Mad Change, Mad Spider

You know, there are certain situations that are Beyond Your Control.

Like your place of employment suffering legal battles over who-owns-what portion of whatever, and after it all comes tumbling down -- when the winds blow out of their twisters, and the rains unknot from the sky -- what's left past the storm is fairly simple:

Devastation. A big mess. Loss of property. Loss of confidence. Lots and lots to pick up before rebuilding.

I'm tired of telling the story, so I'm not going to re-print it here, but I will sum it up.

There was a little restaurant. Charming, soft, delicious. There was it's creator, Ro5e, and there was the crazy person she put in charge of it out front. They got along for a while. Then, not so much. It was time for a split; the relationship was not, entirely, successful.

Snap.

Crack! went the crazy person, and suddenly there were lawyers and judges and landlords, oh, my!

You never really expect the inmate to actually take over the asylum. Oh, people talk about it, you dream about it, but it's not on that list of things you truly prepare for -- this is not plan B -- and in a million years it wouldn't be the nutcase that got sent away. Unless it is. Unless that's exactly what happens.

They are not a reasonable bunch, the insane. Or the vindictive. The petty, the jealous, the exiled. The jilted.

All-of-the-Above is now in possession of my employment. At least he is until he lays us all off, or I given more than a minute in his presence, which I imagine is about the length of time it is going to take me to give a big, arm sweeping wave over my head, spin on my heel and let the door pat my ass on the way out. I won't know what option I'll be saddled with until the ink is dry sometime next week. The end result will be the same.

I will be unemployed for the first time in about two years. Which is completely unacceptable, but nevertheless, unavoidable. I now have to find a new job, by peddling my little ass every which way across this interminably well spaced out city, plastering congenitally across my face, and ignoring the fact that I fucking HATE this... and that I am really, really sad that it has come down to such a miserable end.

I did love the little restaurant. It has been my home for almost two years. The people have been my family. They've helped me through a break-up, and the re-establishment of myself sans support accoutrements, boyfriend or roommates. I'm not too worried about Ro5e (the five is silent), our fearless leader, the progenerator of the charming, soft, delicious space; the collector of we few oddities and eccentrics. She will be fine. She'll have some time off, which she hasn't in years, and she has brainstorms aplenty on what she can do next, now that she's free to do so. She is, unabashedly, remarkable.

And my compatriots will be fine. The chefs will chef elsewhere, the waiters will wait (until something better comes along; until their magic number comes up; or the final number comes down: the loss of patience, that last blow to costumer service). I imagine myself coming to rest somewhere adequate, though not quite so simply special.

I'm going to miss the best job I ever had. As my darling Comrade has said: This is As Good As It Gets. It's a crazy industry, every eatery a nuthouse, but sometimes it works. Sometimes it's magic, and we can pull it off a like a pirouette.

I'm really going to miss it.

...


Additionally, aside from the ringing, I still cannot hear out of the hole in the right side of my head. I'm beginning to fear that I've gone deaf.

Life's a fucking peach.