There is no Island of misfit cooks

I've worked my share of jobs. Canneries, car lots, messenger, high tech, stage hand, etc. etc. I graduated from college believing that I would somehow be instantly legitimate. I would grow up and join my peers as fledgling economic contributors. My degree would begin to pay for itself. I would now reap the benefits of 16 years of cumpolsory and chosen education. It would be easy. Find myself a good company to work for. Prove to be both amicable and smarter than most, then sit back and collect the rewards. Easy money. Along the way I would accumulate wealth that was unimaginable to me during my undergraduate years. Oh, the life I would lead. Apparently when one enters into the professional workforce one should to be polite, listen to their boss, and follow the rules. I was a miserable failure at all of the above. I honestly didn't try to offend anyone, dissappoint anyone or upset the general balance of things. It's just that I have a distinct ability to rub people the wrong way sometimes. I didn't understand the unwritten rules that everyone else was following, and why they where following them. Why do I care about this leviathian that barely recognizes me? Why do I bust my ass, or at least try to, for something that I never see, and for someone I'll never meet. It's almost as if it becomes a faith of it's own. One has to buy into the concept of the corporation as provider, which it can quite successfully be. Of course I've never been one for belief in the unseen. I've only ever trusted the tangible, the tactile, the immediate. I left the square world behind for the kitchen.

I would make my home there. There, in a wonderful place were the lack of pay, insane stress, and ever present instability was forgotten in a shift drink. Where "Eat a dick Potsie" is a term of endearment. Where 3:00pm is a reasonable start to the day. I found my people. It is one of the finest collections of freaks, flakes, slackers, sociopaths, addicts, malcontents and anal retentive assholes anywhere. Anyone can find a job in a restuarant. Cooks come and go, servers just stop coming in, people are transient. Resumes are doctored, references go unchecked, or a warm body is just needed to fill a shift. Some are in it for the long haul. The professionals that love food, love the job, and are crazy and OCD enough to be good at it. Most are looking for something better. Getting an education, looking for a 'career', looking for better pay, maybe benefits. Regardless, they have all found a home in the lifestyle. It's a club, a secret society for those that have the common bond of being professional servants. You see these misfits have found pride in doing a job that few others want, and fewer still can do well, and outsiders don't understand. We can take the shit of the average joe; slap a smile on our face, curse your guts under our breath and still make you happy. As long as you can do your job, and show up for work you are welcome. You can find a home. We are not like Pirates, as Anthony Bourdain waxes. We are misfits, the collected detritus of all social and economic backgrounds. We are the three legged dog, the two dollar bill, and Charlie in the box.