Five dollar Spaghetti and meatballs

There's a bar I see on the bus ride home from the university. It just recently started opening earlier and serving food. It has a dirt cheap lunch special. $4.99 spaghetti and meatballs.

So I got off the bus a few stops early.

I was hungry and I figured I could afford it.

This day I was coming back from school after my morning classes and had the rest of the afternoon free.

I remember liking the place instantly when I walked in. Old small one-story house turned into a bar, but just barely. Like there was a bar in the middle of what would be the dining room with some stools.

And a booth that was more like a booth in a kitchen in a house, not a restaurant booth.

The whole restaurant seemed so haphazard and last minute, but I know it's been running as a bar for years and years. Maybe they just recently realized that they could make money serving lunch too.

Anyhow, I got in, and the cook looked at me from the kitchen and said the front of the house guy wasn't here yet. I told him I wanted the special I saw on the chalk board outside.

I sat at that kitchen booth. In a minute the cook came out with a tray of food. And silverware.

The spaghetti and meatballs were pretty good!

At one point a guy came in the side door, carrying a really obsolete ten speed bicycle. This wasn't something retro vintage ironic, just an old junky bike. He carried it back through the kitchen door.

I figured he must the front of house guy.

Watching him come in, totally relaxed for his shift, like without a care in the world, a thought really struck me.

I realized something watching this dude moving though so easily.

I realized I'm ALWAYS worrying about something. Something like saving up enough money for the next batch of bills. Or worried about an upcoming school assignment.

Or worried about whether I'll ever hear from Penny again. Gawd, that one sucks to write out.

I don't worry as much as I used to about going to prison. It's a possibility for sure, but why would they lock me up where they have to spend money on me, when they now have me out and working and giving them $400 each month?

This way, they make money off me. I'm an asset. The other way, me in prison, means I become a liability.

I sure hope that's how they see it, anyhow, and the prosecutor doesn't want to make an example out of my case for how he's a tough Texas district attorney that takes the war on drugs seriously.

Christ, that's some scary stuff.

So yeah, that's another thing I worry about. I guess it's just always in the background but since it's nearly entirely out of my control, I don't consciously think about it.

So, yeeah. Lots of stress. Alarm bells ringing in my head all day long.

Meanwhile Mr ten speed shows up to work late and nobody cares. And now, I can hear he and the cook chatting, and next I hear the cook laugh loudly.

I grinned almost involuntarily. I realized I did it and stopped.

After a bit, the cook came out. I asked him if he made the sauce here. It was really much better than I thought it was going to be. He said he did make the sauce. The noodles and meatballs were restaurant supply.

I told him the sauce was really good.

The place charmed the hell out of me even though I couldn't imagine many other people liking it.

Anyhow, this whole flashback is meant to convey that when I saw the ten-speed guy, I realized that I was stressed out, but he wasn't.

And if I wanted to, I could just about have his life pretty soon. If I dropped out of school, and just was a waiter, I'd have so much more free time.

And at some point, my probation will end, too, and that will free up more money.

I won't have to worry about all of that stuff. No awkward conversations with bosses about they might get a phone call. No having to ride the bus cross town every few weeks.

No humiliating questionings. I literally do nothing that could risk me losing my probation status but they act as if they know I'm guilty. Of what? Of not hitting an AA meeting literally every free evening?

I pay all my fees on time, I have a job, I'm in school, I don't drink, I don't get high, I go to several meetings every week, I avoid going out anywhere socially...

I figure I'm doing everthing realistically that I can do to show that I'm reformed. No need to throw the book at me. I've been scared straight.

So yeah, writing this out makes me realize that I'm still always in background in an agitated, worried, anxious, fearful state.

I feel like a rabbit in a forest and I know there's predators around me.

So, yeah, when I saw the waiter, I realized that with any luck, I might be able to feel like him.

After I finish probation, I could just be a waiter if I wanted to. I could quit school.

I could switch working to a much easier place like this one.

I don't talk about it too much, but my restaurant has crazy high turnover. It's funny how for people that don't work there, the restaurant staff has a bit of a mystical aura.

Like my professor asked me when he found out where I worked if we really did have a "one mistake and you're out" police.

Which is hilarous, because we have nothing like that.

No, instead, we're always hiring.

The reason why people have that idea about the "one mistake and you're out" is that we have strict checklists for everything, and if you don't pass, you can't work.

So for example, if you show up in a wrinkled apron, you either have to buy a new clean and starched one from the manager, or you can't work, and not working counts as a no-show.

We put up with this because I make I make $100 on an average weekend night, and sometimes, I've made almost twice that.

I can work three nights and a lunch and make enough to live. This gives me time to go to class. And I think some of other waiters make more. Like McCall maybe.

On the other hand, maybe not? I did win that wine contest. Is it really hard to believe I'm as good as the other waiters?

I guess I still think of myself as who I used to be... nervous, self-conscious, barely able to focus because so preoccupied with self-loathing.

All that is there and still going strong, but at least when I'm on the floor, my work persona seems to be so self-assured, so intent on making sure that the diners have everything they need to enjoy themselves.

In some weird way, being the best waiter I can be has given me a purpose in life.

Is that like the most twisted way that the system has broken me? I used to think I was a radical. I'd rant about how unfair and immoral this society is.

Now, I want to be a part of it so bad.

I don't know. I think there's honor in applying myself.

But the radical side had some good ideas.

OK, the punchline... I want to relax more.