I was crashing at my mom’s house. I was just crashing there for awhile. I wasn’t living there. That would be sad and pathetic. The family went out of town for the weekend, so I had the place to myself. We closed up our stations, rolled some blunts, grabbed some Mickey’s tall boys and rolled over to the crib.
This was during that period in a young man’s life when booze is not intended to taste good. Mickey’s was running some promotion where they were putting UFC fighters on their cans. I guess drinking out of Rich Franklin seemed badass.
I had only been cooking for a couple of months at that point. I was just excited to hang out with the cool kids. I didn’t even see it coming.
We cracked some beers. The grill cook lit a doobie and fired it into rotation. I didn’t know how to smoke weed back then any more than I knew how to cook. Sure, I had taken the occasional bong rip back in my community college days, and I knew vaguely of the puff, puff, pass protocol. I was, however, unfortunately ill-prepared to go toe to toe in a pot-smoking battle royale with a quartet of big chieftain stoner lungs. The malt liquor helped matters very little.
And so it quickly progressed into a wonderful and enchanting evening, exploring the inner rim of the toilet bowl. Ever a gracious host, I Interrupted my expedition only long enough to yell goodbye as my guests shuffled out the front door, before quickly returning to my meditation.
I was viciously hungover for the complete duration of the following day. In fact, I had never been so hungover in my life. I started my shift around 1pm, feeling pretty shitty still. During that shift, I vomited eight times in the hand sink beside my station. The line counted along with me.
There are few things in life which rival the overwhelming sense of relief that one experiences when crawling into bed after working a complete service with a wicked hangover. Sliding into bed, pulling cool sheets up to your ears; these simple, beautiful things.
Where am I going with this story? Just, life lessons and such, no big deal.
When you make mistakes and you put yourself in a bad situation, you gotta suck it up and make the best of it. You might feel awful, and in fact, you’re probably violating some type of health code, but that’s better than the alternative, better than giving up and letting others pay for your mistakes.
If you aren’t the type to see any truth in this sentiment, you don’t belong in the kitchen, and I advise you in a very respectful and understanding manner to find a less challenging and more comfortable line of work. Perhaps a mode of employment which looks more favorably on the application of sick time to nursing off a night of competitive drinking, or, you know, one that actually recognizes the existence of sick time.
-Think about it, then wash your bowls.