moshe? you look younger - wow - do i recall you are in belgium?
welcome to the land of milk and honey moshe
event horizon approaches - it appears to have a capacity for EPIC occurranceS. i'm predicting a giant pr - GIGUNTA with enormous intricate weaves.
but thats just me in conjecture, we'll see what sharp says
sincerely,
white collar redneck
Chapter 10. Late for a Meeting
(1984)
It was my first summer in Aspen. I was a kitchen manager and it wasn’t going well at all. Why? Cause I was in charge of all aspects of the kitchen operations in of one of the busiest eateries in town. Heck, it was only six months prior that I learned how to cook. I had a meeting with the regional manager, Mike, who is from Michigan and whose mustache weighed half of as much as I did and with him was Mary, a first-time manager and oldest daughter of Big Chuck, of the Big C. Co. Big Chuck was the guy that hired me. You know why he liked me? Cause he was intelligent. But I knew Mike and Mary were gonna chew my ass out and ask me what the hell was going on. The truth was; I had no idea. But I was busting my ass with no help or direction of any kind. You know, hire all the kitchen staff, order all the food (here’s a form), don’t cook too much food or too little food. And quit burning the fuck’n bread. All for the great low wage of $1.78 per hour. It was stressful.
A day or two earlier I had asked my friend Greg if he had any weed, and if he found some come to the restaurant as I’m always there. That day I over- slept, and my crappy cream-colored Datsun dasher wouldn’t start. It was the ignition switch. So I ran down the shale hill carrying my shirt, to hwy highway 82, leaping and bounding and shale-sliding away to thumb a ride. Didn’t fall, but no one picked me up either, so I got on one knee as cars passed and hold my hands as if in prayer.
After a few minutes a biker saw me prostrated in earnest sincerity. He geared down, came to a stop and asked me if I ever rode a bike before. I said “yeah, I know how to lean, I’ll follow you”.
He said “Good”, gave me a helmet. I got on the bike, then told him, “I’m in a hurry. Late for a meeting”. He turned, looked at me, and said “No problem!” You’ve all seen that look in movies.
We went through the S turns at Snow Mass, as he went up through the gears. Now it was all a straight line, two-lane road as we approached the Aspen airport and the other lane was free of traffic. We started passing the five cars ahead of us and I noticed, way up in the distance, a semi coming toward us and I thought 'Man, this is gonna be close'. First car, second car and I’m thinking 'Maybe we’ll make it'. Passing the third car and I looked at the speedometer; it shows we’re doing ninety-five and I just knew we were not gonna make it. The fourth car goes by and as we pass the fifth and last car, the semi driver, the driver of the fifth car and us were all beside one another. It was perfect, just like the movies. I saw the trucker do the hand-gun finger point straight ahead. Zooooooooooooooooooom.
This was exactly what I needed to break me out of the emotional sludge I was feeling prior to the meeting. I wasn’t dead. Not that I actually cared much at the time. Life is good. It’s all comparative. The biker pulled into the gas station, I got off the bike and slapped him on the back, expressing my adulation.
I got to the meeting, they asked why I was late, and so I explained it to them. They looked rather surprised and immediately started the 'Inquisition of the Eliot'. About five minutes into the ear-beating belittlement, my friend Greg walked in through the back door of the restaurant (as we all did), his short red hair, fishing lure earring, black leather chain-drive jacket that had more zippers than Linda Lovelace ever saw, and he walks right up to us there at the booth and just as I was getting my ass handed to me with four hands, interrupts Mike flat out. Says “Hey man, I got the stuff!” and pats his jacket pocket.
Playing it cool, I say “Ok, Greg, that’s great, but I’m in a meeting now, come back later” and turned back to face the ear beaters. Greg says it louder, “No, man, you don’t understand, I have the stuff now!” and makes loud slapping sounds on his jacket. I repeated myself again with equal bravado. Message finally received and Greg left. Mary and Mike just stared at me. They said they wanted to speak with one another.
Later that day, I got promoted to waiter, which meant I got a name tag like all the other waiters. Except ASPENGUY and I would write in different names, like Tonto, Kimosabe, and Sue etc. or whatever came to mind.
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