Went to my former place of employment to see Mikey this evening. Shared his resume with my father and needed to debrief him. I made sure that I showed up at last call, so I wouldn’t have too many flashbacks but still ended up carding some jerk for a strawberry stoli. Hate to break it to ya buddy but you’re drinking a girly drink, so don’t try to be all manly when you show the I.D. Mikey just I.D.ed them to be a hassle anyhow.
Now it’s 3 a.m. and I reek of smoke. Will have to wash everything, including myself before I go to bed and my sinuses KILL. Stayed to talk to Sasha . . . one of the people I truly liked working and hanging out with during my tenure in the restaurant trade. Met some fellow named Frank, who then immediately admitted that he threw up on my car when he was eighteen. How charming. Caught up on all the gossip . . . the five years of gossip. Still don’t miss it.
The thing about restaurants is everything works with lighting . . . when you turn them on you’ll find cockroaches, the way the people really look, how dirty and nicotine stained everything is . . . and it’s kind of the same with the personalities. The regulars who were actually into coke and young strippers. The charismatic sous chef with a horrible drug problem. The prep cook that sold heroin out in the alley. All floating in alcohol, like the ancient pineapple that they make the infused vodka with . . . they never change that pineapple . . .
Mikey evidently has a "present" for me . . . and I’m hesitant to find out what it is. Mikey loved that restaurant . . . got me fired in the process of loving it and it was the best thing to happen really. Otherwise, I’d still be looking at cockroaches in flattering lighting while breathing in secondhand smoke and waiting for something to happen.
Good to know I’m so famous that one remembers my car though . . . ahh, Mohawk days.
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