It was only May and the Florida sun had already begun eating my soul. I was parked facing the beach, I was over dressed, and I was uncomfortable. The A/C of my Blue Impala was giving me everything it had. The steering wheel was still hot to the touch. I looked up through a dirt smeared windshield, to the ocean, and to a day which would be perfect for a beach goer. The sky was clear, the ocean calm, and the sun relentless. The little waves laughed mockingly as they broke, knowing I was unable to take them up on their offer. On other days when I sat here, I would listen to music, a song or two, to get my mind ready for the abuse it would soon experience. Not today. I reluctantly fastened the remaining buttons of my chef's jacket. "As if this shit hole had chefs," I thought. I braced myself for the inevitable, cut the ignition, and stepped out onto the scorching blacktop.
I was standing in the parking lot of the Howard Johnson Hotel, and The Patio Bar and Grill, in Deerfield Beach Florida. In the winter it's a good job, there are tourists, plenty of business, and it's not too hot to stay alive. I hated having to answer to someone, being talked down to, and being subordinate to remarkably unintelligent individuals. I got my dose of all these things working here. As I walked away from my car and the ocean and all their promises of freedom, I recalled a time when this business was enjoyable. Working for tips, not dollars per hour, and definitely not in the kitchen, meeting various waitresses, and hostesses, and basking in the alcohol fueled nightlife of a restaurant employee. I crossed the street in the same place I crossed it each day. The dreary Deerfield scenery with it's plethora of deserted weekly beach rentals blended into the background as I neared the hotel. Season was over, there was barely any business, the only position I could work was as a line cook, I'd have made more at Blockbuster if they were hiring.
As I neared the rear entrance to the hotel's pool, blackness and death dominated my mind. "Don't be a spoiled bitch," I told myself, "Be happy you have a job." I wasn't. Recently I had started taking classes part time and was enjoying them immensely. My meager existence, my apartment, my car, and the job required to sustain them, limited my school, and my progress within it. I pulled my security card out of the worn leather Versace wallet my mom got me for Christmas, and slid it through the sensor on the gate, gaining entrance to the pool. The deserted area reeked of chlorine which at the moment smelled bittersweet. The pool chemicals reminded me of childhood summers and the freedom within them. The emptiness of the patio area was another reminder that season was over, and business hard to come by. Suddenly the sound of my phone ringing through the pocket of worn out Dickies snapped me back to reality. "Must be 3:01 I thought." Glancing at the screen, the name "Chef Pat" was barely visible through the piercing glare that cut my eyes. I immediately hit ignore.
My only hope was that "the chef" (A title who's appropriateness was debatable.) was calling me because he wanted to go home and needed me to be there in order to do so. A common occurrence. My fear was that he called because the owner was in town and we had to cook for him and his entourage, which also was a common occurrence. I didn't have any respect for the owners or the chef. There were good people working here, but it didn't bring out the best in them. If the owners were here, it meant the chef would be here all night. He would be drinking, and my life would be exponentially less pleasant.
I was now close enough to the pool's tiki bar to be seen by the bartender. "Hi Matty!" said Tina. Tina was good company. She was short, barely seeing over the vibrantly colored bottles on her counter. She was older then me, well into middle age, and a lifetimer in the service industry. "Hi" I replied, "How's it going?" She answered only with a look of frustration as she faced zero customers in her New York Giants jersey. The sun hit her bleached blond hair, she was once beautiful. Now her weariness with life was such a reality, it could be tasted by those around her. I smiled, "Are you working tonight?" I asked, hoping she was, as Tina is one of several bartenders I could hit up for a drink. The alcohol helped bring an end to the endless, it passed the time. "Yep." she said. "Good" I thought. "Is the douch and his cronies in town?." "Ya, but they aren't eating here tonight." Happy with the good news I took one final look across the pool to the beach, Patio Bar's endless playlist of Jimmy Buffet echoed softly through distorted speakers. Opening the door to the hotel I stepped into the un-airconditioned lobby, occasionally waving to various work acquaintances as I made my way down the hall. Eventually I found the outdated, and over worked computer which was constantly crashing, and clocked in. "Only five minutes late," I thought, which at the Patio Bar is on time. There was only one thing left to do, see what kind of condition the kitchen was in, and what kind of unpleasantries I'd be unable to avoid.
As I stepped into the closet sized, and oven tempertured kitchen, the familiar smell of un-fresh food, and discontent became apparent. There were no dishwashers, no anyone, just Pat in a relatively clean kitchen. The cleanliness was due to slow business, not cleaning. Despite the tidy appearance, the slow times were the worst for the food quality. Without much money coming in, the chef was increasingly pressured to improve food costs. This meant fear of throwing things away, even after they were far from fresh. Pat turned around and saw me. He was an average looking guy, balding, shaved head, in his upper forties. A southern type, with obviously uneducated opinions of things. He was the chef, he did not love to cook, he was not creative, but he toiled, and held his job to provide for his family. He was wearing standard kitchen attire, and held a plastic cup, which I could bet was full of Canadian Club. He looked at me and with the eyes of a beaten man, who had traded any sense of passion in exchange for survival, said "Hey Matt, I'm glad your here. I've been wanting to talk to you, I really hope your aware how lucky you are to have a job. I just stared back at him. "I really need more from you," he said. "I need you to clean more, and break down the kitchen better when you leave." "O.K. I said, both of us knowing I didn't give a shit. "If you put in the work you could climb the ladder here, it could be a career for you, like it is for me. You should focus and make Patio Bar your number one priority." I looked over at a luke warm bucket of festering, three day old, precooked chicken.
In that moment I knew, the older employees, who wafted dissatisfaction everywhere they went, were a glimpse into my future. I would do anything, no matter how humbling or drastic, to avoid their fate. I needed to be in school full time, and amazingly "Chef Pat," his "little speech", and that festering bucket of chicken were my catalyst.
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