So Long, Farewell

Last day on the job. Should be…what? Eventful? Meaningful?

Yeah, not really.

A new assistant manager stepped in. She’s good, I can tell. Knows her stuff. We would have had fun together. Maybe.

These days, I don’t know up from down, truth from fiction, lies from “just kidding.”

My coworker told me I had one last chance to give him my best shot to call him out. I told him to marry his long-time girlfriend.

I gave my cell phone number and email address to a few coworkers:

–the waiter who is also a musician, because he should know Restaurant Gal Daughter’s boyfriend’s band as they play area clubs, because maybe he could play keyboard for them. And he is an awesome server and I would poach him in a heartbeat.

–the old-school waiter, because he knows everyone in this town, because he’s worked everywhere in this town, because he is older than I am.

–the other old-school waiter, because he is an incredible gentleman, and he is almost my age, and I hope we work together again at some point, too.

–the sous chef who is many decades my junior, because he knows I know how to do catering events. And he is adorable.

–the host who I seriously looked forward to working with every single time she was on the schedule. She is young enough to be my daughter. She is an old enough soul to be a friend. She cried when she found out I was leaving. I was sorry I couldn’t hug her in person and reassured her over the phone that we won’t lose touch.

–the host who is not really a host, but simply a Godsend. Her new career is mere weeks away. I hope it is all she wants it to be.

I shook hands with our pastry chef. Turns out, she is not only talented, she’s got an incredible smile and is very cool to work with.

I hugged the handsome dread-locked cook, sad I may not ever see him again. I was a hippie way back when. He is now. He also continually amazed me with his deference by always having one arm behind his back and being ever ready with a, “Yes, sir, chef!”

I pretty much looked past everyone else, fearful I would tear up if I said goodbye to the back wait staff who defies most every stereotype of busboys, or said aloha to a couple of servers who–in the end–figured out I actually knew what I was doing.

Remember, I don’t cry at work, not even on my last day.

So I walked out the front door.

And called Chef on his cell to meet me outside in the pouring rain so I could hand over my monthly parking card.

So long, farewell.

Fare very well, all of you.