At the very end of January Granny gave us a ride to Bistro 41 which was located in Fort Myers in the Bell Tower Mall, and there along with several other hopeful job candidates we were very quickly able to secure positions-not as waiters and waitresses-but servers. Apparently, management was incapable of retaining two, gender-specific job t.i.tles and as a result was forced to boil it down to one. Obviously, I wasn't thrilled with the latest slight and though it had apparently and suddenly become the industry norm, as far as I was concerned it was offensive.

"What the f.u.c.k kind of bulls.h.i.t is that?" I said to Perry as we waited outside the restaurant for Chauffeur Granny to arrive.

"What's your problem?"

"Servers," I said. "That doesn't bother you?"

"No."

"Well then maybe they should cut right to the chase and just go with servants or better yet-slaves."

"You're overreacting for a change."

"I'm finally, totally, sick of this," I decided. "After this one I'm done. I can't take it anymore."

"What're you gonna do instead?"

"I don't know," I said and I really hadn't a clue. "Maybe I can get a job at an ad agency."

"That worked out real well the first time."

"Or maybe at a newspaper or something. I don't know-anything."

To be honest, though, Bistro 41 wasn't that bad. Besides Kirk, who was one of the managers and a complete dips.h.i.t, it was a decent place to work and the food was good-especially the calamari. The place had just opened, and at the time it was one of the trendier establishments in the area. But most importantly-as far as I was concerned-it was the wait staff or rather, the server staff that was so remarkable and not in terms of their job performance because of course, that would've flown completely over my head and under my radar. But in terms of being a "recovering" addict attempting to reprogram his brain, my coworkers were critically important because I needed to be surrounded and distracted by intelligent, interesting people living healthy lifestylesor at least healthier lifestyles. Unfortunately, however, living 25 miles away from the restaurant without a car in an area with little to no public transportation would require us to seek out more convenient accommodations in Fort Myers.

For several days we scoured the area for duplexes or complexes within walking distance of Bistro 41, but they were too pricy or there weren't any vacancies. Then, after about two weeks of busting Granny's b.a.l.l.s with round trips to the restaurant, Pete McKay-one of the waiters-suggested we try Pine Manor which was a community located about a half-mile away from the restaurant and not too far from Downtown Fort Myers. Of course, "Crime Manor," as it was more commonly and notoriously known throughout Southwest Florida, was a neighborhood comprised of almost identical duplexes, and populated with a nice cross-section of The Underbelly of America. Indeed, white trash drunks and drug addicts, black g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers and Latino kids selling crack on bikes were suddenly my new neighbors. And besides all that, not only was the rent affordable-but at Crime Manor there was always a wide array of available apartments to choose from thanks to a never ending stream of evicted or arrested tenants. Indeed, gunshots were certainly not an anomaly and police were ever-present along with ever-ringing car alarms. And, for the first time in my life, I lived in an area immersed in the drive-by drug purchasing culture that exists in many places throughout the country, though I was usually unaware of this unless I happened to be looking out the window.

Certainly, relocating to a drug-riddled neighborhood wasn't the wisest decision, but we didn't have a stunning array of options to choose from, especially since we were without a car and required a place that was within walking-distance to work. But thankfully, even though Crime Manor was nothing short of an expansive, illegal drug-mart-like everywhere else in the area there was no dope being dealt, which we discovered only because at one point during a drunk and sloppy moment we actually went looking for it. We did learn, however, that virtually every other drug- prescription variety included-was being sold somewhere on some specific street in some part of the community.

Clearly, Crime Manor was hardly an ideal living situation, especially with an ever-present desire to be high or at least chemically altered in some way; but with the exception of one or two drunken decisions to buy a $10 rock being peddled by a Puerto Rican on a bike 15 feet from our front door and then regretting it later, Perry and I managed to satisfy that irrepressible craving exclusively with weed and beer. Fortunately, we were never big drinkers or smokers and both indulgences were usually refrained from until returning home from work each night, though we would occasionally blaze before heading in as well. Actually, we always blazed before heading into work-else I doubt I would have been able to make an appearance. Of course, pot no longer affected me like it did when I was in college. Gone were the drug's mild hallucinogenic qualities and even the munchies were a thing of the past. By this point, if anything, marijuana seemed more like a Xanax or even a valium that prevented me from going on indiscriminate killing sprees throughout the restaurant. Sometimes, though, I wasn't sure it would be enough.

15.

By the end of February the weather was magnificent, and I was making good friends and good money at Bistro 41. In fact, the money was great. The restaurant was located in Southwest Florida's most pretentious mall north of Naples and predictably the clientele was usually very wealthy. Of course, being that it was still in Florida, much of the clientele was not only very wealthy but also very old, so much so that at times I found them considerably more difficult to deal with than the average customer-especially when they tipped like it was 1920.

As far as my coworkers were concerned, even the kitchen staff-typically the most ornery of any employees anywhere unless you happen to be working in h.e.l.l-was usually in a good mood (relatively speaking) and approachable (also relatively speaking). Unfortunately, however, Kirk and I had problems almost from the very beginning which, I believe, due to my intimate understanding of such things, was because he was a little out of his f.u.c.king head. Actually, besides the fact that he had orange hair, bright red freckles and the thickest, ugliest pair of gla.s.ses I'd ever seen in my life, most of the time Kirk was fine. Well, I mean he wasn't fine, but he was either running errands, working in the office or fine-tuning a fouler mood in the kitchen; however, he usually wasn't bothering me which was all I really cared about. Still, there were moments when I'd be cutting paper tablecloth at slightly the wrong length, or incorrectly garnishing a drink or some other stupid s.h.i.t and he'd take me aside and LOSE HIS f.u.c.kING MIND. It was like being berated by a cursing, sweating, wired and bespectacled version of Alfred E. Neuman. And to be honest, I NEVER saw him behave that way around anyone else. He obviously had it in for me from the beginning, and I knew that in some way he would ultimately be the cause of my demise at Bistro 41.

After each extraordinarily busy evening at least half the wait staff would a.s.semble at our furniture-free apartment in Crime Manor for two to four hours of mostly smoking weed-but there were always a few six-packs being pa.s.sed around as well. Interestingly enough, other staff members began intermittently referring to our apartment as the Hippy Commune or the Kennedy Compound due to its exaggerated reputation as a destination for debauchery.

Since there was no furniture in the apartment of any kind, as soon as we arrived we'd begin to a.s.semble around the breakfast bar and within seconds, a blunt was being pa.s.sed around and some beers were cracked open. And then at last, the daily decompression would begin as the tension drained away from the head, heart and extremities that absorbed so much of the abuse and I felt a sense of peace and serenity enveloping me: "I just wanna KILL that ugly motherf.u.c.ker."

"What are you talking about, Craig?" said Rick who was gay and one of the few staff members older than Perry and me. "You and Kirk look exactly alike. You're just a slightly younger, curlier-haired version of him."

"We look nothing alike," I said even though I knew he was just kidding. "And besides, my hair isn't orange and my freckles faded away years ago."

"Not the ones on your shoulders," Perry chimed in.

"Did you notice those when you were kissing his neck?" asked Kristen who was my favorite waitress.

"Craig, you're not the only server Kirk picks on," said Donna-my least favorite waitress and one that actually looked a lot more like Kirk than I did.

"What the f.u.c.k did you just call me?!"

"Craig's a WAITER-not a server," explained Pete as I already read him the riot act about this a little earlier in the week.

"How's that any different?" Donna asked.

"BECAUSE IF YOU SIT IN HIS STATION YOUR a.s.s IS GONNA BE WAITING!" Pete blurted out like he'd been waiting to say that for years.

All joking aside, however, I think I was actually considered to be a bit of a prima donna throughout the restaurant and I'm not exactly sure why: "Hey!" I barked on the very next day at Annie, who was Bistro 41's 17-year-old hostess. "This is a list of customer criteria or better yet-things I better never-the-f.u.c.k find in my station."

"Oh, wow-how unbelievably cool," she said as she eagerly attempted to s.n.a.t.c.h the important doc.u.ment from my hand.

"Not so fast," I snapped as I slapped her filthy little fingers away. "Just to make sure you know the score and there's no confusion about ANYTHING, I'm gonna stand here and recite it to you so listen the f.u.c.k up!"

"Okay."

"There will be no nurses, no personal attendants, no medical personnel of any kind in any official capacity at ANY of my tables!"

"No problem."

"I'm not finished yet!"

"Oh, sorry."

"NO walkers, NO oxygen tanks and NO f.u.c.kING WHEELCHAIRS. Got it?"

"Yeah, alright already!" she suddenly snapped at me with an appalling degree of disrespect for her elders.

"In fact, now that I think about it-NOTHING on wheels. NO strollers, NO baby carriages, NO f.u.c.kING BIG WHEELS! You see anything on wheels you better just roll it the f.u.c.k over to the other side of the restaurant. Catch my drift, b.u.t.tercup? Huh? DO YOU? Alright-stop laughing. I'm f.u.c.king SERIOUS!"

"OKAY! Now go over there and bother Kristen or something."

By the middle of March, as winter weather battered much of the country, the brunt of the busy-season came bearing down upon Southwest Florida and it seemed as though Bistro 41 was the only restaurant in town. There was constantly a line out the door, and though the wait staff handled the throngs of hungry guests with grace and dignity under fire, occasional difficulties would erupt that were clearly beyond our control. And for some reason these difficulties always seemed to come quickly and in bunches, whether they were rolling around on wheels or not.

"I'm gonna need a void," I told Kirk as I showed him the check, while at least temporarily distracting him from busting Kristen's b.a.l.l.s for something stupid as I could see appreciation in her eyes and a wave of relief wash over her face. "The redneck at table six doesn't think he should have to pay for the fish special."

"Which one?"

"The one with the greasy jeans and disgusting bandanna."

"No, which FISH special?" he said with a sneer as he rolled his eyes.

"OhG.o.d, I forgot what it's called-the one that's cooked in a bag."

"The lemon-baked branzino?" he asked in a nasty, rhetorical way.

"The what?"

"The ba.s.sthe one that's cooked in a bag," he explained as he was now mimicking me in mocking mode. "What was wrong with it? Why didn't he like it?"

"Oh, no-he loved it," I told him. "He ate every bit of it."

"Then why doesn't he wanna pay for it?"

"Because he also ate the bag."

"Well maybe if you were a little more prepared to offer some details about the dish he wouldn't have."

"Oh, no-I'm pretty sure he would've anyway."

"Hey, Craig-you need to get over to table twelve," Perry suddenly told me on his way to the kitchen.

"What now?!?"

"The lady at position three said there's something wrong with the fish special."

"Again? Which one?"

"The stuffed tuna."

I headed over to table twelve to check on position three.

"How can I help you, miss?" I asked an entirely dissatisfied customer.

She said nothing, and only held out a fork with a hunk of tuna attached to it.

I took the utensil and after holding it up to the light, realized there must have indeed been something wrong with the tuna because it was wearing a b.l.o.o.d.y Band-Aid.

"That is just so disgusting I don't even know what to say."

After apologizing profusely I removed the injured tuna from the table for evidentiary purposes and found Kirk.

"Kirk, I need you to void another special." I said as I showed him the plate.

"First of all, you don't need s.h.i.t unless I say you do," he informed me while ignoring the plate I was holding. "You just need to tell me where the problem is, what the problem is, and the name of the special if you think you can manage it."

"No problem. Position three at table twelve is unhappy with the Band-Aid she found in the stuffed tuna."

"What?!"

"And I think we should forget about reciting fish specials for the evening."

"Thanks, but I'm not paying you to think."

"Yeah, you couldn't afford to. But that's beside the point-you should take my advice anyway."

"Now why in the world should I do that, Craig?"

"Because there are some pretty clever quips going around the restaurant right now and you might wanna start making them a memory," I said just before he left me standing there with the ouchless tuna as he headed over to table twelve and the customer offended by it.

"I'm so sorry about the tuna ma'am. Please, please, PLEASE let me get you something else-anything you want-on me," said Kirk as he played the groveller like a natural.

"You know, I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but I really think I'd still like to have the tuna," answered position #3. "Do you think you can rustle one up without a Curad?"

"Absolutely," he responded before heading over to the kitchen which operated at the front of the restaurant and only a few feet away from front row guests including table twelve, as a long line of cooks stretched from one side of the dining room to the other.

"What's wrong with these guys tonight?" Kirk asked rhetorically and quietly while addressing the expediter as he shook his head in disbelief. "Can I get another fish special for table twelve?"

"Sure thing-boss!" responded the expeditor with much more enthusiasm and volume than necessary or even appropriate given the awkwardness of the moment. "Fire up another boo-boo tuna!" he barked at the grill man.

"Hey! Stop that right now!" a horrified Kirk growled at the expeditor as he was apparently unimpressed with the witticism.

"Oh, sorry boss," he said. "Hold the boo-boo! Do you mean a ba.s.s in a body bag, boss?"

"What!?!" screamed Kirk. "No, I don't mean a ba.s.s in a f.u.c.king body bag!"

"Hey, I wanna ba.s.s in a body bag!" shouted position three at table twelve who was well within earshot of the exchange. "My server never mentioned anything about ba.s.s and had I known there was one in a body bag I NEVER would've gotten a boo-boo to begin with!"

"Ah, yes indeed, madam-the lemon-baked branzino!" I interjected triumphantly while flashing an exaggerated grin at Kirk. "It must have slipped my mind for a moment and I'm sorry about that-but you've nonetheless stumbled upon a magnificent item, my lady. The ba.s.s is a truly remarkable dish and one so exquisitely prepared with just a hint of citrus to counterbalance the robust flavor and aroma of the fish. And it's not at all fishy-tasting, mind you, but oh so moist and tender-so very moist and tender. In fact, I daresay it's the perfect plate and beautifully presented-just try not to eat the f.u.c.king bagand don't call me your server."

16.

At the beginning of April, when I mentioned Montauk and the Hamptons to Rick, I was really just running my mouth. It was just a lot of talk from a loud mouth New Yorker who thinks he knows everything. I certainly had no real intention of heading back up there even if it was for just the summer. That's the truth, the whole truth and nothing but. Rick, however, was a little older than the rest of us with responsibilities and a mortgage to pay, so when I mentioned that between June and September he could clear over $500 a day on Eastern Long Island he was all about it.

"I can't spend another summer down here," he told me once at the Compound. "It's hot and humid and disgusting and there's no money to be made anywhere. Each winter things are good for three or four months and then by July I'm completely broke again."

Unfortunately, that week when he actually started getting the ball rolling by making arrangements with a seasonal restaurant in Southampton, my drug monkey finally opened its eyes, yawned and had a good stretch for the first time in four months. And when I realized Perry and I would indeed be heading up north for the summer I knew at the very bottom and most desolate, far-flung corner of my heart that somehow, someway I'd be doing dope again. Of course, I absolutely refused to acknowledge it in any way, shape, or form but it was still vaguely there for the taking. It was kind of like carrying around a deep, dark, mostly repressed childhood memory that was too self-destructive to consciously consider. Or, perhaps, it was more like desperately wishing and waiting for something fantastic to happen but refusing to mention it or even think about for fear of jinxing it away. But regardless, and to confuse things even further, on some equally obscure level I absolutely knew that dope was something I truly didn't want in my life, something I knew I couldn't want. However, I can a.s.sure you I never considered the absurdity of it all-finally fleeing New York to get clean and enduring that arduous and grueling bus ride to Florida only to turn around and head back for a few months before returning to Florida once again. Of course, I also refused to consider the obvious pitfalls of going back to the belly of the beast because of course-that would be a waste of time.

My own mental gymnastics aside, our new Floridian friends knew little to nothing about our drug history or inclinations. As far as they were concerned, the decision-both mine and Perry's-to spend the summer in Montauk was at worst motivated by personal greed, and at best inspired by compa.s.sion for some cash-strapped coworkers.

In a matter of days, Rick had secured summer jobs for a group of us at a restaurant in Southampton along with housing in Montauk, and by the end of April the sun and the ever increasing humidity started heating things up and I was looking forward to getting away from Florida for a while. Besides, Kirk was absolutely p.i.s.sing me the f.u.c.k off, and the endgame would finally play itself out one morning when Kristen arrived a few minutes late to pick me up at the Compound before heading in to work.