For about two years I managed a tiny, hot, run down kitchen
in the small town of Fountain, MN, population just over 400 according to the
internet, where I get all of my information these days. If I remember
correctly, though, the town sign says 363. I’m probably wrong.
Anyhow, the kitchen I worked in at The Bent Wrench was no bigger really than
the kitchen found in most homes, but it had appliances designed for high
output. When I started there the place had a menu pretty much designed to go
from freezer to plate, not my cup of tea. I renovated the menu and made everything
I could from scratch, including the sauces we used on our famous “Wing Night.”
I even made a super-hot wing sauce that I named The Facemelter and had a
contest to win a shirt by eating 12 wings or something like that. It was all
the rage on food shows back then and I thought I would try my hand at it. It
wasn’t very successful in a town that generally only uses both Norwegian spices, salt and
pepper. But on occasion there would be somebody that ordered something
other than honey BBQ and they seemed to think it was a good dare.
It was an okay place to work for a while. I was a bit of a
mess. I rarely went in without a hangover or half a buzz and to be honest, my
boss set unrealistic goals for me and at some point, I just stopped caring. But I kept going. Through the heat, the
frustration, and the lack of decent pay, I trudged on. I thought that maybe
someday, the boss would pay me what she had paid the last overwhelmed kitchen
manager there, but she never even came close. This was during the time when
ground beef went from 99 cents a pound to over $3, and chicken wings did about
the same. It wasn’t my fault, but I feel like the burden of finding all of that
money in-between was put on my back, and I was held responsible for the lack in
profits, which I think were still average, if not better than, for a
restaurant.
This was also the place I was working one day when I saw an
old face sitting at the bar. I recognized him immediately, and knew he was
trouble. He had the shriveled face of a long time meth user, and the empty
stare of a man depressed by the long term effects of the drug. I hadn’t used in
about eight years at the time, but little did I know, my life would change in
just a few short days.
The night it happened I was drunk as usual, but the bar was
closed and all of my friends were asleep. I recalled from the other night, my
old friend said he had moved into town just a couple blocks away. I weighed the
consequences in my head, said fuck it, and went over there. I stayed awake for
the next four days. I didn’t do anything but work and smoke meth. No food, no
alcohol. I quit drinking! Boy was I proud. It was the start of a two-year
bender that lead directly to prison without passing Go. I did collect many
$200, but it was all for naught.
I absolutely do not blame anybody other than myself for how
things went down, so if that’s how it came off, I apologize. I made the conscious
decision to do what I did for selfish reasons. I didn’t have much that I owned
at the time, but eventually I lost it all. More importantly, I discarded my
real friends that cared about me, lost that job and another (down in
Lanesboro), and spiraled down into the deepest bottom I’ve ever known. I became
a drug dealer and I was proud of it. I really enjoyed my hours, and the pay was
way better than any restaurant I’ve ever worked in. But you already know that
story, don’t you?
