The reluctant deckhand.

The restaurant is falling apart. The more delicate employees are dropping like flies, while the more resilient among us are digging in our heels. The gas company came this afternoon and shut off the gas, forcing us to close. Most of the crew bailed, yet I stayed alone, waiting for the boss man to get there. I sat on a table in the dining room, drinking free Mt. Dew, dropping to the floor whenever a car came into the parking lot, lest I be seen. When the boss finally got there, we tried to laugh about it. We tried to distract ourselves by making future plans to make custom bicycles, to advertise the restaurant more, to hire a new dishwasher, to get everyone on the same page, to make money, to stop the drama. I finally left and rode my new bike around. Hours later, near midnight, as I was stopped at 52nd & Powell, a former co-worker came walking by, and we chatted. His name is Jesse, and he used to be a dishwasher, too. He was amused by the current state of affairs. I rode home, laughing, glad that I don't sit behind a desk with headphones on all fucking day. When I got here, there was a drunken message from a current co-worker, one of the stalwarts. He was inviting me over to BBQ some steak.

This is why I still work there.