Jobs: Buddy's (Part 2)

When I started at Buddy's I was a busboy. Gross.

Washing dishes is gross. Darren was a cook. He was a gross troll of a man. I remember a gnarly straggling black beard and a perpetual rum & coke. He spent most of his time on the wrong side of the bar instead of behind the grill.

The first cigarettes I smoked were his. Im sorry Mom, but everyone else in that place took regular cigarette breaks and I didn't get any breaks. Until I started stealing Darren's cigarettes.

I don't remember anything except slurry yet sharply barked orders coming out of his mouth. Although I feel somewhat guilty in sharing that truth, considering...

Years later (not too many though, because I couldn't yet drive myself) I was hitching a ride somewhere from my Dad on the condition that we first swing thru a wake and I allow him to pay his respects. It was a co-worker's father. My dad is a fast jiving seafood salesmen in the city and could probably sell you a case of salmon if you talk to him long enough.

I accompanied him to the wake, young and uncomfortable by the sad strangers. Walking in the door, Dad made his way towards his friend, but I froze at the poster welcoming the mournful. My dad's co-worker's dead father was Darren the cook from Buddys.

Sometimes the world is too damn small and that can be a bummer. I suppose a depressing and tragic coincidence is a fitting end for mine and Darren's story. Thanks for the smokes, pal.