That showing of brut power changed me. I moved to the kitchen almost immediately and started learning from the cooks. I learned how to hotwire a car, distill vodka, and an array of other neccesary life lessons. I didn't stay too long, though. The kitchen was not my thing. There was power, but not enough to satiate my need. I bought a motorcycle and almost got kicked out of my parents house for it. That was my first and only rebellious act against them. Never bite the hand that feeds you.
I went to college and transferred to a mexican restaurant close to campus. I finally was old enough to serve and that was more important to me than college. College didn't offer me the immediate gradification that I needed. I was bored. I eventually dropped out one class shy of graduating. Another rebellious act, I suppose, even if subconsciously.
Skip ahead 12 years, countless restaurant jobs, and several moves that eventually landed me here - in the desert - and that's where I am now. Bartending with a mortgage and a great deal on a little restaurant about two miles from my house that I could not pass up. Now I have the best of everything. I own the place and bartend. Imagine the look on the pissed off customers when they ask to see the manager after i've been rude to them.
"Sure, I'll do you one better. I'll get the owner." Turn around a complete 360.
"Hi, I'm the owner, get the fuck out of my restaurant before I unleash the dogs in the kitchen."
This can only end poorly. I try to keep a low profile on the owner thing. It's a trap I set for unsuspecting bugs foolish enough to land inside my cilia.
We do alright. The place was once a butcher shop. The kitchen is huge and we can seat about 20 tables inside and another 8 on the patio when the weather is cooperating. We change the menu on a weekly basis to keep the regulars guessing. Since it's a butcher style kitchen, we buy full cows, pigs, buffalo, ostrich, anything that will fit on the table so my chef can hack it apart and let her mind and training run wild. We mostly survived on the happy hour crowd, though. If you've ever lived in the desert or a golf community, you know what this means. Drunks.
So much power to control. Maybe, too much. Three years of this and we've made a name for ourselves. We never have an empty seat. Not too shabby. Problem is these pigs expect more and more. Give 'em and inch, they want a foot. Give 'em a foot and they want the whole leg.
I needed a change or something that resembled happiness, so I married the chef. It worked. The stress has simmered down. Maybe dreams do come true. We're happy for now.
