Gordy at Work

I tried to avoid it, but my least favorite nickname has yet again hunted me down. They call me Gordy. I suggested others, Chim Chim, Gordo, Gord, Hans, but just as soon as you protest, they make their decision. So, I am Gordy at work.

Work is Coyote Grill & Cantina. Its a luxurious Mexican restaurant featuring a daily fish special, seafood enchiladas, tres leches cake, and a large number of various highly priced Latin American themed dishes. Personally, this is some of the best Mexican food I have eaten to date, which is no small thing for me to say.

As for job description, I am a jack of all front-of-the-restaurant-duties. This means I bus, I host, I serve, I run food, I smile real pretty and, most importantly, I rack in the tips! My managers are fairly cool people, being relaxed, but also very disciplined in the way they run the restaurant.

I don't know what I was gonna do with this post. I have just kept postponing it, but now I guess I will put down some observations, ya know, cause there is some good stuff.

The latino kid named Walter who wears Harvard and VT shirts, albeit he has never gone to college (nor probably ever will).

The salsa that just awes the senses and leaves the consumer an addict.

The Mexican dishwasher Himae who drives a new car and wears good clothes and looks like a hit man for MS13.

The fiery owner of the store that thrashes the employees whenever she gets the chance, affectionately called Tat!

The rather paltry amount of college students that partake of our services, despite the quality of the food and the close proximity to campus.

The Hobos who come in on Sundays to thank the manager Josh for volunteering at the shelter (God! They fucking reek!)

The fact that this is the busiest restaurant I have ever worked at, and its small size relative to seating.

Eat the Goddamn Seafood Enchiladas!

Feel Like Writing

I have not written in a while. Not for pleasure. Not for the sheer pleasure of letting words fall from my fingers. Fingers that seem less and less austere, more childish, and at the same time weathered. Today, I woke up feeling exhaustion washing over my body, my mind, my undying soul (when i say undying, i refer to the feeling that regardless of how tired i may be, that soul of mine will not perish, that it will not let me fall down, will not let me just crumple into a miserable heap). I had a list of things to do, a schedule that I had to hold to if I was to find any sense of productivity today. Shower, dress, wear specific clothes, show my Mason pride (even though i feel nor have any), eat (and even this had no joy for the food is tasteless and inspires nothing), pick up packages, go to class, go to class, go to crew, kill time (and why I do it and why I let the mindless indulgence take hold, I have no idea), eat and comingle, come back and work on journalistic homework. Then read. Force a book down my throat. It all seems so wrong, forcing oneself to live without wiggle room or boundaries. But it seems to be the only way to control my erratic tendencies, my habits of killing time, of letting things slip by. In this sense, I am disciplined without intending such a habit of soul.

I wish for a place of my own. I tire of living in this dorm. This dorm has rules, and I grow sick of them. Rules that prohibit what I can do, what I can imbibe, and which inspire nothing more than restlessness.

I am old, and I do not look it. I do not have the experience that I would otherwise need, but I am tired of the excess of youth. And yet, I so dearly wish to recapture it, to be able to connect with minds less mature than mine. But, I can not indulge in meaningless sex. I can not consume substance to extreme, for I begin to feel regret. I can not waste the entire day and feel no guilt. I can not just express my feelings, because they are not the feelings that people want to hear about. I wish, I wish I could be young. But I am past that time in my life, and I will not let myself tread too far backwards. I am not a slut of life.

I know this girl and she sickens me. It is because she is immature, and I wish I could find the key to her soul. She takes jokes too far, has no problem sleeping around, and lets her sorrows become drowned in alcohol. She does not know what she wants from life, and life does not know, and does not care, what she can provide for it. For this reason, she makes me disgusted. I know this girl and she scares me. She lives in a world where reality is something to be warped, to be changed into a state more acceptable. She will accept reality when she has too, but when no one can argue, she creates fantasy, accepts it, and trusts it. Her deception will only get her so far, and yet, that she can love this deception, this is what scares me. I know this girl and she makes my heart glad. I am glad to see that there are people out there, and even more fortunately are of the opposite gender. She is smart, well-read, and loves life. She is not above wearing shredded jeans, and yet will never let herself appear shabby or ill-kept. That I know her name is enough for me.

And now my time for sleep has descended upon me, and rather quickly. But will I collapse quickly, or lie awake as I do often?