New York courts are efficent.

Well friends, I finally had my day in court. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting… I’m not exactly a stanger to the legal system I’m sorry to say… but this was different. I showed up early in a shirt and tie (I don’t own a suit or I’d have worn one), clean shaved… the first time I’ve shaved in over a year, and the first time I’ve been completely clean shaven since the late 90’s (!). I entered what I’m fairly certain is the shittiest high rise in all of Manhattan, and went through security that makes TSA look like seasoned veterans. I walked up the dirty marble staircase and found myself waiting in a line to show my summons. It wasn’t unlike a DMV line… everyone was pissed off to be there, including the employees. The whole place felt temporary… as if still under construction. Cheap gray linoleum, a counter of unfinished drywall with scratched plexiglass windows that only reached 3/4’s up. Above us was a loft type space packed with cardboard file boxes that I assume held evidence, and somewhere in there the knife that the tubby Puerto Rican took from me a few months back.  In front of me, a Muslim kid of about 19 was trying to look tough for his girlfriend, telling her that if they tried to make him swear on a bible he’d refuse. Apparently, I’m the only one who thought a court date meant you should try and look presentable. People mostly wore street clothes… hoodies, baggy jeans. Behind me were 3 gutter punks wearing so many chains, studded belts, and piercings it must have taken them forever to get through the metal detectors. A few places ahead of me, some girl was handed a paper saying her case was dismissed… that gave me a glimmer of hope that was quickly snuffed out. When I got to the window (in a surprisingly short amount of time), I was handed a pink slip…like you used to get when you were called to the principles office… and assigned to courtroom 3.

When I got in, it looked like the employee lounge for a taxi company. Lot’s of bored, slightly irritated looking Dominican’s reading their newspapers. The judge was an old Jewish man, balding with a bushy white mustache. He wasn’t wearing a robe, but a cheap beige suit and was doing what I can only describe as schtick. “We aren’t trying murder cases here… this isn’t as exciting as law and order… mostly I get open containers and public urination. If you’ve got open container, it’s $25. Public urination is $50. Remember, it’s cheaper going in than coming out…” Some of the mothers there with there sons chuckled. Most of us weren’t really interested. The Public Defender was running late, and when he got there the judge was busting his balls, calling him Tardy Timmy. One by one they called the names and offenses. A mixture of TLC violations (taxt drivers), honking, no taxi license, etc., public urination, open containers. All the Black guys either had taxi violations… some of them 2 or 3… or public urination… all of them got off with $25-$50 fines, some of them wanted to fight those, and most of them that plead guilty filed for extensions. The 2 or 3 white guys in there had open container tickets, and were visibly relieved to get the hell out of there for $25. Me and one other guy were the only ones with weapons violations, both of us popped for carrying knives. He was called before me and claimed he needed it for his work at a homeless shelter… not for protection, but for breaking down boxes of donations. The judge was skeptical, but said if he could produce a note saying he used the knife at work, he’d dismiss the whole thing. That gave me my second glimmer of hope of the day, but it was dashed just as quickly as the first one was. 2 dockets later, I was called, and I swear I heard animosity in the tone of the farm-boy bailiff. I limped up in front of the judge, confident I’d get this all straightened out.

“Why did you have a knife?” He asked.

“I’m a cook your honor” I said, sure that he’d accept this from a humble clean cut white boy.

“So exactly why can’t you leave it in the kitchen?” He shot back, again I swear I picked up some anger in his tone… as if he somehow expected better from me.

“That’s a valid point your honor… I simply forgot I had it with me… it’s just habit” I replied.

“Alright, $100 dollars and a guilty plea, or you can come back for a trial” he snapped, clearly annoyed.

Now I was the one who was annoyed. “Fine, I’ll pay right now.” I glared at him, but caught myself when I saw the meathead bailiff eying me with contempt.

“Guilty of a violation, wait outside.”

I started to limp into the hallway, but one of the other bailiffs, a motherly, pleasant black lady told me I could sit if I wanted.

“Thank you so much.”, always the gentleman.

After a brief wait, me and my fellow criminals were lead to the cashier window where we paid our debts to society. For some reason, that sort of broke my heart. All of them pulled wads of $20 bills… some neatly folded, some crumpled… bills that you could just tell the got from the check cashing store that morning. Some of them counting them over and over, as if to make sure they could really bear to part with that $25 today. It seemed almost routine for them. Just part of the deal, get paid, get drunk, pay a fine… some kind of terrible cycle of poverty. Or maybe that’s just my bleeding heart…

a work in progress

Well friends, it’s happened again… yup, I’m depressed. Much as I’d like to think that an idle life is the one for me, it’s becoming increasingly harder to swallow… and to finance.  For the first time in a while, I’ve had the apartment to myself. The wife is at work, the roommate off at another stage (or for my friends outside the culinary world, a job interview/audition). Maybe it’s the emptiness that makes my spacious (by New York standards) 2 bedroom with hardwood floors seem so desolate… maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t had the funds to buy a TV to provide the requisite background noise we so often take for granted… I’m sitting in a plush bed… the only furnishing… wishing I’d laid out for that Ikea couch I saw a few weeks back. The apartment is “cheery” in that it’s well lit by lots of windows… windows I haven’t covered yet… making me feel something like a fish in a bowl.

I took a walk through my fashionable little neighborhood… avoiding the hipster moms driving  danish made storllers… stopping off for “happy hour” at the saddest, diveiest bar on the drag. There are no happy hours in here. The time passes slowly and without joy for the few old men I’m coming to know as regulars and the collection of equally pitiable bartenders. When I walk in, shattering the comfortable gloominess with a burst of natural light, I’m greeted with a knowing nod before these veterans of long forgotten wars turn their attention back to their bottles of beer. A toddler is crawling on the dingy green felt of the pool table in back, his mother squeezing in a few last moments of playtime before his grandmother whisks him away and she begins her evening shift. I’m on my second shot of Jack, only $5 with a beer, wishing that it was 6pm on the west coast instead of here so I could watch game 7 of the Hornets vs. Spurs series. As it stands now, at 7:30, I’ll be to drunk to venture out somewhere with a television to watch it. It’s just as well, as I really shouldn’t spend anymore money today.

When my $2o dollars ran out, after a buy-back from the barkeep who mothered the little bastard from the pool table, I made my way back home. I stopped off for a six-packof MGD, a tribute to my friend Brain who used to drink it religiously, a half pint of warm Jack Daniels, and I returned to my bed. So here I am, wondering why I always deal with depression in such a stereotypical and destructive manner. Tomorrow I’ll have things to do, so the exile I’m feeling from the normal world won’t sting so much. I’ll be heading to the city for a shave and a haircut, preparation for my court date on Wednesday. Did you know you can still get a Straight Razor and Hot Towel shave? I didn’t either, but you can at a select few places in New York. It’ll be the first time a razor has touched this face in over a year… I’m hoping it makes me feel a little less like a bum. Then Wednesday is the court date at last, and we’ll see if I can beat the rap for carrying a pocket knife. I’m hoping the sight of me limping in on a cane, dressed in a suit and tie will lend the judge a little sympathy, but I’m not exactly counting on it. At most, I’m looking at 5 days and a $1000 fine. I’m not real excited about the prospect of either of them, but at this point 5 days will cost me a lot less than $1000.

After that, I’ll be back to business as usual such as it is. I’m going to have to secure the services of an attorney for this workman’s comp case… it’s been over a month now, and still not one cent has been paid. The law states payments are due within 18 days, the insurance company admitted it was true, but said I’d have to take that up at the hearing… whenever that ends up being. Along with the daily harassing phone calls I’ve been placing to my boss, the insurance company and The State Workman’s Comp Board, I should keep busy enough that I don’t find myself in a funk like this for at least a few more days.

For now, I feel a little better now that I’ve vented… it’s as if just putting into words all the frustration and sadness makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. I’m going to accomplish one more thing before the day is over, and that’s killing this half pint and sixer. Cheers.

M.I.A.

I haven’t really been doing much of anything lately. We moved into our new place last weekend, which is good. We made sure to get a bed right away, but as of now that’s all we have in the way of furnishings. We’re thinking about getting a TV this weekend, but aside from Playoff Basketball, I haven’t really missed it. Besides, I probably really shouldn’t be stimulating the economy with my stimulus check, I should probably save it for rent or food or something like that… especially since the workman’s comp board is taking their sweet time in getting my case settled. We’re at a month so far, and I haven’t received a dime… isn’t the whole point to provide for you while you’re unable to generate income? At this rate, I’ll be back to work before the checks kick in.  Who would have thought a big government bureaucracy would be so inefficient?

Physically, I’m getting better. Doc says I’m healing faster than normal… if I had a normal job I’d be back to work in maybe 2 weeks… but since my line of work involves standing for 12-14 hours a day, he thinks 8 weeks is more realistic. I’m in a hurry to get back, but not enough of a hurry to risk permanently disabling myself. Fuck it, they can keep paying me until I’m 100%, assuming they ever pay me at all.

I’ve got a meeting with a very shady sounding lawyer on Monday. I’m not really interested in pursuing a lawsuit, I just think maybe someone with a little more knowledge of the system might be able to expedite the process and get me whatever I’m entitled to. It’s hard to negotiate all the red tape when you aren’t really sure what the proper channels are. Hopefully he can help… or maybe he thinks he can get me a settlement of some kind… I’ve never been the plaintiff in a court case, so I’m not really sure what it’s like to be on the other side. I’m also not willing to give up much of whatever I have coming, because I don’t think it’s all that much to begin with… still, I guess there’s no harm in hearing the guy out and seeing what he can do for me.

Really, things are pretty uneventful. My roommate is still looking for work, but he might have a lead on a few good places. I’m off my crutches and onto a cane, which suits my style so much more. In fact, I’m thinking of making it a permanent part of my ensemble, even after I’m healed. I mean, who doesn’t look fucking classy with a cane? No one, that’s who. Plus it totally suits my bitter old man tendencies. I’m already using it to point and wave at people. It’s MUCH easier to hail a cab with one, and I can’t wait for the opportunity to smack someone upside the head with it. Also, it’s easier to walk around on, so I’ve been strolling around my new neighborhood a bit.

So for anyone who was wondering, all is well… mostly.

Update

So things are moving along here. Seen a lot of places, going to start putting in applications tomorrow. Most likely I’ll be living in Park Slope, but there’s an outside chance we’ll end up in Manhattan. My boy from Oakland moved out here a few days ago, so that’s been nice. I just wish I was more mobile. The pain isn’t as bad, so that’s helped my mood. I thought I had a lot to say, but I’ve got some cold Fernet and a PBR calling me, so I guess I’ll leave this short and sweet. Thanks to everyone who’s stopped by to read this… keep it up. It’s hard to get motivated if you don’t think anyones listening. I’ll try and post something a little more in depth soon. Cheers.

I’ve got a peaceful, easy feeling… but I still hate The Eagles

Today I’m feeling a little better. I woke up a little earlier, and I’ve been all over the internet looking for apartments… I haven’t even let myself get distracted by porn…yet. I feel productive in a way, and I think that’s key for me. True, it’s kind of sad when an hour on Craigslist and 6 phone calls counts as productive, but what do you want from me…? I’m crippled.

It wasn’t long ago that by this time of the day I’d already banged out 60 or 70 covers for lunch and was looking ahead to dinner… now I’m on my 2nd PBR, thinking about microwaving some pizza. How the mighty have fallen. Still, maybe it’s just the vicodin talking, but I’ve got a warm fuzzy feeling, like everything is ok… wait… that’s definitely the vicodin talking… damn… Well, I guess I’ll take what I can get.

Trials and Tribulations

When I moved here, I was well aware of New York’s reputation for being a tough city. It’ll chew you up and spit you out, the big scary city, if you make it there you can make it anywhere… about a million terrible cliches about how challenging it’s supposed to be to live here… I heard them all. And I paid them no mind. It’s not as if Los Angeles and Oakland are some one horse towns. I grew up in a big city, then moved to another one all by myself… no problems. I had no reason to believe it would be any different here. If anything, it should be easier. I’m older, wiser… more responsible. I’ve been living a lot better than I used to these past few years, so I should be free of the burden of bad karma that plagued me in the past. I’m here to do good things, and that should mean good things are coming right…?

Wrong. I’ve pretty much been taking lumps since I got here. Maybe this is how The City humbles someone foolish enough to come here with no fear… maybe I’m still working off some of that karma from my early twenties…  maybe I just have bad luck…whatever the case, I can’t help but feel as if I’ve been bitch slapped by lady liberty herself.  Let me give you a quick rundown of the bad things that have happened to me since I left the comfort and safety of California.

Day 4: I’m riding the subway with Donna, enjoying what we figure will be one of my last weekends off before I start back to work. I had tried out at a restaurant the night before, and was disappointed by what passes for Michelin Star dining in this town.  On the upside, they offered me a job that I wasn’t sure I even sure I wanted. We were considering this as we exited the station on a brisk but beautiful Sunday morning.

Suddenly, about 10 feet from the exit I was approached by 3 or 4 sketchy looking Puerto Rican guys. They surrounded me and ushered me into a corner. Donna had no idea what was happening and headed for the station agent’s window to get help. One of the guys produced a badge and reached into my pocket. I had a small pocket knife on me, the same one I’d carried for years in California without incident. I used it in the kitchen to cut boxes, tape… anything that would ruin the blade of one of my expensive Japanese chef knives. I tried to explain that to the cop, but he seemed hell bent on this being some sort of weapon whose only possible use was murder. Keep in mind, this knife was maybe 3 inches long, had never been sharpened, and cost me all of $10 from a Big Five about 3 years ago. If I was going to murder someone, I’d probably opt for something a little more intimidating. But due to the fact that this chubby 21 jump street reject could flip the blade out with one of his greasy, stubby hands he wanted to take me to jail for felony possesion of a deadly weapon.

I had been, and continued to be nothing but polite to the officers. I apologized, I explained that I only moved here 4 days earlier, and that back home it was perfectly legal to carry a pocket knife. Two of the cops started to come around… one even went to explain to my terrified girlfriend what was going on. The fat one with the bad cornrows was unstoppable though. He saw that I had an out of state ID and threatened me with another ticket for not changing my address through the DMV. I reminded him I just got there 4 days earlier, but he didn’t seem to care. All he could keep repeating was that this was an instant felony. I was looking at one strike… prison time. Maybe it’s because I was never afraid that he kept trying to scare me. When he waddled his fat ass upstairs to call in my info, I started talking to his partners. “Don’t worry about it” he reassured me. “He gets all fired up, but all we’ll do is take the knife and give you a court date. Tell the judge what you told us and he’ll let you go”.  I thanked him for being straight with me and apologized for the hassle. His ape of a partner returned, telling me I was lucky that I came back clean, and that if there was anything I wasn’t telling them about I better come clean right now, because I was in enough trouble already. I assured him I was clean, no record, no warrants and he finally let me go with a summons to go to court in 3 months. He of course, reminded me how lucky I was that he was being nice enough to not take me straight to jail. I told him he was the sweetest cop I’d ever met and got the hell out of there.

When I got home, I read the law and saw that I was indeed in violation. It is illegal to have a knife visibly displayed, and mine was clipped on my pocket. It is, however not a felony, and the knife I had was perfectly legal to be carried, so long as it is concealed. Seems a little backwards to me, but what the hell, it’s their state. And by the way, deputy dipshit got both the statute I was in violation of, and the court date wrong on my summons. I’m sure I’m going to have no problem beating this one, but what the fuck…?

Week 4: As I’m getting in a cab to head home at a reasonable hour for a change, I get a call from Donna. She’s upset, almost frantic sounding. She tells me when she got home, the door had been kicked open, the door frame completely shattered. Nothing was missing, and there was a largely illegible note from the landlord. What she could make out said “had to open door. emergency. will fix lock tomorrow.”

I got home as quick as I could and took a look around. Nothing was missing, but there was no way to even close the door. I shoved cardboard between the door and the frame that was left just so it wouldn’t be wide open. It was late, so we went to sleep. I called the landlord the next morning, wanting to know why the hell he kicked my fucking door down. He explained that the city had been working on the gas main out front of the building, and detected a leak. He had to check our stove, but didn’t have a key (?) or our phone number (?) and he started insinuating that this was really mostly my fault. I cut him off. I told him I don’t care why he had to break my goddamn door down, all I wanted to know was when he was going to fix it. He said he was in the hospital, way to sick to fix anything. “But you were feeling well enough to kick the motherfucker off the hinges yesterday! What the fuck?!”. He answered with “what are you afraid of?” Afraid? I’m not afraid of anything, I told him, but I’m out of the house a good 16 hours a day, which leaves my girlfriend and all my earthly possessions home unprotected. He assured me there hadn’t been a robbery in this building for 30 years, and I told him that was fine, and that it would be one hell of a coincidence if one happened before he got around to putting a lock on my door. He asked what that was supposed to mean, and I told him all it meant was he better damn well hope the streak stayed intact. He still hasn’t got around to fixing my door almost 2 weeks later. Every time I call he says he’s too sick to move.  On the upside, I’m home every day now to protect my stuff which brings us to our last installment…

Week 5: I had a lot of options as far as where to work, but in the end I chose X. I chose it for several reasons, including the impeccable reputation of Chef/Owner X, the fact that they had 2 Michelin Stars, when most of the other places I was considering had only 1, and they offered me what is in my mind, one of the most coveted positions in the kithcen: Poissonier, or Fish Cook if you aren’t up on Escoffier’s Brigade.

On the down side, it was 5 12 hour days a week, plus 1 16 hour day a week for a total of 76 or so hours for a lousy $600 a week. No overtime, no benefits. My one day off was decided not by the chef or sous-chef, but by the impossible cunt who cooked fish during the lunch shift. When I say she was a cunt, I’m sugar coating it. I’ve never met a bigger bitch, someone who I can honestly and objectively say has not one redeeming quality as a human being.  Somehow, she was in charge of me. She determined my schedule, my prep lists,and was in charge of all of my training. Why she had that kind of authority, I have no idea, since technically I outranked her, and I could certainly cook circles around her. I suppose it was mostly because she was sleeping with the chef de cuisine.

The chef de cuisine was possibly the biggest hack I’ve ever seen. He had been with X for 8 years, rising from the ranks of line cook to chef through a combination of politics and desperation. It certainly had nothing to do with his skills as a chef or as a manager. I  have never seen a man so inept at professional relationships. He shamelessly played favorites. He was contantly trying to get into the pants of a few of the female employees, and they could get away with anything. He was prone to temper tantrums, and anything at all might trigger one. He would often be screaming complete gibberish in broken english or spanish peppered with profanity at no one in particular. Some nights, his tirades would last the entire 6 hour service. He had the energy to maintain these because the man never did any work. I could count on one hand the number of times I saw him cut or cook anything in my month and a half there.  It wasn’t unusual for him to spend hours on the phone or even to catch him sleeping in the corner. Why someone like this was in charge of a place so reputable was beyond me.

One Day the Chef de Cuisine had one of his hissy fits. This time, he made the mistake of directing it at me. For 3 or 4 hours I endured this little mans nonsensical raving. At first I calmly apologized for whatever perceived transgressions I may have committed, but around halfway through he said he didn’t want to hear “I’m sorry chef” one more time. For the last 2 hours or so of his ranting I didn’t say one fucking word. I just put my head down and cooked, sending out plate after plate that incensed this pitiful excuse for a person. He briefly left me to go light up some other cooks and servers, but in the end returned to me. Still, I was completely silent. I mustered as much dignity as possible given the circumstances, and stoically went about my work. I think the juxtaposition of this seasoned professional absolutely melting down against the cool and calm demeanor of a much younger cook is one of the strangest, most embarrassing things I’ve ever witnessed in a kitchen.  I decided then and there that I would never be able to respect this man again, and that I had no reason to work for someone I couldn’t respect.

I had the next day off and really gave it some thought. Donna agreed, there was no reason for me to work somewhere like this. I went in the next day with the full intention of walking out then and there. When I walked into the kitchen in my street clothes, the Sous-Chef new what was going on. He was in the weeds that day, since the lunchtime meat cook had showed up late. Rather than add to his burden, I went and changed and started prep. When he finally had time, he pulled me out for a cigarette and I told him what was on my mind. “I came too far and worked too hard to take abuse from someone like him”  I stated matter of factly. “I completely understand” he agreed. “Give me on week to find someone else” he asked. “One week” I said “and he better be on his best behaviour.” He was, in fact during that service I heard him having heart to hearts with all his other cooks, explaining that he wasn’t a bad guy, he just cared so goddamn much about his food and making all of us better that sometimes he might overreact just a bit. It was all I could do to keep from laughing, and during one especially insincere outpouring I actually did. After service the chef asked why I was leaving. I paused and gave him a look straight in his bulging, vacant eyes. I had a chance to tell him exactly why… that I would never lower myself to taking abuse from a hack like him, not matter how much the name of the restaurant might help my career… that I’d be goddamned if I was going to spend 80 hours a week watching some insecure egomaniac destroy the good name of X… that him and that fucking whore from my station deserved each other and I hoped they died together and miserable. In the end, I decided not to burn any bridges. I gave reasons, that were valid and understandable, that didn’t hurt anyones feelings. Besides, he knew. For the next week, that motherfucker would barely look at me.

I was supposed to be finished early the next week, but there was a catering event for 400-500 people coming up that Thursday. The whole kitchen was going to be in the shits all week, and I didn’t want to add any burden on my brothers, so I stayed on to help. Things went more or less smoothly. We just barely pulled it off, but we pulled it off. I even managed to land a try-out at a restaurant that sounded like my dream job. Brand new, only open 1 month… an owner with a Midas Touch…  simple, elegant, thoughtful food… only 12 seats! I was so excited, I couldn’t wait for the event to end on Thursday night so I could begin the new chapter of my NYC career.

About 10pm the event was over. We all toasted with some leftover Prosecco… to a job well done… to my brief time in the trenches with these guys… to keeping in touch and to better days. We decided it was such a beautiful night, we’d just walk the equipment the 3 or 4 blocks back to the kitchen. My sous-chef was pushing a large rental box  on wheels with all the leftovers in it. “Pull rank one last time” I said, “I’ll push the box back”. “I like your style” was his response. In no time, I was in the freight elevator and on the street, easily maneuvering through the streets of Downtown Manhattan. The bubbly had given me a nice warm feeling that heightened the euphoria of knowing that this was the last time I’d have to return to this awful place. I was free.

About 30 feet from the rear entrance, the sidewalk is in sad shape. There are dips and cracks. It is not the ideal surface to be wheeling a top-heavy 400 pound box. Caught up in my own moment I didn’t even realize how treacherous the terrain had become until on wheel hung up on a dip and the whole box began to sway. I had no intention of being a hero, and I could give a fuck if all that product was lost. I jumped out of the way, but not quick enough. The box crashed down on the concrete, pinning my left foot underneath it. At first disbelief. What an ass I am! How could I do this!? There was no pain yet, but I was stuck. I tried to lift the box and it wouldn’t budge. I started to realize I was probably pretty seriously injured under there. I slipped my foot out, but the end of my sock was still pinned. I was wrestling with it when a pretty attractive young women rounded the corner. She stopped over me, my stockinged foot comically pinned under a metal box bleeding purple goulash all over my whites. “Are you ok?” she asked. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine” I respnded, trying desperately, if foolishly to sound cool. “Do you need help…? An ambulance…?” She pressed. “Oh no. I’m ok, really. Thanks so much. Have a great evening.” I smiled. “ok…” she wandered off. As soon as she left the pain flashed. I got my foot out and pulled off my sock. My foot was already swollen to 3 times it’s normal size. It was purple and bleeding. Fuck! This can’t be happening. I was 15 minutes away from being free. I had a job set up the next day that I really wanted… why is this happening to me…

My co workers rounded the corner and came into view. “Little help?” I asked. “Jesus… What the fuck… are you alright…?” One of them ran across the street to our convenience store to get some ice. The asshole tried to charge him 2 dollars for it. After some threats, he appeared with the ice. At first, I was refusing to go to the hospital. This was mostly for show. I new I was in bad shape, but I wanted to put the front out there… that I didn’t want to make a big deal out of this… I had to get that job the next day… I can’t be injured. Finally they GM showed up and handed one of my co-workers a wad of cash. “Take a cab and go with him to the hospital.”

The cabbie took his sweet time getting there. I was starting to feel sick from the pain. Being soaked in meat juice wasn’t helping. We finally got there. I new I was fucked, but I was trying to be optimistic. The waiting room was pretty tame compared to what I was expecting from a Manhattan Emergency Room… I guess I was lucky it didn’t happen on a Friday night. We were behind a heroin addict and a guy who drank too much, but they moved me to the front of the line. When I went in for x-rays I asked the guy how bad he thought it looked. “It don’t look good” was his less than assuring response. After some time word came that I had 2 broken bones. One had twisted and probably was going to need surgery. We’d have to wait until the swelling went down after a few days and see what the orthopedic surgeon says. Odds are my foot is going to be held together by pins and screws for the rest of my life, and that’s a scary proposition to someone who makes their living standing on their feet 12 hours a day. At best, everything rights itself and I’m up and about in a month… at worst, I go under the knife in a few weeks and I’m laid up for 3 months. I guess we’ll see…

For now, I’m stuck in my apartment. I’m on the 3rd floor of a walk up, so even getting downstairs for a smoke is nearly impossible. I have to move in 2 weeks, and for the moment I can’t walk and have no money coming in. I missed out on a job I really wanted, and now I’m stuck dealing with people who I more or less told to fuck themselves, for a few months while I sort out my workman’s comp. What does it all mean? I don’t know… I’m still not sorry I moved here… I’m not conceding defeat. Bad things happen. God knows, they’ve happened to me before, they’ll keep on happening I’m sure. All you can do is deal with it. A wise man once said to me “When life gives you lemons, shut the fuck up and eat your lemons.” Thanks for the advice Dad.