School? I Have a Better Idea.-TS-C1-

The semester came to a predictably disappointing close. I don't remember what my grades were exactly. I could look easily, but it would just make me feel bad. I think my parents had some strongly worded conversations with me. I lied as best I could to play the role of a teenager lost in life trying to find what I was passionate about. They sort of bought it and were willing to play along at least. I didn't tell them about the hours upon hours of Halo I played. In my defense, I was pretty good and could still take you to school. That includes you Dan, you wanna go? So that appeared to be the end of my sparkling, meteoric academic ride. One semester and maybe two out of five classes passed? But I was doing great in the School of Hard Knocks. Well, I was doing pretty good in the online equivalent of the School of Hard Knocks, but its still accredited.  The important part was I now controlled my own destiny.

Thank God, I was free, just one more way I am exactly like William Wallace. I could live and smoke in my apartment like us youthful Gods were meant to live life: Halo until dawn, cigarettes on the porch, poker whenever possible, and, of course, Steak & Shake every night. Frequenting the diner almost every night in high school made sense. It was a stop on the underground railroad of adolescence. Vigilant were our parents, and our much needed indiscretions had to be concealed. "Study sessions" were a great cover. And smelling like smoke was perfectly acceptable when returning from a restaurant known to cater to the less looked after children-adults puffing on their bad choices. So when the crew made it to college, what kept us coming back? We had our own apartment. We had an awesome apartment. Something drove us out of it to pay for the exact same experience. Except the experience was not the same. Steak & Shake provided a sense of community that most of us hadn't encountered before. This was no youth group with condescending brain washers smiling uncomfortably at you. There were no chaperones on the field trip or codes of conduct to maintain. Here we had already achieved the level of independence college and "growing up" promised. At this restaurant, in our booths, we were what we wanted to be. So we returned again and again and again.

While I was in school, my parents supported me (suckers) and paid my rent and gave me a little extra, if I recall correctly. When I dropped that ball it eventually crossed my mind that rent money had to come from somewhere. I don't remember at what point I thought serving at Steak & Shake would be a good idea. It probably came up as a flirtatious joke with one of the waitresses or perhaps in some sort of playful competition with the manager, Anthony. However it happened, it did happen, and a few days later I found out how bizarre of a place Steak & Shake was in the daylight.

When light is shining in the windows, the staff is different. They don't know me, and they aren't playing with their customers. It is confusing. Throw in a new manager with a big bristly moustache handing you W-2 forms asking you about your felony record, and you find yourself asking if you are really in the right place. I toughed it out. I signed the papers and agreed to go buy some slip resistant shoes. I took the bow tie and the shirt. I shook hands, walked out the door, and realized for the first time that they weren't just going to pay me for hanging out.