirs.
Those few customers that know I'm leaving, they express their admiration, some tempered jealousy. It's curious, they didn't flesh me out that deep. Some even go so far as to pretend they'll miss me. Polite. To do what you want, that's a luxury. I don't disclose how ill I can afford it. The staff, they'll miss me, some bitterness, they presume I'll be back, when exactly do I think?
Never I hope, but I'm merely optimistic. I say nothing, don't want to burn my bridges, merely point out that if things work out I won't have to ever come back.
The biggest proof of failure would be to return. The goad in my side, walk farther, search harder, make sure you never have to return.
Better to die in the field than return.
That said, I'll miss them. My family, G, The Nephew, The Owner, even M and Z - of dysfunctional sorts - the past 2 years almost.
It's not easy leaving, and to an uncertain and precarious, ridiculous even, future, doubly so.
I'm amazed - really, by the slight resistance I've encountered. A crazy idea, to me even, but few - only a couple, have pointed it out. The rest - politely, reserve their opinions, a few ripost me as I might them about bears and the perils of the North Woods, but still wish me well, marvel at the adventure (the adventure I'm not feeling even slightly at the moment, only the pressure of organizing countless tiny chores ...), this is curious.
Even myself, I'd give me 50/50 for breaking even and 1/1000 for getting rich, I see the inherit insanity of it, the other side which I imagined to be invisible to everyone else is transparent. The owner talks to me outside, quiet, having a cigarette, of the folly of property, ownership, we should all live on the move, on the wing, he feels it as well.
Pressure. There's a lot of people not to let down. Fail at this and I don't just fail myself, but the children, my co-workers, friends, any number of people who felt themselves trapped in a box from which there was no easy escape. I've come to look upon it as an exercise in the force of my will, failure proof of my countless bad qualities, success as the tangible, demonstrable, exemplary proof of my ideals.
***
That said there's much to be done, and the imminent departure only adds to the stress.
I compose lists.
Things to buy, research to do....
Maps, Hip Waders, Nesting screens of varying gauges, build a sluice-box, water-filter for drinking, cheap watch with altimeter and barometer, pepper spray and flare guns, learn to use GPS, annotate maps with notes and history, existing claims, find places I think will yield profit. The more I think upon it, the more I need. Groceries, miscellaneous household chores, renovations, art projects, writing projects.
The lists become endless.
They only add to the stress. The staff, they imagine I must be looking forward to this, I am, but not yet, there's too much to be done.
***
The week conspires to tell me I've made the right choice. Every lunch tables stay late, every dinner tables arrive early. Lunch table leaves 3:00, Dinner table arrives at 4:30. Lunch table leaves 4:30, dinner table arrives 4:30. I'd be mad, livid, but it's always been this way and I'm almost done. It confirms my decision. The customers, Money and Power, other assorted criminals of different stripes, everything is telling me I'm on the right track. The job is killing me. The new job will be better.
Now to make it work.
***
It's the first week of garage sales and today I take advantage of a slight break between shifts to dash out and hit one. It's Terrific, buckets of vintage costume jewelry at discount prices, I rifle through it all, pick out some pieces that I like, there isn't time enough, really I could spend hours, some parting souvenirs - cufflinks, jewelry, for the staff. Mixed media for myself. An auspicious start to the weekend.
***
And now, 6:30 AM, The Good Samaritan Rummage sale in 2.5 hours, I'll be in line in an hour, after that St. Lukes and other sales, a big morning before the last night at work. Lots to be done and searched for, Urban Prospecting as it were...The weekend will be reported on and rated as it passes...
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Story Slam
Something different, or not so given the past couple of weeks, with the boy, we're going to take in the Story Slam at the Library.
I'm under the mistaken impression that it's a youth slam, poetry, referred by a website that mentioned "Youth Poetry Slam" in it's title, but I'm mistaken.
We're early. The stories have yet to begin.
And I joke with the boy about taking him to see his peers, because so much of what I take him to - theatre, film, the books I recommend, is for adults or more mature audiences, and it's got to sting a bit to suddenly do something that might be "age appropriate".
He rolls with the punches.
Eventually the box office opens, we buy our tickets, find our seats. 5 contestants today, 2 girls, 3 guys, vying for a prize of $25.00.
Ouch.
I like stories, like the spoken word, listen and watch the moth podcasts, poetry slams, but I'm seeing the best of the best, I've failed to process this, I take it for granted that the stories I've heard will be the standard of all stories.
This is not the case.
A perhaps 16 year old, slamming some poem he's written about the innocent victims and perpetrators of war.
Uh-huh.
Polished, well done, rehearsed, he's in a performing arts program somewhere, that's for sure.
Next up a girl, again polished, rehearsed, talking about her imaginary childhood friends and adventures. She was very imaginative. Again, polished, rehearsed, actions and gestures and expressions to the words, less a story than a monologue or a performance art piece, somehow I'm missing something, this isn't it, I'm annoyed. She's dressed in a bright red skirt with oversized buttons, blue shirt, stockings, I don't get it at first but then I realize: It's like she's the host of a children's program, and the story she's telling, her overly dramatic gestures and mannerisms, it's as if she's projecting herself through the camera to a host of unseen children...
An older hippy, craggy, good looking in that let-himself-go sort of way, talking about the glory days of drugs and some hotel in Toronto and a police raid and a gay pride parade outside and he's as unrehearsed as the girl before him was polished, he's a natural raconteur and is doing this to meet the girls, the story, it doesn't wrap up, as chaotic as the events he's describing...
Another woman, again overly polished, talking of fairy tales and Iceland and fairies and speaking in an appalling Celtic brogue, singing what you guess are Icelandic songs, no explanation provided or required, she's the woman you shouldn't have taken home from the bar, the penultimate in bad dates, a "natural storyteller" she'll assure you, but despite her reassurances and practiced rhetoric you somehow just feel embarrassed for her...
Finally, another unrehearsed, unpolished contestant, I like him, the lack of polish reveals a certain vulnerability, sensitivity, but his story doesn't wrap up as well.
There's supposed to be an elimination but the audience hasn't the heart, all the contestants go again.
Different stories, there's no chance to leave or sneak out and I'm gradually feeling more and more soiled. It's not the stories you see on YouTube, more just the suspended judgement and disbelief you employ when you see somebody embarrassing themselves in a major way in public. It's testing the limits of my empathy.
Give them credit, it takes a lot to put yourself out there. And the audience - myself included, tries to be supportive with their clapping, not too judgmental, but I've made my notes.
I hadn't considered how many ways things could go wrong. This story slam, it's the visceral illustration of possibilities I hadn't considered.
The winner's decided, the female children's host, then the MC tells his story.
And he wins hands down. He wasn't competing, but he's got the proper blend of polish and impromptu, silly gestures and expressions, irrelevant but the audience likes, he wins but he didn't need the $25.00 so bad and so chose to MC the proceedings, if anyone should have won it would have to be him, but he wasn't in the running and so the afternoon ends.
Another event starts in an hour at the Auburn, invite the boy but he's done as well, oddly this was exhausting, draining, the well of empathy has been emptied and we both need to recharge our batteries.
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