Restaurant Gal

Rouletta and I (along with my great guy) were so excited to move to Key West a few months ago. After all, I had a wonderful career opportunity in event planning that promised salary, commission, bonuses! Too bad that $13 hourly “training” pay became my real pay, even after five weeks. But hey, Key West isn’t for everyone….

The neighborhoods are so cute, so quaint. In fact, the best restaurant in Key West is located at this corner. The proprietor was one of the few good people we encountered among the hundreds of not-so-good. But hey, Key West isn’t for everyone….

At first, we thought we should buy bikes to ride around this charming town. But we thought we’d leave that to the tourists and those brave locals brave willing to take their lives in their pedals on the quaint streets. But hey, Key West isn’t for everyone….

Then we thought, What about scooters? Everyone rides them!

But we soon thought twice about those adorable means of KW transportation as we played the game “Stop or No Stop,” during which you guess if the speeding scooter whose whining motor you hear before you see it will actually stop at the corner on which you live. This game worked equally well with motorcycles, street-legal rental golf carts, as well as assorted cars and trucks. But hey, Key West isn’t for everyone.

Parking for residents is a simple thing. The spots marked “Residential Parking” are all yours thanks to your easily gotten parking permit. Remember, you’re the local now, and no one else is allowed to park in these coveted parking spots under penalty of the KW law. That’s right, Key West isn’t for everyone!

From time to time, however, no one pays attention to this law–including the parking enforcement people. You could park your out-of-state clunker for weeks, blocking a spot in front of someone else’s house, and never get a ticket! Well, never get a ticket unless you’re my great guy who parked for 10 minutes in front of our house to unload stuff during our move to Key West and immediately received a $35 fine. You know, sometimes Key West isn’t for everyone.

Unfortunately, many of your neighbors will have residential parking permits, too. One night they will drive home after enjoying some wild KW fun, and they will smash their SUV into the back of your little VW, which is finally parked two blocks away from your house because it took two hours to find such a spot. A witness to this crash will alert the police, but the police will say they have too much to do to respond to such a call. Later, after an investigation for which you have to plead the police to conduct, a nice officer will bring the owner of the perpetrating vehicle to your house, saying the owner wasn’t driving but wants to pay you cash rather than go through insurance. When you tell this cooperative neighbor that the damage to your car will cost $1500 to repair, he is suddenly unable to understand English. The police will ignore your entreaties for help, shrug, and explain, “You agreed to settle with him in front of a sworn officer of the law. Sorry, Key West isn’t for everyone.”

Shopping is a blast in KW. So many Duval Street shops to choose from! Like this one for a cute T-shirt for the folks back home:

And don’t worry if you can’t find what you’re looking for in one place. Chances are, another store just like it is two doors down!Oh, you were looking for something less, um, tacky and more original? Hey, Key West isn’t for everyone!

Key West has plenty of fun spots at which to enjoy a cocktail or two: Rick’s outside bar when our favorite bartender is working, as well as Dante’s poolside bars anytime and Schooner’s Wharf in the afternoon when Michael McCloud is singing. Many good times were had at all three, and during those good times it was easy to think, “Key West isn’t for everyone, but maybe it will be soon for us.”

An occasional favorite was Cowboy Bill’s Reloaded, where you could watch the sexy bull riding on closed circuit TV in peace and quiet while sitting in a saddle.

Thanks to the cute bartender who was enthralled with my farewell photo project and allowed me one last moment in Key West from behind her bar! “Too bad it didn’t work out for you here,” she said. “They say Key West isn’t for everyone, but it sounds like you had a really rough time.”

You could say that. After the fourth week of working for a negative, whining boss who continued to pay far less than was promised, you will–as I did–feel the urge to enjoy many such beverages every day! One day, when you have had one too many of these beverages, you will find yourself crying to a sympathetic guy who’s just trying to book sunset sails and snorkeling tours, but he listens to you anyway. When you go back to see him on the farewell photo tour, he remembers you, offers to help you find another job, then wishes you sincere good luck. Key West isn’t for everyone, but nice people do reveal themselves now and then.

So, it’s bye bye Key West. So long, farewell to living the dream-turned-nightmare at Mile Marker Zero. Sure, many people love living and working in Key West and would never go anywhere else. But, as they will continually remind you, “Key West isn’t for everyone.” After hearing that for the hundredth time to excuse all that is wrong with the place, you will finally agree that you are one of those everyones. You will acknowledge that it’s time to make the long trek north and appreciate all that was a part of your life before you fell this far south. And you won’t have to travel too far north at all.

It was yesterday, right? Okay, maybe only a few weeks ago.

What? A quarter century has passed? No. Not possible.

Because I know there is a beautiful baby boy out there who was bald for two years before he sprouted the most amazing golden curls. I have forgotten his colic. I will deny he ever went through the terrible twos. I am sure I remember that he was the perfectly well-behaved teenager.

I absolutely know he makes his mama proud every single day of his life.

Of all the times in my life I wish I could take back, edit, alter, do over–two I wouldn’t change for any amount of anything in the world: RG Son and RG Daughter.

Happy birthday sweet baby boy. Tonight, scant hours before you were born a baby of the 80s, I am sending you all the colorful wooden blocks, the zillions of Lego pieces, the hundreds of Playmobile characters, the thousands of plastic green Army men, the hundreds of volunteer hours at your various schools, the multiple road trips we took on the spur of the moment when your dad was out of town for work, the 20 great visits to you in college, the hand-me-down furniture from my teen years that is now in your apartment.

Happy birthday to “the best baby in the world.” Happy birthday to a toddler who was too darn cute to scold. Happy birthday to an earnest grade schooler. Happy birthday to a middle schooler who shined on stage. Happy birthday to a high schooler who did it his way. Happy birthday to a college kid who figured it out in his way.

Happy birthday to my handsome, successful young man, to whom I will always send my unconditional love.

In the grand scheme of my life, of anyone’s life, this is meaningless.

In the grand scheme of the past two months of my life, it is a very, very bright spot.

Tonight, after driving back to Hell (read Key West) from the upper Keys, after securing what I hope is a job in the upper Keys that will pay my rent in a cute new place in the upper Keys, after three mojitos and a shared dinner in Hell because we cannot afford even that, except that we won big money last night at a Wii bowling tournament we entered on a whim four months ago in the upper Keys (which is one reason to move back, right?), and after we went out for said shared dinner and decided the place we were sharing dinner was one place that escaped the boundaries of Hell, and one we might–MIGHT–revisit IF we ever go back to Key West, that it happened. Big.

I bowled a perfect game. The big 300. On the Wii.

When no one was watching. When I was alone in my closet-sized living room because my great guy, who knew he was losing another in a long string of games, was puttering in the kitchen.

When I was in a zone that I am sure I will never find myself again.

Twelve consecutive strikes in one game, but it was actually my 17th strike in a row, or was it 19, given how many games we had been bowling. Given how damn good I was. Because when my life was good and simple and I lived it at face value, I figured out how to loft a Wii bowling ball from behind a bar while working, make a strike, and never look back.

These are the days to remember…these are the days.

Because perfection comes almost never in almost no one’s life. It has been a joke of a goal in mine. I mean, really, who actually strives for perfection? Ever? Certainly not I. Well, mostly.

Until tonight. And it wasn’t a goal. It was simply an ironic conclusion to one of the most twisted, ironic times of my life. Yet, there it was–a 300 score blinking on the TV screen as TV confetti streamed down on the screen. And no one was around to see this except a half-asleep Rouletta, who, in her way, got it, I am sure. At least after I woke her up.

And as I smoked a celebratory cigarette on a tiny porch I will thankfully inhabit for only one more week, I wanted to shout and dance and sing to all the tourists who walked by, stuffed as they were from a great meal from the restaurant three doors down, “I bowled a perfect game! Hey you–I’m P.E.R.F.E.C.T!!!!”

I didn’t. But my great guy did tell a mutual friend who called on the phone, “Yeah, she just kicked my ass on the Wii, and yeah, we’re moving back in a week, so if you can help us unload the truck…”

Sure. Downplay it. It’s just perfection.

But I know it’s a sign. Good things come to those who wait. Who focus. Who say to themselves, “I am not f—ing beaten down after all that would beat anyone down.”

Yeah, yeah. It means nothing. But sometimes, nothing kick starts a little something. And after that?

Wanna bowl?

A restaurant god exists somewhere out there, I am convinced, for the sole purpose of sending in a wonderful guest just when you despair that human beings are at their most hideous when they go out to dine.

She came in exactly at five o’clock when we opened, pausing at the bar to chat with another woman. Must be a local, I figured.

“Hi dear,” she smiled at me, patting her damp grey curls and pressing the back of her small hand against her powder-pink cheek in an effort to dab up a faint sheen of moisture. Her petite frame stood no more than 5 feet tall.

“I walked over here from the hotel, where the airline put me,” she said. “It’s a little warm for someone my age, especially after I swam my two laps,” she continued to smile. The natural creases and lines that marked decades of laughter and obvious happiness enhanced her mature beauty.

“That woman I just spoke to was at the pool when I was there,” she continued. “I really don’t remember her name, though,” she whispered and winked.

I smiled back.

“It’s just me. And I don’t want to take any of your good tables,” she said with a hint of maternal authority. “Right over there by the kitchen is fine.”

I seated her at a deuce nowhere near the kitchen, where she could easily watch the bar action and still be out of the fray.

“Oh this is just lovely,” she said as I handed her a menu.

“Would you like a wine list?” I asked her.

“No, dear, no wine tonight,” she smiled. “What I would like is to order the most colorful, fun martini you yourself would want to drink.”

Oh? Ha!

“You see, when you get to be my age, and the airline cancels your flight, then tries to put you on another that connects three times and doesn’t get you home until long past midnight, you can throw a tantrum!”

Gotcha.

“And I did,” she went on. “I threw a polite tantrum, but it was a tantrum, nevertheless! I told the agent, ‘At my age, you cannot expect me to change planes three times and have to walk through all those airports, much less arrange for transportation to get me home alone that late at night!”

You go girl.

“And you know, they didn’t argue with me a bit,” she smiled once again, her pride and pleasure quite evident. “They put me up in that beautiful hotel a few blocks away–and truly, the room is magnificent. I spoke to the concierge, and he suggested I have dinner here, so here I am!” she concluded.

May I please be your adopted granddaughter?

“Now, about that fun martini. What do you suggest?” she smiled again at me.

I grabbed our fru-fru drink list and returned to her table. It was early, quiet. I could spend as much time as I wanted with this beautiful lady.

“Well, a lot of people like anything pink,” I laughed as I scanned the choices.

“No, no pink,” she replied. “And I would bet you don’t like the pink drinks, either. You select the exact martini you would have.”

Frankly, I am not much of a martini drinker, but now and then….

“Well, how about a blue martini?” I asked, reciting the simple ingredients. I am a sucker for blue curacao, particularly in a margarita, but I figured she wasn’t a margarita kind of gal, at least not on this night.

“Oh that sounds different and fun!” she exclaimed.

Okay then.

I have to commend the bartender for really doing it right for this wonderful guest. The crystal blue concoction was perfectly poured, with tiny ice slivers around the rim, a cherry nestled in the bottom of the chilled glass and a spiraled twist of lemon floating on top. Yum.

She was mesmerized when I carefully placed it on her table.

“I have never seen such a pretty cocktail!” she smiled.

Would that I could have joined her.

Throughout her meal, she told me how she had left upstate New York for a brief, solo vacation away from the cold weather. “I stayed at my nephew’s house about 20 miles north,” she explained. “He wasn’t there with his family, though. It was just me, and I had a very nice time.”

I believed her. But I also suspect she would have enjoyed it a little more had her nephew and his family been with her for at least part of the time.

“My dear, I cannot thank you enough for this wonderful evening,” my guest said an hour later. “At my age, you need to have something unexpected happen to remind you how fun it can be when it does.”

Please stay another day. Maybe two. We’ll hang out. We’ll see the sights, take the Conch Train, go to wonderful restaurants for lunch and dinner, maybe even take a sunset cruise–do all the Key West things I haven’t yet done, nor likely ever will. I need you to share the secret of harnessing the positive wisdom you have obviously acquired, and then show me how to live it every single day.

“Could you write down the recipe for this martini before I go?” she asked. “I am going to serve it at my next book club gathering. Of course, they’ll all have to spend the night after just one, but it’s okay, they’re all women!” she laughed.

My pleasure.

A long, long time ago, well before I was a restaurant gal, I was going to make lot of money hosting children’s theme parties. I had an actual location, various theater-quality props, costumes, and a small army of high-school drama-club kids willing to serve cake and ice cream while dressed up as knights and astronauts and various cartoon-esque characters.

All was going quite well, until my landlord tripled my rent in an effort to force me out of my party space. He succeeded. Which was when my partner/great friend and I decided to take our show on the road.

We hoisted our props down the longest of driveways and into the finest of basement “family rooms” in the affluent D.C. suburbs. Our reputation for all-out fantastic events for five-year-olds soared. We had a waiting list of willing clients. I know our backsides are memorialized forever in hundreds of birthday party videos and snapshots.

Alas, we did not make the money we thought we would, despite charging ridiculously high fees to entertain the wee ones. You can only sling so much ice cream at so many urchins in one weekend. But the stories we told our friends and family at the end of the day! Oh, to have been blogging back then. But so many years ago, the Internet was in its mere infancy and this platform for writing was not in anyone’s vocabulary.

As the insanity of living and working in Key West continues to turn my world upside down and all around on an hourly basis, I recently contacted my old friend to hark back to those glorious olden days. We discovered that our individual memories of these events are quite disjointed, but through an email discourse that spanned days, we pieced together some of the highlights.

“Remember the father who answered the door wearing nothing but his white briefs?” my friend wrote.

“Wasn’t he the one who shot his BB gun at us from the widow’s walk of his mansion as we left?” I asked.

“Oh my God, yes!” she answered. “I remember asking you if bees were stinging you like they were me!”

“And then we looked up and saw him laughing and waving his gun,” I wrote back, wondering to myself how it was we escaped unharmed and why we didn’t call the police. Oh right, no cell phones back in the day.

“How about the fading beauty queen who showed us all her pageant trophies while sipping her “orange juice” at 9 a.m.?” my friend continued.

“Yeah, while the dad was smoking pot in the kitchen and instructing his house staff to unload our props,” I added.

“And how quiet and disengaged the kids were until we made up an extra strong batch of our purple punch to boost their moods with a vat of sugar,” she reminded me. And how we felt sick to our stomachs upon leaving that place, knowing that all the money the adults had invested in that mansion and the staff to care for it couldn’t do a thing to make life better for those kids.

“Of course, then there was the time we were setting up all the prizes in booths for a circus party, and the birthday boy and two friends ’stole’ them all,” I wrote.

“I swear he was going to sell them to all the other kids at the party,” she laughed through her email.

And so we continued, back and forth, about the bounced checks and refusals to pay us, about the stereotypical drunk clowns and other whacked-out entertainers we met coming or going around our events.

“Remember the guy we pretty much dragged out of a gym next door and gave $20 to so he would play The Hulk for the kid who wouldn’t stop crying because his parents had promised The Hulk would be there, but had neglected to tell us?” Actually, that guy had a blast and really got into playing the part.

Some of our clients were incredible, in a wonderful way.

The family of a local football star who wouldn’t let us leave until they had fed us mounds of food from the buffet table and begged us to “feel free to take a swim” in the gigantic backyard pool.

The patriarch of another family who invited us to sit down and share our business plan over a glass of wine because he “made his money by working hard for every dime I ever earned, every day,” adding he had great respect for our obvious hard work.

The grandmother of one self-made zillionaire who said we should never forget that money is only so much nothing if it can’t bring back your health. She was dying of cancer, but her life had been full and good, she told us. I had forgotten about her until my friend and I were reminiscing. I won’t forget her again.

I have been writing this blog for four years this month. I have shared the fun and the funny, the not-so-fun and the very serious. I have lamented my angst and celebrated my small steps forward. The few days of reconnecting with an old friend about a work life long ago prompted much reflection upon what has been and what might be next.

The move to Key West has proven to be an enormous mistake, one I hope to correct soon. But good people to work for are out there, old friends will always be in my heart, life will continue to unfold. Most importantly, it is time to remember how full and good life really is, and to reach out and hold dear those who have made it so.

“What color are these tablecloths?”

Um, beige?

“No, the actual color. You know, like “Sandy Pebble” or some other real name of a color. I need to tell my sister’s decorator the color so she can get her carpet in this exact shade. It’s just what she’s been looking for!”

Well, um….

“Maybe you could ask someone who would know, okay?”

The busser says it’s Sandy Beige.

~~~

“Are your salads big enough for a meal?”

Gosh, I don’t know how hungry you are or what you consider a fully “meal,” but….

Interrupting: “Is it or isn’t it? You can’t answer that? Come on! It’s a pretty simple question.”

They are salad-plate-sized salads, an average portion.

To her friend: “She can’t even answer!”

Friend, slowly and gesturing: “What she’s asking is…how…much…is…on…the…plate?”

Exactly 32 pieces of torn lettuce, give or take a garnish.

~~~

“We biked, then ran the entire island.”

Wow. All today?

“Can you say you’ve done that?”

Well, I felt like I walked the entire island once when I got lost my second day living here.

“I didn’t think so.”

~~~

Her: “If you wanted to have sex in a hot tub, where would you do it in this town?”

I, uh, um….what????

Him: “I told you she wouldn’t know!”

~~~

“Hey! Hey You!”

Did you just shout at me from across the dining room?

Louder, waving: “Hey! We’re here for dinner! Now!”

Oh, whew, that’s a relief! I thought you were my manager yelling at me!

“Excuse me, what is your name?”

RG. Short for Restaurant Gal. It’s great to be back!

You will love the weather in Key West, especially when the cold fronts blow through and you can open your windows, hunker down under a blanket, and forget about the AC for a few days.

You will hate the bad moods in which the cold fronts put the tourists, and you will grow weary of hearing the incessant phrase, “I thought it was supposed to be warm here!” Simply smile and remind them it is 24 degrees and snowing in their hometowns.

You will love the quaint neighborhoods of Old Town, especially the stately structures emanating history and tales of ghosts.

You will hate that you will never, ever be able to afford living in one of these stately structures. You will come to accept that paying double in rent above what anyone would consider reasonable for the tiniest space is actually a lucky find compared to what your friends are calling home–until you find out that said friends say they can’t take it anymore and are moving away, this week.

You will love the neighborly, welcoming feel of being a local in a tourist town, especially the local discounts given in the bars, restaurants, and shops.

You won’t hate this part of living in Key West.

You will love the ease with which you can walk to city hall and get a Key West residential parking sticker so that you can park your car in any one of the so-marked parking spots in a town where parking is at a super premium.

You will hate that your neighbors put scooters, trash cans, and pretty much anything else in the few residential-marked parking spots in front of your house so they can save them for their out-of-town friends who will park there for weeks on end, collecting tickets they will never pay, while you have to park multiple blocks away.

You will love the rain on the odd day that it falls, especially because you know that it never lasts that long, well, unless there is a hurricane, but so far you have avoided being in South Florida during such a weather event.

You will hate that there is no drainage after even the slightest amount of rain and will soon discover that the mosquitoes multiply in numbers like the tourists who flood Duval Street when a cruise ship is in town.

You will love the easy-going banter you will have with your neighbors, how they ask if their music is too loud and offer you a glass of wine now and then.

You will hate how your easy-going neighbors start putting their trash in your can when theirs is overflowing because they keep forgetting to put their can out for pickup.

You will love the ever-occuring festivals and special events that add even more spice and life to this happening town.

You will hate special-event nights when you come home from a job to which you have to drive and cannot find a parking space–even an illegal one–anywhere. You will double park next to a bike rack and keep watch from your front porch until 2 a.m., when you will finally be able to park two blocks away, only to discover the next morning that one of your easy-going neighbors has smashed into the back end of your car in a drunken attempt to park in front of their house and has now fled the scene, which will result in thousands of dollars in damage to your car and a plea to your insurance company not to raise your rates. At this point, you will wonder how it is that the new year can start out in such a challenging way.

You will love taking your dog to the dog park and just about anywhere else in town.

Actually, you will hate nothing about the dog friendly aspect of Key West.

You will love having so many friends and family who want to visit you in Key West.

You will hate hearing from random people you don’t even know because a friend of a friend’s boyfriend’s cousin knows [your great guy, you, your kids, your co-worker from three jobs ago] and heard it would be okay to crash for a night or two in your tinier than tiny place.

You will love having the easy availability of sunset cruises and scores of snorkeling and kayak tours.

You will hate never being able to take advantage of these cruises and tours because you will have to work two jobs or doubles every other day or never take a day off in order to afford living where such cruises and tours taunt you with their easy availability.

You will love living here with your significant other.

You will hate that your work schedules never coincide, even on Christmas Day when you scarfed turkey between his morning and your evening shift, and beyond that you only have an hour here and there off together.

You will still love your significant other because he knows living the dream in paradise is great for making money in season, after which you will likely find a more permanent “paradise” to call home.

Visit here. Enjoy this unique island, because everyone should at least once in their lives. Marvel at the sunset. Have a frozen drink or ten. Hear some great music. Be amazed you are this far south in the United States. You will love it. Really.

Live here? Only if you are without a care or responsibility in the world. And only if you hail from independent, recession-proof wealth.

“You live here? You actually live in Key West? It must be awesome! I am so jealous.”

I hear dozens of variations on this sentiment every day. Thus, I am curious to hear from my readers–is living in Key West your dream? If so, why? What do you imagine it to be like?

And, if you’ve visited Key West and still covet this locale as a place to live–what entices you here?

After six weeks here, I have my own thoughts, both positive and negative. I’ll share mine if you will share yours.

–RG

“Can she see your dog?” he asked, seeming to appear out of nowhere amidst the throng of tourists navigating Duval Street.

I was perched at my favorite outdoor bar, Rouletta on my lap, sipping a fresh grapefruit and rum while waiting for my great guy to finish his shift at the restaurant a few doors down.

I turned to face the man, fully expecting to see a daughter or granddaughter eagerly extending her hand to pet my dog.

“She’s really cute and looks very sweet,” the man said to the petit blonde woman he pushed in a wheelchair. The woman smiled and adjusted her sunglasses.

“May I?” she quietly asked me, raising her hands slightly, both palms up.

I gathered Rouletta in my arms and reached toward the woman. The man pushing the woman’s wheelchair took her hands and placed them on the top of Rouletta’s head. The woman slowly moved her hands across Roulettas’s ears and around her muzzle.

“Oh, this is a very nice dog,” smiled the woman.

“She’s brindle and white and has a round spot on top of her head,” the man said.

“Is her face as cute as it feels?” asked the woman as she stroked Rouletta’s brow.

“She’s a Boston Terrier,” I said. “She looks like she kissed a truck,” I laughed.

“No, this is a beautiful dog, I can tell,” said the woman delicately moving her fingers over Rouletta’s wrinkled nose.

“She has a little gray around her eyes, and each of her front paws has one black nail,” laughed the man.

Rouletta, who only grudgingly puts up with the noise and hustle of Duval Street, who barely allows strangers a moment’s glance as they call out to her, began to gently lick the woman’s right hand.

“She clearly knows a person who loves dogs,” I smiled at the woman.

“She’s a dog who is clearly loved,” answered the woman as she gave Rouletta one last pet around her ears.

“Thank you so much for letting her see your dog,” said the man.

“Yes, thank you. She’s beautiful,” said the woman.

“You’re welcome, of course. Anytime,” I said to both, feeling almost shy after this quiet exchange.

I held Rouletta on my lap once again and watched the man push the woman’s wheelchair away from me and into the crowd.

“Oooooh, a Boston! Can I pet her?” said a dazzlingly beautiful woman a second later.

“I have two at home! Can I take her picture?” said an older woman five minutes later.

“She is sooooooo cute! Is she still a puppy?” said a 10-year old girl a minute after that.

I smiled at each. Rouletta reluctantly allowed each a brief moment of attention.

We both wished we had spent a few more minutes with the woman in the wheelchair.

“I just want you to know,” said the elderly gentleman on a phone somewhere in very cold and very snowy Pennsylvania, “I am booking this family reunion party with you because you were the only one who took the time to listen to all our requests, and you obviously went out of your way to make it happen price-wise.”

“Thank you,” I answered, a little surprised at his effusive compliment. I hadn’t done all that much out of the ordinary–that he knew of, anyway. Hold the dates, settle on one, suggest timing and menu options, refer him to various activities vendors, and ta da–a weekend planned to his satisfaction with the focal point being the theme dinner. What I had done to make this happen without seeking any assistance from my various managers, however, was extraordinary. I had tackled it solo (mainly because no one had time to deal with me), quashing the urge to run every last detail by every last person to whom I was passively encouraged to report every last detail even when told I should be past needing to run details by anyone.

It was a first in this 6-week-old job for me, and I was pretty damn happy with the outcome.

For all that I had been told I did incorrectly, for all that had been pointed out that I didn’t quite get–just when I thought I did, for all that I continually berated myself for seeming to misunderstand because my managers changed the rules on an hourly whim, I was sure I had gotten this one right. Positive of it. And I wanted to share the moment.

“Hey guess what?” I asked the tougher of the two managers who was pounding away at a computer keyboard in the back office. “I just booked the Crowley reunion party. The customer said he booked it because of me.” At this point I shrugged and laughed while the tough-guy manager continued to stare expressionless at me.

“Well, as nice as that was to hear,” I continued, “What he also said was that I had taken the time to hear him out and given him a good price. Anyway, it’s a great booking in off season.”

The tough-guy manager’s expression softened a bit, and he almost smiled.

“I hate to burst your bubble, RG,” he said after a long pause, “But all of us have talked to that guy at one time or another, and he’s said the same thing to each and every one of us.”

Oh.

“I’m sure you did fine, though,” he finished, dismissing me with a quarter turn in his office chair and a slight straightening of his shoulders.

Really. Really you m-f**ker?

“Well, I don’t know what he said to any of you,” I said, literally through clenched teeth, “Or how many times anyone else talked to him,” I continued. “But at least I managed to get the nonrefundable credit card deposit for the event.”

I was talking to the tough-guy’s right shoulder at this point. I didn’t wait for a reply. I knew none would be forthcoming.

I also knew that the next 30 minutes would be the last 30 minutes I would spend in that job.

I regaled friends with this story over dinner that evening, laughing it off as if I couldn’t care less. The effort cost me, however, as I later melted down two-fold to my great guy, sobbing that I was unemployable in this horrible town, that I was utterly broke thanks to weeks of less-than-promised pay, and that I had no idea what to do next in any aspect of my life.

That my great guy sticks by me through these moments, listens to my ranting, says he just wants me to be happy and that he’ll go anywhere I want to go, is, in my world, a continual source of amazement. I don’t even want to be around me in these moments that have happened too frequently in the past 6 weeks. However, my great guy’s response also had a calming effect. This time, it allowed my self pity to be replaced by very serious, no-kidding-around resolve.

I would eagerly work retail for minimum wage. I would happily train as a clerk at any type of grocery or hardware or electronics store. Maybe I would go back to school and learn an entirely new vocation. I had the next day off. I would find something else–anything else.

I woke up yesterday–the day of my resounding resolve, the day before Christmas Eve that surely held the promise of a bright future– with a 101-degree fever, an aching throat, and an unrelenting cough. So much for the grand job hunt-and-capture. I chased my orange juice with a shot of Dayquil.

Which was when I got the call from a manager from a place I’d submitted an application more than a month ago, despite the “NOT CURRENTLY HIRING” sign that was clearly posted.

“Could you meet for an interview today?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “As long as you don’t mind my chewing cough drops while we talk. I’m getting over a cold,” I laughed, mentally crossing my fingers over the white lie and wondering how to politely avoid handshakes with anyone.

“You seem to have fallen to us from heaven,” said the manager as he looked over my resume.

Heaven? Ha! But thank you.

“I want to get you in the door here as a maitre d’, but you’ll be able to pick up as much more as you want to, once you’re trained,” he said.

Actually, maitre d’ sounds perfect. The rest can wait until I regain some semblance of my professional self again.

“Any chance you could train tonight?” he asked, less than a half hour into the interview.

Of course. That’s why God invented Dayquil.

I trained with a pro who reminded me of the best of the best in D.C. “You’ll do great here,” he said as we called it a night. “They were lucky to find you.”

“Works both ways,” I laughed. “I am lucky to be here.”

I have no idea about how great I’ll do. I have no idea about anything at this point. But for the first time this season, I wished several strangers a Merry Christmas.