I guess it's time to start this thing.

I've been haunted for many years. I like to think I'm in control of my path, but sometimes that's hard to believe. There are events in my life that could have only lead me to one path. I'd like to think it was the quick money and open schedule that has kept me in restaurants for this long...but it's not. It's the power. And that's what everyone really wants. Power. Control. A belief that we are some how in control of our destiny or their lives. We all know it's not true. We can't stop death or control it. I guess the next best thing is to control other people. Do I kill you or save your life? Oh now there's a rush.

I've walked too far down this path to turn back now. The rest is just a race with death. How and when he will catch up with me are the challenge now. How long can I keep him at bay? I will not live to sit on a porch and yell at the kids as the trample my lawn. I will not know the aches and pains of arthritis.

I was a kid when I was drawn to the power of the restaurateur. And when I say the restauratuer, I mean the real restauratuer, not the owner - the employees, because they are the ones that own this beast and control it. They nurture it when it is still young. They defend it when it is under attack and they breathe life into it when it is dying. The 'real' owner is merely a sperm donor planting a seed.

It is this group of people that set the perverbial ball rolling for me. I was a child and knew nothing about power, other than my parents had all of it, and that was that. Nothing to argue or get bent over. It would be years before I knew or wielded any power. I was a new busser in a mexican restaurant. My first job. I wanted to buy baseball cards, or was saving for a car or I just wanted to get out of the house and see the world. It doesn't matter any more. I don't remember much about that job a few things here and there. Employee of the month three months in a row. All the waitresses thought I was cute, but too young. A dark and sinister kitchen filled with pirate film rejects. A mean group of alcohols (to a 15 year old) that had no shame when it came to the waitresses and no forgiveness when it came to the customers.

I might not rememeber the details of the job, but the night that this whole post is leading to is in my thoughts weekly, if not daily. It defined restaurants for me. It began a definition of me. We've all heard this story before, but the ending maybe new...God I hope it is. The thought that there might be another person formed in the same manner as me is more than I could bear.

A guy comes in 5 minutes to close on a slow Tuesday night. The kitchen is pretty much closed and the hostess is in the bathroom (or she would have turned him away). The man seats himself and waits. and waits. and waits. Then he starts yelling at me, as I bus another table, to take his order and get a beer. Who yells as an insecure child that's carrying a bustub that weighs almost as much as he does? I run and get a waitress and his chips and salsa. More yelling when I get back because his beer is still not on the table. I tried to explain that we were closing, only to be cut of and reminded of the time. As if he were a knight of the round table and his watch were his shield.....I guess it was....The front of the house couldn't touch him until 9:01.

He orders the steak, well done. The grill is off. Do I need more details here?

He waits because the kitchen has to turn the grill back on and thaw the steak, which they could have done with the heat from their rage.

He stiffs the waitress and she comes in the kitchen throwing things, while I'm trying to be as small and quiet as possible. Of course he stiffed her, he'd been eating that steak for 40 minutes. I saw that coming and I'd only worked in the restaurant business for 2 weeks. He was flexing his power. A move I'm sure he regrets to this day.

Did I mention he sent the steak back?

The back kitchen doors lead to the parking lot. In that parking lot, I saw this man get the shit kicked out of him. It has been the definition of ass-kicking to date for me. It wasn't rage, it was a reckoning. My pirate crew had been wronged and they were evening the score. Rage would have been violent and messy and chaotic. This was a symphony of pain. He got the message. We all got the message. You do not fuck with the kitchen.

He never called the cops, there was never an incident report. I don't know that I ever saw him again. If I did, I think I would have remembered his face.

This was the first time I had seen real power. This is probably the reason I've stayed so long. There is so much subtle power in a restaurant. The customers think they are in control and maybe 9 times out of 10 they are, but that 10th time can really even the score.