Waiter Detox Day1

While walking home last night, I grew incredibly sad. It would seem okay to be sad coming off a last day at work. It was after all these years, my last restaurant shift. I've heard it said that leaving a job gives most people a level of depression, which I did not notice. Fortunately, on my last night in the restaurant business, I worked with my favorite people. On my last night in the restaurant business, I did not have to serve too many people. And best of all, I only served a few people who I would rather kick than be nice to.

So why the sadness?

It was a beautiful night. The moon was shining through light clouds. The air was the perfect texture. I walked the 6 blocks without a hat on my head or gloves on my hands. I walked upright through the neighborhood and Roosevelt park. At one point, crossing through the rose garden, I thought of my friend Dan. I haven't spoken to Dan for nearly 11 years, and even before that, we saw each other pretty regularly, about once a decade or so. But last night I thought about him because of the night.

So many of my memories of him take place at night. When we were teenagers, we wandered the streets of our atomic community all night long. We talked about all the things teenagers would talk about, deeper things, what-ifs and how-comes. During my walk home, I missed him terribly.

It makes me wonder how my mind functions. I mean, I just walked away from a job I'd had (more or less) for 7 and half years, and my thoughts were on a childhood friend.

I saw a new friend on my way home. I did not see a car, I did not see any homeless people in the park. I did not see any lights on in any house. The who neighborhood was asleep. But I did see Connor. I knew it was him. I saw him in silhouette at the end of his driveway. I usually see him there. But I usually see him during the day. He was doing the bob and weave. He was smoking a cigarette. And he presumably saw me, although I doubt he knew it was me. He stumbled back up his driveway and I crossed the street. I really like this guy, but I didn't want to talk to him. A few years ago Connor escaped the restaurant business too. He has been a realtor for the last few years. I still think of him as a bartender.

Moments later as I got onto my street, it occurred to me that if I will miss anything, I will miss the night. I've lived my life for so long at night that I just felt heavy thinking that my new lifestyle is not a night life. I'm comfortable at night. Especially last night, there wasn't anything or anyone stirring other than Connor. The world is peaceful late at night. Even the sound of traffic is quelled. It wasn't even eleven o'clock.

My whole life has been at night. I lived in Denver for fifteen years and I don't have many memories of the daytime. It's always dark, always loosely populated, and filled with peaceful wonder at every turn.

I realize that a big part of my nighttime existence is just the way I'm wired. After all, I was up all night even when I was kid. Somehow, I have to wonder if my attraction to and my longevity in the service industry has exaggerated or exacerbated my nocturnal leanings? It doesn't matter. I can't image I'll be confided solely to daylight hours from here on out.

Certainly people who work in restaurants are creatures of the night. Over the years, when I've met non-restaurant people they viewed the night very differently than me. There are two types of people, I've been told. There are those who say: “It's only ten o'clock.” And those who say: “Oh, it's already ten o'clock.” I know which one I am.