Asylum
I was, of course, too inexperienced to understand: the industry is a series of islands for misfit toys of all shapes, sizes, and sociopathies. For me, it was more like a carnival: full of characters— all older, each with stories, flaws, and mostly the ability to buy beer. It being the ‘80s, we were just like our country: works in progress. The things we said, for instance, about the single waitresses, much less the single mothers, or more appalling still, our queer co-workers were unconscionable, unacceptable not only to today’s attitudes but unbearable even then. This was, naturally, an era and the type of world that could make Andrew Dice Clay a millionaire. The thing I understood best about sex is that it was something I longed for, like a used car or a decent report card. I was sufficiently sheltered to learn in real time that a restaurant uniform was the best shield money couldn’t buy during the Reagan Revolution: there was solidarity, both direct and implicit, amongst an unruly staff. Restaurants are not unlike the military, even though there’s a pecking order, everyone is equal once the shift begins, as any soldier appreciates. This wasn’t enough but it was all we had; it was everything. What I didn’t fathom was that, while so many of these colleagues were outcasts, and might be—and often were—described as losers, they were still fighting, or at least unwilling to succumb to the worst sin: being normal (or even worse, aspiring to normality and worse still, the suckers who watched a movie like Wall Street and hoped, or worse still, assumed they’d be welcome in that club); these were the rebels who understood a desk job was suicide, and if that fate was inevitable, they would postpone it as long as possible. No question, this could be deflating work, but rent and groceries weren’t going to pay for themselves, and if assuming the position for fifteen percent was unsavory, it beat sweating it out in a suit, never sleeping in, feeling too proud for dollar drafts (or without access to free spirits, the unspoken perk of every service gig), or proximity to the kinds of drugs straight types could never fathom. Death and taxes, our parents told us, but we had to figure out on our own another of life’s sullen guarantees: the only option worse than death on an installment plan was the phoned-in fate of compliance, that pitiful ritual of standing in a seemingly endless line to sign off on whatever’s left of one’s disinfected soul.
An Ode to Red Dye No. 3
Contrary to whatever the adults assumed, we were politically engaged, even in grade school, and debates on the playground were fierce and frequent. As it happened, ours revolved around candy, and politics doesn’t get more local than what you put in your mouth. On this topic, like any global affair, consensus was challenging and a ceaseless work in progress. But we were, more often than not, in agreement that red flavors ruled: cherry, strawberry, even watermelon. Cola Slurpees and Banana Splits were ‘70s mainstays, but when it came to whatever we chewed, sucked, and savored, if it left your tongue red you were living right. Kids who insisted they preferred the orange (or, more inconceivably, the yellow) Starburst were suspect, either being ironic or just out of order (if not their minds); ditto for Life Savers and every type of chewing gum. We didn’t know how much we didn’t know, but we believed in God, and that meant Red Dye No. 3—even if we had no idea, then, what even this sin against nature was—was part of His Divine Plan. Red Dye flavored our games of Red Rover, and Red Dye was inevitable, like a bloody nose or a girl’s first period. Red Dye pumped through our patriotic veins, and we knew kids in Russia didn’t get candy or allowance. Red Dye was worth dying for, and we proved it, however unwittingly, our diets poisoned by the best intentions of parents and corporations. Eventually, we discovered there was no Santa Claus, that the tooth fairy was beholden to a dental industry, and our parents paid the price for our tainted teeth. Later still some of us learned how expensive freedom was, and the things that made us stronger could also kill us.
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